Mad About the Major (11 page)

Oh, Birdie wouldn't be sitting there, all smug and superior, when this all-­too-­shrewd woman turned her velvet-­clad talons in her direction.

“Now, Birdie, what was your second task for our reluctant hero?” Mrs. Spenser was asking.

“Why, to meet you, of course.”

“Me?” Mrs. Spenser's hand went to her heart. “Oh, I am honored.”

“I hope we haven't been too presumptuous—­” Birdie continued. “Some ­people were of the opinion that such a request just isn't done.”

“It was entirely too presumptuous,” the lady told her, but it was hardly a scold. “However, your company is most diverting.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Spenser.” The minx slanted a glance at him that rang triumphant.

But not for long.

“You are most welcome, Lady—­” Mrs. Spenser paused as one might if searching to recall a name.

Birdie's mouth opened almost instantly, as if lulled into doing so by their hostess's purring tones, but she caught herself just as her lips were about to form the name that would be her undoing.

After taking a slow breath, she replied, “Just Birdie, ma'am.”

“If you say so,” Mrs. Spenser replied, nibbling on a cake.

“I do,” Birdie insisted, and when she finally slanted her glance in his direction, he hoped she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Ha, you slippery little minx. She nearly caught you out.

Oh, she did, for she went back to pouring tea with all the attention of a girl just out of the schoolroom.

“Where did you learn to pour, Birdie?” Mrs. Spenser asked. Her voice was again all soothing honey. “At a school, I imagine, and if I were to guess, at Miss Emery's in Bath.”

Birdie's lashes sprang open at the very suggestion.

Miss Emery's? Even Kingsley knew that was one of England's most exclusive finishing schools, and only the best of the
ton
attended.

Hell, even his own mother had gone to Miss Emery's in her long-­ago girlhood—­something she never failed to mention when she was in company she considered beneath her.

But Birdie? At Miss Emery's? Certainly Mrs. Spenser was wrong. She must be. Birdie might—­heavy emphasis on
might
—­be well-­connected, but lofty enough for Miss Emery's? Hardly.

Yet here was Birdie stumbling along and asking, “How did you know?”

Now it was his turn to gape, not that he did for long, for there was Mrs. Spenser smiling like a cat in the cream.

For he'd been all too correct, she knew exactly who Birdie was—­oh, the devil take the woman—­for he suspected she'd never tell.

Mrs. Spenser leaned back. “Because I went there as well.” And then she waited for the response.

“You did?” Birdie's eyes widened.

Kingsley had managed to stop himself before asking the same incredulous question.

Mrs. Spenser nodded—­for both their benefit. “I did. I fear I was sent home my second year.”

Now it was Birdie's turn to grin. “I only lasted a year. Barely that, I must admit.”

“You never said it was
Miss Emery's
School—­” Kingsley pointed out, and then snapped his mouth shut, already regretting the hasty response that had sprung from his lips.

Mrs. Spenser reached for another cake. “I do believe you've shocked poor Major Kingsley.”

With both ladies looking at him, mirrored images of mischief and delight in their eyes, Kingsley hadn't felt so outnumbered since Spain.

“Hardly,” he remarked, doing his best to appear worldly and unaffected, but inside his thoughts were awhirl.

Who the devil was Birdie?

“Oh, I don't think he's shocked—­I fear my exploits are quite tame beside his,” Birdie told her new bosom-­bow. “Besides, I can't have him discovering all my secrets—­not until we've finished one more task . . . Oh, and he's teaching me to whistle.”

“To whistle?” Mrs. Spenser pursed her lips and blew a jaunty tune, all merry and full of fun.

Birdie sighed with envy. “Oh! That is ever so delightful. Who taught you?”

At this, Mrs. Spenser's expression changed. “My brother. When we were children.”

“I never had a brother or a sister. Well, I haven't had, not until lately.”

Mrs. Spenser glanced over at Kingsley as if to nudge him.
Did you gather that bit?

But all Kingsley could see was Birdie, caged in a high citadel, her overprotective father like a dragon at the base, blowing smoke and fire at all who dared draw near, while the lovely maiden above, lively and passionate, could only gaze out at the world beyond.

His mysterious little miss picked up the teapot and poured a measure more for their hostess and then more for him. “The next time you see your brother, Mrs. Spenser, you must thank him. He did you a grand turn by teaching you so well.”

The lady looked away, and there was, for a moment, a dark light in her eyes, a shade drawn.

“I'm so sorry,” Birdie rushed to say. “You do see him, don't you? He hasn't . . . He isn't gone?”

She shook her head. “Nothing like, my dear girl. It is just I haven't seen my family in a very long time.”

“Oh,” Birdie managed, glancing over at Kingsley for a bit of help. “I'm ever so sorry.”

“There are times when I am as well,” Mrs. Spenser told her, adding a bit of cream to her tea. “But not today. Not when I have such lively and diverting company.” The lady's smile returned, and any trace of regret was set aside.

Kingsley guessed it was a skill she'd been forced to learn.

“Now, you were saying you had three tasks for our dear Major Kingsley and this day is drawing to a close,” she offered, sending a glance toward the window, where the light was beginning to withdraw. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she glanced at both of them. “So you must indulge me. Whatever is your third task for Major Kingsley?”

“I'd prefer not to say,” Birdie told her.

Something about the way she chose her words so carefully said all too clearly he wasn't going to like it. Kingsley had no doubt she didn't want to give him any time to come up with a perfectly argued protest as to why whatever harebrained notion she'd come up with was utterly impossible.

Such as taking tea with a courtesan.

Nor was Mrs. Spenser inclined to pry. For she rose from her seat. “Now, my dear Birdie, since we will not meet again—­”

“But of course we—­”

“No,” Mrs. Spenser told her in all certainty, “you mustn't return. It wouldn't be proper, would it, Major Kingsley?” The lady shot him a censorious glance that said all too clearly he should have known as much to begin with.

“No, Birdie. It wouldn't be prudent.”

“There,” Mrs. Spenser declared, sweeping away at her skirts. “We are all in agreement. This afternoon is our secret.” She turned toward the door. “That includes you, Peg.”

There was a muttered acknowledgement from just beyond the door.

“I love her dearly, my Peg,” Mrs. Spenser said with a sigh of resignation, “but she is as mad as they come. Why, she told me you were a nobleman, Major Kingsley, and that you, my dear Birdie, were a highborn lady.” Her eyes alight with mischief, she smiled at both of them. “A truly ridiculous notion, wouldn't you both agree?”

A
rabella tried to breathe.
A highborn lady?
She didn't dare look at Kingsley for fear he'd see the truth in her eyes.

Then again, what had Mrs. Spenser said about him?
A nobleman
. Now she couldn't resist a peek at the man.

This time when she looked at Kingsley, she set aside everything she'd merely decided about him and tried to see him as she might have had they met at a soiree or in the park.

The strong Roman features, the set of his shoulders, his hawklike expression. Yes, he had a military stamp to him, but he also carried himself with an unmistakable air of nobility.

Oh, had she not seen it? But then again, she realized she had known—­at some level—­all along that Kingsley was a gentleman.

Despite that he kissed like a rake . . .

“Come along, Birdie. It is time we ladies had a moment alone. Besides, Major Kingsley has been eyeing those last three cakes and he's too polite simply to take them.”

Birdie glanced over at Kingsley—­and found him wearing a sheepish, boyish grin. That alone made her heart patter oddly.

Mrs. Spenser smiled indulgently and then led the way from the parlor, up the stairs, and down a narrow hall to the back of the house. She opened the door to a large room and Birdie found herself in the most ornate bedchamber she had ever seen.

The large bed had a tasseled canopy and old-­fashioned curtains in a pretty shade of robin's egg blue. Pale yellow touches and gilded prints decorated the walls. The entire room was elegant and peaceful.

More respite than bower of passion.

The lady crossed the room to a large dressing table, where a collection of pretty porcelain pots and an assortment of brushes and ribbons and gewgaws were scattered between half a dozen or so gilt-­framed miniatures.

“My dear girl, go home. Now. Immediately. Before it is too late.”

“Too late?” Even as Arabella said the words, she knew without a doubt that Mrs. Spenser was speaking from experience. She looked up and squarely at the woman.

“You may have him fooled, but I know who you are—­”

Arabella opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Spenser staved her off with a short, crisp shake of her head. “That hair, those eyes. They are unmistakable, I would know a Tremont anywhere.”

She shivered at the use of her real name and glanced over her shoulder to make sure Kingsley hadn't followed them. Still, she moved closer and whispered, “You won't tell—­”

“Kingsley? Of course not. He's got his own secrets to keep,” Mrs. Spenser replied with a dismissive flutter of her hand.

He did?
Arabella's thoughts swam a little. As if she'd fallen in over her head.

Which of course she had.

“Please, Birdie,” Mrs. Spenser implored. “Go home. Before you cannot go back. Beg your father's forgiveness over today's folly. Whatever has happened, I am certain Parkerton will forgive you.”

“You know my father?” Arabella didn't know why, but this rather shocked her. Her uncle Jack was the rake of the family, certainly not her father . . . and yet . . .

“Don't be alarmed, my dear,” Mrs. Spenser told her. “I've met any number of men in the
ton
. And I made the duke's acquaintance long before he met his dear wife. Not that he was my type. Far too stern for my taste.”

Yes, the woman
had
met her father, Arabella realized.

“And while he is known for being rather hardheaded—­”

That was an understatement.

“—­you must go home and do your best to win his favor back.”

There was a sense of finality to the woman's words that sent a chill down Arabella's spine. Still she couldn't help protesting, “Papa would never—­”

“No, perhaps not, but once you've lost your heart, you won't have the resolve to do what must be done.”

What must be done . . .
Never mind the rest.

Still she couldn't help saying, “My heart?” Arabella shook her head. “It isn't . . . That is to say . . .” She turned her back to the lady so Mrs. Spenser couldn't see the truth in her lies.

She
was
falling in love with Kingsley.

The rattle of pots as Mrs. Spenser rearranged her dressing table pulled Arabella's attention back to the conversation at hand.

“You dear child,” the lady began, “I've been in this business since before I was your age.” She held out an open pot for Arabella. “What do you smell?”

“Roses,” she began, for that was the first thing that tickled at her senses, but then something else wafted around her. “And—­” She inhaled again, and now something else altogether different played with her senses.

Something deeper, something bewitching.

“Yes,” Mrs. Spenser said, taking a sniff as well. “I love the layers of this perfume. The deeper one inhales, the more entwined one becomes.”

Arabella glanced up at her and realized this was no longer about the perfume.

“It happens before you know it,” Mrs. Spenser told her. “You think of only that first hint, that initial innocent and familiar air of roses, and then it becomes far more complex, and the layers wind around you, leaving you tangled in a web you cannot escape.” She closed the pot and put it back on the table. “I know heartbreak when I see it . . .”

Heartbreak? Why, of all the nonsensical suggestions. Arabella considered herself far too sensible for that.

Yet, looming before her was a moment she was beginning to dread. With two tasks completed, all too soon the time would come when the major would set her down on the corner near her father's house and she would have to turn her back to him and walk away.

Her heart in shatters.

But what Mrs. Spenser said next added another layer, a far more complex one, to the entire caldron. “ . . . and more's the pity, for that poor man is half-­seas over in love with you.”

Those words—­
in love with you
—­stopped Arabella cold. “With me?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Spenser told her. “Not what you thought I was going to say, was it?”

She shook her head. “No. I hardly see how that could happen—­”

“My dear girl, don't you read the gossip columns?” Mrs. Spenser asked.

“No, never!” Arabella told her. “Dreadful prattle. Lies and speculation, all of it.” She shuddered for good measure.

“That's a pity,” Mrs. Spenser said. “That also explains why—­”

“Why what?”

“Oh, nothing,” the lady replied in a breezy fashion. “And you are correct—­there is hardly anything to be discovered in gossip.”