My Fair Princess (24 page)

“I rather adore that about you. But I must insist that you allow me to handle the problem as I see fit.” He reached down and cupped her cheek. “To take care of you, as you deserve.”

She stared up at him, trapped in his deep blue gaze. Instinctively, she leaned into his hand, but then she jerked back, horrified by her weakness. “Yes, well,” she said, fighting to control her wavering tone. “About that, Your Grace—”

“Charles. Call me Charles.”

His deep, seductive tone made her shiver. Gillian swore her brain was turning to sentimental mush.

“You had no trouble calling me Charles last night,” he murmured. “Remember?”

She flushed, vividly recalling the moment when she'd come apart in his arms. She was stunned that he would refer to it while sitting here in broad daylight, in his library of all places. Gillian was no prude, but even she had her limits.

Although her behavior last night would probably suggest that those limits were easily breached. Under the circumstances, she supposed she couldn't blame him for launching such a bold flirtation.

“It would hardly be proper for me to address you in so informal a manner,” she said, taking refuge in protocol.

He laughed outright at that. “Yes, proper is your middle name.”

“That's hardly the point,” she said in a lofty tone.

“All right. I concede on that point. In public, call me Leverton. But in private, I want you to call me by my given name.” He leaned down, as if he was going to kiss her.

Gillian ducked sideways and slid out of the chair. She retreated a few steps, feeling more in control by putting a little distance between them. Leverton's narrowed gaze signaled his displeasure, but he didn't pursue her. Instead, he lounged on the corner of his desk, looking rather like a large, sleek cat waiting patiently to pounce on a hapless little mouse. Having never been in the position of prey before, she found it extremely disconcerting.

And for some stupid reason, Gillian suddenly became very aware of the state of her dress and coiffure—she, who'd never given a damn about that sort of thing before. Yet now she found herself repressing the urge to smooth her messy curls. If she wasn't careful, she might resort to pinching her cheeks to add color, like some silly schoolgirl.

“Sir, we simply must talk about your conversation with my mother and your sister,” she said, trying to sound firm. “There seems to be some sort of misunderstanding about an, er, understanding between us.” What was it about the man that tied her tongue in such knots?

“Really? In what way?” he asked politely.

She scowled at him. “You're deliberately trying to irritate me, aren't you?”

“I wouldn't dream of it. You'd probably try to murder me in my sleep.” He paused, as if considering. “Although at least I'd then have you in my bed, which would be some compensation for my troubles.”

When Gillian started to work up an offended reply, he grinned and held up a hand. “All right, I'll stop teasing. Go ahead and tell me what you're so fussed about.”

“Do you really have to ask?” she said, waving her arms. “You had no right to take the decision out of my hands.”

“What decision?”

“That I'd agreed to marry you,” she said through clenched teeth. Could he truly be that dense? If they did ever marry and have children, she could only hope they'd inherit her brains and not his.

“Sweetheart, I simply indicated to the ladies that I intended to court you. Surely that is entirely appropriate, under the circumstances.”

“Then why was your sister going on about our impending betrothal? And why are we even talking about your courting me in the first place?”

“In answer to your first question, my sister is eager for me to marry and settle down, and that eagerness has clearly led her to get a little ahead of herself. As to your second question,” he said with an ironic lift of an eyebrow, “I think the answer is obvious.”

Gillian propped her hands on her hips. “It's not obvious to me.”

Her answer brought him to his feet. She had to resist the impulse to back up—or even flee the room.

“And why is that, Gillian? Are you in the habit of dallying with men simply to amuse yourself?” He didn't raise his voice—he never did—but she could hear the steel behind the soft-spoken words.

“What? Of course not,” she exclaimed, outraged. “Not that it's any of your business, I might add.”

He studied her for several long seconds, as if she were some sort of puzzle. “I beg your pardon for misinterpreting your answer,” he finally said. “Perhaps I was thrown off by your, shall we say, unorthodox response to last night's events.”

“Which part?” she asked cautiously. “The smuggling part or the kissing part?”

His laugh sounded more like a groan, and he let his head drop. “What in God's name am I going to do with you?”

Flummoxed, all she could do was shift from one foot to the next. Then the appropriate answer to his no-doubt rhetorical question came to her.
But are you sure that's what you want?

She squared her shoulders, ignoring the nagging little voice. “You could try to persuade my mother and grandmother to let me return to Sicily.”

His head snapped up. “That is out of the question, Gillian. You will remain here in England.”

She was startled by his heated response, and even more startled by how relieved his words made her feel. “Well, never mind that for now. I still don't understand why you want to court me. Before last night, you never showed the slightest bit of interest in doing so. In fact, you were training me how to catch a husband. I hardly think you had yourself in mind as a candidate when you embarked on that particular project.”

“I was not training you to catch a husband. I was training you to be a proper young Englishwoman.”

“The only reason to become a proper Englishwoman is to catch the right sort of husband. They don't call it ‘the marriage mart' for nothing, you know.”

Leverton shook his head, looking slightly bemused. Gillian had the uncomfortable sense that she was making a fool of herself.

“But I suppose that's hardly the point, is it?” she added.

“Perhaps you could remind me of the original point of this discussion,” he said wryly. “I seem to have lost it somewhere.”

“Courting me, remember?”

“Ah, yes. How could I forget?” He carefully placed his hands on her shoulders, as if she were potentially dangerous, like an unstable explosive. “Gillian, we engaged in some rather intimate activities last night. Activities that carry a certain set of expectations, at least among respectable people.”

“You mean it's now a matter of honor,” she said, feeling oddly disappointed. “Since you tampered with me, you now feel duty bound to marry me. But I assure you that's not necessary.”

He winced. “Tampered with you? Good Lord. You may find it hard to believe, Gillian, but I do wish to marry you. It's more than a matter of honor. Much more.”

She stared up at him, searching for the truth. “You're right; I don't believe it. You couldn't possibly wish to marry me.”

His big hands curled around her shoulders. Under that gentle but powerful grip, she felt small and delicate. It was an unaccustomed sensation, to say the least. And it was not an unwelcome one, she was vaguely surprised to note.

“Much to my surprise,” he said softly, “I do.”

His smile made her heart ache with longing. When she swayed toward him, he came down to meet her. His firm, warm lips brushed across her mouth, barely touching, but promising a sweetness and heat that threatened to melt her into his embrace.

The alarming speed and intensity of her response gave her a good knock to the head.

He's a bloody duke, you nitwit, and a proper one at that.
There was simply no way a man like him could truly wish to marry a woman like her. Gillian had learned that lesson years ago, and it had been a painfully instructive one. Leverton was only making an offer because he felt obligated by duty and honor.

She pulled back just as he was about to slip his tongue between her lips, then retreated several steps.

“Good God, now what's wrong?” he growled. “I've all but laid my heart at your feet, and your response is to leap back as if I've grossly insulted your honor.”

“Laid your heart at my feet? Hardly. It's
your
sense of honor that is offended, not mine. You believe you have to marry me in order to salvage my reputation and live up to your standards of propriety.” She gave a haughty little sniff. “As you know, my reputation is already ruined, so your chivalry is quite unnecessary.”

“Of course I want to protect your reputation, and I see nothing wrong in acting with an appropriate degree of honor and respect. But I also happen to like you. Quite a lot.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth though, he grimaced. His declaration was so tepid that it simply proved her point.

“Now that's a ringing endorsement. I thank you kindly, Your Grace, but no thank you.”

He muttered something quite shocking—even to her—under his breath. Then he took a deep breath and tried again. “Gillian, I have clearly made a hash of this, but I assure you that I do most sincerely wish to marry you.”

She eyed him uncertainly. At the moment, he looked anything like a man in love. Annoyed and frustrated was a better description.

“I suspect it's because you're so high in the instep that you've shocked yourself into thinking you have no other choice but to marry me. After all, the Duke of Leverton is not the sort of man to tamper with virginal young ladies. Of course, that is certainly to your credit,” she hastily added when she took in his wrathful expression.

“If you employ that unfortunate phrase one more time I will surely do something we both will come to regret,” he said through clenched teeth. “Besides, if I were that high in the instep, I wouldn't be proposing marriage to you under any circumstances, and you know it. I'd be setting you up as my mistress.”

“Right. This conversation is over.” Gillian spun around and marched to the door.

“Come back here this instant,” he barked. “We're not finished.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't catch that.” She swore she could hear him grinding his molars from halfway across the room.

“Gillian Dryden, be very clear on this one fact—we
will
be getting married.”

She wrenched the door open, then glared at him over her shoulder. “Your Grace, you will allow me to say that you are the most annoying and stubborn person I have ever met.” Then she walked out and slammed the library door behind her.

“That is the blasted pot calling the kettle black,” he yelled, his voice filtering through the thick oak.

Gillian ignored a shocked-looking Hewitt, who'd clearly stationed himself to hear the fireworks. But even as she stormed up the stairs to her room, she couldn't hold back a reluctant grin. Perfect Penley's composure was anything but perfect with her, and she was beginning to like that quite a lot.

Chapter Twenty-One

Charles eyed his future wife from across the churchyard, annoyed that she was doing her best to ignore him. There was simply no predicting Gillian. One minute she was shivering with passion in his arms, and the next she seemed to be riven with horror at the notion that they would wed. Most girls would saw off an arm for the privilege of marrying a wealthy duke. Not Gillian. Nothing could ever proceed in the normal manner when it came to her. Then again, perhaps she thought he was a pompous ass. He couldn't entirely blame her.

“Did you hear me, Your Grace?”

The lilting but slightly annoyed voice intruded into his dour thoughts, forcing him to concentrate on the girl standing in front of him. Miss Meadows, a classic English rose, was accomplished, genteel, and very well dowered. In other words, a girl eminently suited by birth and upbringing for life in the
ton
. She would make the perfect sort of wife for a man like him, and Charles had not a shred of doubt that Miss Meadows would leap at the chance to be his duchess.

Unfortunately, he had no interest in being her duke. For some demented reason, he was now fixated on a young hoyden who would surely pitch his well-ordered life into chaos. He'd made a vow long ago to never again let a woman lead him around by the nose, and yet here he was on the verge of such a state.

“Forgive me, Miss Meadows,” he said with an apologetic smile. “My wits have gone begging today. I cannot imagine why, given my charming company.”

She rewarded him with a flirtatious smile. “Perhaps my new bonnet has dazzled you.”

“Ah, yes, that must be it. I believe it's one of the new styles, is it not? Very flattering.”

Miss Meadows preened a bit. “How observant, Your Grace. Most men are too dull to notice something like that, much less remark on it.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly. He could only be thankful that Gillian happened to be on the other side of the small churchyard. If she'd heard that last ridiculous exchange, she'd probably have doubled over with laughter. Or, more likely, rolled her eyes, not making the slightest effort to hide her disdain for foolish small talk.

As if echoing his thoughts, Miss Meadows's gaze wandered across the yard to fasten on Gillian, chatting with two of the guests from the garden party at Fenfield. Miss Farrow and Mr. Hurdly had just become engaged, and Gillian wished to congratulate them. The three of them stood under the towering oak that shaded the old village church, laughing and chattering like the best of friends.

He couldn't help feeling a bit irked. The last few days had been trying, with Gillian doing her best to keep him at arm's length and refusing to acknowledge that they were all but engaged. To see her treating two people she barely knew more warmly was annoying, to say the least.

“Miss Dryden seems to be getting along very well with Margaret and David,” Miss Meadows remarked. “I suppose she wanted to offer them congratulations on their betrothal.”

Charles could hear the disapproval in her voice. “Is there any reason why she should not?”

His companion's big blue eyes went even bigger in response to his sharp tone, and she hastened to correct herself. “Of course not, sir. If you lend Miss Dryden your countenance, then that must be enough to satisfy even the most punctilious. And it is indeed kind of you to overlook her unfortunate background. It is the height of tolerance and Christian charity.”

“I rather imagine she tolerates me,” he said, unable to hold back a rueful smile.

A faint wrinkle marked Miss Meadows's pale brow, daring to mar its porcelain perfection. “Surely that cannot be so. You do Miss Dryden a great honor by sponsoring her in so generous a manner. She should be nothing but exceedingly grateful to you.”

“I doubt she would agree with you. Now, if you will excuse me, Miss Meadows, I must return to my party.”

Giving her a brief nod, he turned on his heel and headed across the lawn. Charles knew he should be sorry for giving the girl so direct a cut, but he wasn't. She was a prig, although the fact that he thought so struck him as ironic. Still, his curt behavior was something of a surprise to him. Gillian's influence, it would appear, was taking a toll on his manners. It would be a miracle if he had any left by the time she was through turning his world inside out.

His sister, who'd been chatting with the contessa and a small gaggle of local matrons, detached herself and intercepted him before he reached his target. Charles breathed out an exasperated sigh. He was still annoyed with Elizabeth for putting such a scare into Gillian before he'd had a chance to speak with the girl about the change in their relationship.

His sister was downright enthusiastic at the idea that he and Gillian marry. That didn't surprise him, since Elizabeth had always been the renegade in the family, and she had a great deal of sympathy for Gillian. Her support would come in handy when Charles introduced his future fiancée to his mother and older sister. It would be helpful to have the entire family on his side to weather the social storm that would inevitably ensue once he announced his betrothal. He had no doubt they could weather it, but he wanted to make things as easy as possible on Gillian and her family.

For now, though, he wished that his sister were slightly less enthusiastic, since any talk of wedding clothes, wedding breakfasts, or wedding trips invariably drove Gillian to make a dash for the nearest exit.

“Charles, a moment if you please,” his sister said, darting in front of him. She gave him a smile that he could only describe as fiendish.

“Elizabeth, you are not making life easy for me.”

“I know, darling,” she replied. “But there is a method to my madness. I'm laying down covering fire. If I prattle on about wedding plans, it draws Gillian's fire away from you.”

“That makes absolutely no sense,” he said. “Which doesn't surprise me, coming from you.”

“It makes perfect sense, Charles Valentine Penley,” she said, crossing her arms in a huff. “Gillian needs to get gradually used to the idea of marrying you, and it's much less threatening if I talk about it than if you do.”

“That is a ridiculous scheme. Besides, it's not working.”

“Well, I don't see you coming up with anything better. You're barely talking to her. Really, Charles, your idea of a proper courtship is sadly lacking.”

“I'd like to know how the devil I'm supposed to court my future intended when I'm forbidden from talking about anything to do with courtship,” he said. “Not to mention the fact that I can barely get near the blasted girl.”

Shortly after their first argument, Gillian had made him promise to refrain from indicating his intentions to anyone outside their immediate family. In return, she had reluctantly agreed to allow him to begin courting her. How he was supposed to do that without signaling his intentions to the outside world was a mystery he had yet to solve.

“Now, isn't that a helpful attitude?” his sister said with heavy sarcasm. “Really, Charles, most men are idiots when it comes to this sort of thing, but I had higher hopes for you. After all, your manners are
so
distinguished.” Her tone made it abundantly clear what she truly thought of his manners.

He eyed her with obvious disapproval, which made her burst into laughter.

“Dearest, may I give you a little advice?” she asked.

“I suppose it wouldn't hurt. I seem to need all the help I can get.”

“Be gentle with her, Charles,” Elizabeth said. “Gillian is feeling very skittish about the whole thing.”

“I can see that. I just can't understand why.” After all, Gillian obviously liked him rather a lot, if that torrid encounter in the sand dunes had been any indication. Not that he could share that information with his sister.

“Because she's frightened, and unsure of your motivations.”

He scoffed. “What nonsense. Gillian isn't frightened of anything.”

As if to prove his point, Gillian's laugh rang out as she talked with her new friends. She had a lovely, confident laugh that never failed to lift his spirits. No silly titters or foolish giggles for his Gillian. When something amused or pleased her, she let everyone know it.

He studied her for a few moments. She was obviously telling Miss Farrow and Mr. Hurdly some outrageous story, since they were both in stitches. She acted it out with expansive gestures, clearly enjoying herself and not caring one whit if she was, by society's standards, making a spectacle of herself. Charles found that he didn't care, either. It was a rather shocking discovery, since it was up to him to teach her to avoid that sort of brash display.

“I know,” Elizabeth said. “She's a confident, intelligent girl who truly doesn't care what others think of her.”

“On that we can agree,” he said in a wry tone.

“But she cares what
you
think, dear brother. Very much so. And she certainly knows how high in the instep you are.”

“I have it on good opinion that I am, in fact, the soul of tolerance and Christian charity.”

His sister let out an unladylike snort. “Has Miss Meadows been making up to you again? I hope you didn't believe her errant nonsense.”

Charles couldn't help laughing. “Thank God I have you to pull me down a peg, Lizzie. Or ten.”

“You can thank me by realizing that Gillian is more than halfway in love with you.”

He practically choked mid-laugh.

“As such,” his sister continued, “she's very nervous—and wary of you.”

Charles felt like he'd been knocked in the head. “And why is that?”

“Because she cannot believe that a man of your standing, manners, and wealth would have any wish to marry her, especially since your aversion to scandal is so well-known.”

“But I assured her that I do genuinely wish to marry her,” he protested.

Elizabeth breathed out a dramatic sigh. “You're a proud man, Charles, and a duke. Gillian expects you to marry an equally proud woman of impeccable breeding—someone the opposite of her. Despite your reassurance, she seems to think you're only marrying her out of some exaggerated sense of duty.”

He did have an obligation to Gillian, particularly in light of recent events—which he had no intention of discussing with his sister.

As if she'd read his mind, Elizabeth's mouth quirked up in a knowing smile. “I wonder what could prompt her to think that way. Any ideas, dear brother?”

“I haven't a clue,” he said in a blighting tone. “And now that you've ripped my character to shreds, how do you suggest I proceed?”

She laughed. “You are the best of brothers, Charles. Do you know that?”

“Of course I do. After all, I've refrained all these years from murdering you.”

“How kind. As I said, you need to be gentle with her. More important, you need to show her that you are, in fact, proud to stand with her before the world.”

“I would like nothing better, but she's all but forbidden me to do that.”

“That is fear holding her back, and it's best ignored at this stage of the game,” his sister advised. “In fact, why don't you start by walking her back to the manor. Her mother and I will take the carriage home.”

“That is an excellent idea.” Not only would that give him the chance to get Gillian all to himself, it would send a very clear signal to the locals, who could be counted on to diligently spread the appropriate sort of gossip.

“I'm full of excellent ideas, if you would only listen now and again. Now, have at it,” she said, shooing him away.

When Charles crossed the lawn to join Gillian, she greeted him with a courteous but cautious manner. He did his best to put her at ease by focusing his attention on the happy couple, congratulating them and making inquiries about their plans for the future.

“Well, we must be off,” Miss Farrow finally said with a glance out to the lane. “My parents are waiting for us.”

“I do hope you will come to our wedding breakfast, Miss Dryden,” Hurdly said. He gave Charles a boyishly eager smile. “And you too, Your Grace. It would be great guns if you could. Our relatives would all be thrilled, I assure you.”

“Yes. That would be lovely,” Miss Farrow enthused.

“Thank you, I would like that very much,” Gillian said with shy pleasure. “That is . . .” She cast Charles an uncertain glance.

“If we are still in residence at Fenfield, we would be honored to attend,” he said.

With another smile and a quick exchange of good-byes, Miss Farrow dragged her fiancé off to join her family.

“Are you ready to return home?” Charles asked, offering Gillian his arm.

She moved to take it, then froze. “Where is the landau?” “Elizabeth and your mother took it back to the manor. I thought you might like to walk instead, seeing that we actually have a sunny day, for once.”

She eyed him with a skeptical expression. “Walk all the way back to Fenfield, just the two of us?”

“It's only a few miles, Gillian. I wouldn't have thought you would be taxed by so easy a stroll.”

“Don't be a nodnock.” She gave him a little jab in the ribs. “It's you I'm worried about.”

“Whatever for?”

“People will make assumptions. About us.” As if to underscore the point, she waved a finger between them.

“I hope they do,” he said firmly.

She blinked, then glanced over at the vicar. He was standing on the church steps engrossed in conversation with the local squire and his wife. Charles couldn't help noticing that the squire's lady seemed more interested in eavesdropping on Charles's conversation with Gillian.