My Fair Temptress (11 page)

But without a word, and that was uncharacteristic, Harry pushed his cart around the corner and out of sight.

Caroline knew he remained within hearing distance, and that was fine. Some people might say Harry was a frightening man with his disability and his chosen career. For Caroline, those people were fools. It was Mr. Ritter who was frightening. He had never laid a disciplinary hand on Caroline, yet he terrorized her beyond even Lord Freshfield’s abilities, for Mr. Ritter had a way of cutting her that was both personal and devastating. She never felt as insignificant as when she was with her father.

“Daughter Caroline, how have you been?” Mr. Ritter asked.

“Fine, sir, and you?” And when had he decided he should remind her of their relationship every time he spoke her name?

“Fine.”

“Is my sister well?”

“Very well, although she’s given to weeping at inconvenient times.”

Caroline wanted to ask him when it would be convenient for his daughter to cry; but sarcasm would avail her nothing, and she didn’t have a doubt that, if it pleased him, he would take out his discontent on Genevieve. Besides, she could imagine Nevett’s displeasure if she foiled his plan to bestow upon her respectability, and she had to admit respectability would make her life easier. So she smiled and nodded, and searched her mind for more useless, indifferent conversation. She should have known she needn’t have bothered.

“Do you have a position doing something?” Mr. Ritter clasped the head of his cane and leaned hard on it.

“I’m working for the duke of Nevett”—
as you very well know
—“and will keep this position until the end of the Season.”

“The duke of Nevett, heh?” Mr. Ritter’s small blue eyes narrowed. “I imagine he’s a tyrant.”

“A bit of one, yes, but nothing untoward.”

“You wouldn’t want to offend him.”

“That’s the last thing I wish to do.”

“So at the end of the Season, you’ll be pleased to come home.”

“What?” She felt as if she had swallowed a stone. Whatever she expected him to say, it wasn’t that. “What? You’re inviting me home?”

“Yes.” His gaze drilled into her. “I imagine you’re grateful.”

“To live?” she clarified.

“Of course to live. What do you think?” He managed to sound insulted, which was an insult in itself.

What was the reason? The duke of Nevett was kind in the way that most aristocrats were kind; if it availed him something, then he would do it. But he gained nothing by pressuring Mr. Ritter to allow her to return to their house in Cheapside, so that couldn’t be it.

Had her father finally comprehended that the act of tossing his erring daughter from his home in a rage had labeled him as an irredeemable vulgarian? That the ton considered it better form to quietly retreat to the country than to create a scene in the street? That seemed unlikely, too. He understood the value of money in all its guises, but not the value of gentility or the appearance of loyalty and graciousness.

When she didn’t at once curtsy and show her appreciation, he glared and blustered, “I’m your father. When I say you shall return, you shall return.”

During the lowest moments of her life—a week ago—she would have leaped at the chance to return home. Of course she would be miserable, but at least she’d be warm and fed, clothed and dry.

Now she could see the possibility for escape—from poverty, from her father, from Lord Freshfield, and from England, and she wasn’t giving up so easily. “Sir, really, whatever impression His Grace made on you, I assure you, he doesn’t expect this kind of sacrifice on your part.”

“What do you mean? You’re my daughter. You should live in my house. I don’t want you to anger the duke of Nevett, naturally, but when this is over you shall come home.” Mr. Ritter rapped the tip of his cane hard against the ground. “Until that time, good day.” Tipping his hat, he stalked off, an offended bowl of blancmange in a suit.

Harry wheeled himself back around the corner, and joined her in staring after her father. “Well. What do ye expect that was about?”

“The duke of Nevett ordered my father to have a public reconciliation with me.” Now that the meeting was over, she felt nauseated. She hadn’t seen the man for almost four years, and he had neither spoken a kind word nor offered an embrace. She had expected nothing else, but the whole event left her cold and far too aware of her own vulnerability. One wrong move, and she would be on the streets…like Harry. “I suppose His Grace was too emphatic and my father too eager to please, and he made an unnecessary offer.”

“Why did yer father have ’is reconciliation ’ere?” Harry waved a hand around at the desultory traffic. “This is ’ardly public enough t’ generate gossip.”

“I don’t know.” With a glance down at her friend, she said, “I don’t know how often I’ll be able to come down and see you. That
would
generate gossip.”

He waved an arm. “Ye know where t’ find me if ye need me. Go on, now, before the ol’ hen yonder starts ’er cackling.”

He meant Lady Reederman, and as Caroline hurried past her house, she saw her peeking through her curtains. Now Lady Reederman had another reason to dislike Caroline—Caroline cavorted with married men
and
with beggars. What a diversity of sins.

Returning to the house, Caroline divested herself of her outerwear, and this time she smiled as she thanked Phillips and the footman.

Phillips sniffed when the footman smiled back. Phillips, who liked to supervise every servant in the household, had no right to supervise her, and obviously he didn’t like that—or her.

She couldn’t help it. She wouldn’t submit to his management. She wouldn’t have a stuffy old butler telling her how to give Huntington instructions.

“Miss Ritter, are you back?” Nevett called. “Come in here, please.”

Warily she entered the great drawing room.

“How was your walk, Caroline?” Nicolette asked.

“A little colder than I expected.” Standing directly in front of the duke, Caroline asked, “What do you desire, Your Grace?”

“How long are you going to be here?” Nevett asked.

Again he wanted an accounting of the lessons. And again she would give it, because he was the duke, and she the governess, and she would do well to remember that. “Lord Huntington is most graceful at dancing and most skilled at the art of fetching a lady food and drink. His conversation is entertaining.”

Nevett looked diverted. “Then why in Hades hasn’t a female captured him?”

“I suppose he hasn’t chosen to be captured. I don’t believe any lady would care so much about his clothing that she would discourage his advances.”

“It must have been chilly outside,” Nicolette observed. “Your cheeks are quite rosy.”

Caroline put her palms to her face. She felt warm, not cold, but she nodded in agreement. “Your Grace, you said you would arrange a party here. If I could be in the background and see how Lord Huntington disports himself, it would show me which areas of his deportment need adjustment. In the meantime, I’ll continue to work with Lord Huntington. I’m sure I can refine his skills.”

“The invitations for our tea are going out tomorrow.” Nicolette clasped her hands in delight. Then, with a worried frown: “Do you think it’s too soon, Nevett?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If it was, I wouldn’t have started this.” Nevett considered Caroline. “Before I forget, I’ll send a message to your father, arrange to have him run into you in a public place and speak to you. That should take care of the problem of paternal approval.”

Staggered by this turn of events, Caroline said, “But Your Grace, he did speak to me, just now, while I was on my walk.”

“Really?” He spoke as slowly. “I wonder why.”

“Perhaps he was moved to charity toward the plight of his daughter,” Nicolette said.

Both Nevett and Caroline gave identical, disbelieving laughs.

“Not
my
father,” Caroline said.

“No.” Nevett was in complete agreement. “Not Mr. Ritter.”

“M
iss Ritter, yesterday proved to you I can dance.” Huntington waved his handkerchief in a mad display of impatience. “What shall we do today?”

Although Caroline knew, she made a pretense of opening her journal and consulting it. “I had hoped to create a party situation and judge how you deal with the details of being introduced to a lady and caring for her needs.” To the duchess, Caroline said, “If we could have glasses, plates, napkins—”

“Of course, a party.” Nicolette clasped her hands.

“You’ll need food and wine, although perhaps it’s early for wine. Water in crystal glasses, Jude, just like when you were young.” She confided to Caroline, “Actually, he’s very good at this.”

“I’m sure he is.” Caroline was sure of no such thing.

“I’ll have it set up in the library. There’s always a fire laid there. Give me ten minutes.” The duchess bustled out of the breakfast room, where Jude had once more put in a late appearance.

Jude stared after her and smiled.

“I suspect, my lord, you avoid your father’s early-morning mood by arriving late for your lessons,” Caroline said.

Jude turned that smile on Caroline.

Goodness. His excellent teeth more than made up for his execrable taste in clothes.

Then Caroline scolded herself for being shallow. It was that kind of thinking that had gotten her into this fix in the first place. She had looked on Lord Freshfield and believed that beauty equaled character. It wasn’t true, not with Lord Freshfield, and certainly not with a man who wanted to consult on her wardrobe so that in public, she wouldn’t disgrace him or in private, distress him.

When she turned her gaze on Huntington again, she wondered for a brief moment if he knew what she was thinking.
Ridiculous
.

Yet Lord Huntington had a way of dominating the room at the oddest moments. Sometimes, like now, when they were alone, she was very aware of his height, his breadth, the odd, deep blue eyes that slashed at her composure when she should have felt a lady’s contempt for a dandy.

“I don’t recall—is my father irritable in the morning?” Seeing Caroline’s disgust, he chuckled deeply. “Actually, I must rise early every morning. It takes time to achieve the perfection of my toilette.”

“Of course. I should have thought of that.” It must take an immense amount of time to put colors together so badly, to torture his hair into a pile of curls over his forehead…to scrape his face clean of whiskers and show off that resolute jut of a chin. He could be so handsome—was so handsome—if only he stopped wearing those absurd clothes!

“Yesterday and again today, my stepmother is happy. I haven’t seen her so entertained since I returned from Europe.” Taking Caroline’s hand, he kissed the backs of her fingers. “I thank you.”

The touch of his lips against her bare skin sent a thrill up her arm. She started, and he felt her shock.

Looking up into her eyes, he smiled again, observing her every motion and reading her every emotion.

Absurd! No man cared enough to bother with a woman’s emotions, at least not unless he could get something from her, and Caroline had nothing this man could desire.

Then, turning her hand, he kissed the tender skin of her wrist. His lips rested there long enough to feel the suddenly hastened beat of her heart.

Ah. Bitterness curled up in her. She’d forgotten. She
did
have something this man desired. The same thing Lord Freshfield desired, the same thing every man wanted. She pulled her hand free. When he rose from his bow and quizzically lifted his brows, she said, “My lord, it’s obvious my reputation has preceded me, but let me make something perfectly clear—I’m not now nor have I ever been willing to lower myself to becoming a man’s leman. If I had, I wouldn’t now be your governess, but a woman of means. Please remember that—and keep your lips and your hands to yourself.”

Jude hadn’t expected Miss Ritter to so fiercely throw down the gauntlet, but then, he hadn’t expected to kiss her as intimately as he had. The kiss on her fingers had been prompted by gratitude, but her skin was bare against his lips and the impulse to taste her caught him by surprise. He’d given in to the whim, kissed her wrist, and caught a much-wronged lady on the raw. Yet while he knew she had every reason to be tender of her reputation, and that he should humbly apologize, still his temper rose.

She thought he was cut from the same mold as Freshie.

He stepped closer, not away, and looked down at her fierce expression. “You don’t know me, Miss Ritter, but I don’t take advantage of young women felled by misfortune. That is the act of a cad. I, madam, have no need to act the cad. I have enough women in my life, and they’ve deliberately charted their way in life. I have no interest in victims.”

“Good. Because I’m not a victim.” As she realized what she had said, the invitation she seemed to have given, a bright blush lit her cheeks.

Jude relaxed. This flirting business was more fun than he’d expected.

“I mean—I’m not afraid of you.” She tucked the journal under her arm.

When Nevett had first told Jude about this project, Jude had expected these lessons to be time to unwind from the pressure of tracking the Moricadians, time to think of strategy…he had expected to be bored. Instead, Miss Ritter proved delightful and interesting and much cleverer than he’d been led to believe—and perhaps, because she was gorgeous, he had imagined she would be dim-witted. Not even she understood how bright she was, and he was only beginning to see that she could be dangerous to him. With a sweep of his hand, he called attention to his outlandish garb. “Of course not. I’m a civilized man. I eschew those dreadful fistfights and those muddy horse-races and all those ridiculous activities other men do to prove their masculinity. So how could you be afraid of me?”

“Yes. You’re right.” She walked toward the door, moving with languorous grace; her long strides made her seem to flow from one place to another, and made a man wonder how it would be to have her under him, or on top of him, pouring her smooth sensuality over his naked body. She stopped. She looked back at him, and even now he could see wariness in her gaze, as if she no longer noticed his garments and instead saw the man beneath. “How could I be afraid of you?”

It was all very well to desire that this woman see him as he was rather than as he pretended to be, but it would not do. He had to maintain his disguise, or he would fail to avenge Michael’s death.

With a few long strides, Jude caught up with Miss Ritter. “With your help, I shall find a bride as all men long to do and settle into a blissful state of matrimony.”

Her sharp glance examined him thoroughly. “Every young lady in the land would be proud to accept your suit. I’m sure you can find one who will make you blissful.”

“Did I not just say so?” He paced beside her along the corridor, his hands behind his back, and distracted her with a subject guaranteed to catch her interest. “May I ask a question?”

She braced herself as if expecting an inquiry into her personal life. “You may ask.”

She was very good at this game, promising nothing, holding the mystery of herself close so that a man wanted nothing so much as to decipher it. “You’re teaching me to flirt, yet so frequently I don’t know what a lady wants to hear. It’s a mystery with which every man struggles.”

She turned those oddly bright, aquamarine eyes on him. “Yet I think you know the answer.”

Taken aback, he replied, “If I do, I don’t know that I know.”

“You very skillfully give me that which flatters and entices.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He’d never meant anything so sincerely.

“Even when you criticize my clothing, I’m more pleased with you than I am with most men, for you give me the one thing I’ve never had—you give me your whole attention.”

“Attention.” One side of his mouth quirked up. “Fascinating.”

“Yes. Your attention, without any trace of superior masculine assurance that you’re more intelligent than I am because I’m pretty and none of that irritating indulgence as if I were a treasured pet you could scratch under the chin, then forget.” She watched him with the kind of smugness she said she detested in men. “Attention—that’s what all men want, too.”

“Men want attention?” More and more he realized that Miss Ritter was an astute observer of human nature. How to distract her lest she penetrate his masquerade? Perhaps he should flirt with her in earnest and make her fall in love with him…and perhaps that wasn’t his mind making suggestions. Perhaps the organ making suggestions was lower and less inclined to intelligent decisions. Miss Ritter caused him a turbulence and an arousal that could only produce embarrassment.

She stopped outside the door of the lesser drawing room. “Think about the most fascinating woman you know.”

“All right.” That would be Miss Ritter.

But he shouldn’t think of Miss Ritter.

Yet he could think only of her. For God’s sake! This was his father’s house, his stepmother was nearby, Miss Ritter had been much wronged, and he intended to use her for his purposes. He had to subdue his undue and obvious interest in the young lady…

…Who seemed unaware of his fascination. “What does she talk about?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Pay heed!” she said. “The most fascinating woman you know.”

He tried to pay heed. Tried to remember.

“She doesn’t talk,” Caroline informed him. “She listens. She listens with every appearance of interest as you babble about your horses and your gambling and your”—Caroline’s gaze swept his garments—“style. She hangs on your every word while you bore the entire dinner party senseless going on and on about politics.”

Was she accusing him of being interested in politics? After he had worked so hard to create the persona of a man enamored of nothing but fashion? Pointing to his chest, he said, “Politics? Not me.”

“Of course not. You care nothing for manly pursuits.” She threw out the phrase almost as a challenge, as a test.

“Manly pursuits are fatiguing and frequently splash mud on one’s garments,” Jude said indolently,

As if she were disappointed in the answer, she snapped, “Exactly,” and strode ahead of him into the drawing room.

He watched the irritated sway of her petticoats and smiled. No wonder she had been the belle of her Season. She could reduce a man to obsession.

Today she spoke without the usual maidenly restraint, without the annoying fluttering of the eyelashes and the pretended bashfulness which so many debutantes affected. Of course, the reason she spoke to him so freely was because she neither expected nor could accept his courtship. Unlike most single ladies, her goal was not her marriage to him, but rather his marriage to anyone else but her. Fascinating, indeed.

He followed her into the room.

There the footmen bustled in and out, placing a small repast on the cupboard against the wall, and as the duchess promised, there were crystal glasses and fine china, and on platters a series of simple appetizers and pastries laid out on the buffet, which stood against one wall.

Breezing into the drawing room, Mum placed her hand on Jude’s arm. “This isn’t as difficult as you feared, is it, dear?”

“How hard is it to take two beautiful women in my arms and dance with them one day, then feast with them another?”

Rather tartly, Caroline said, “Let’s see if you still thank me when the Season is over.”

“I’m sure I will,” he said meekly.

Wisps of chestnut hair had fallen from Caroline’s chignon and teased under her chin and around her amazing eyes. Now those wisps caressed the pale, velvety nape of her neck in the same way he would if given the chance—softly, lightly.

Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she sighed. “Would you excuse me? I’m untidy.” She placed her journal on the table. All unconscious, she lifted her arms and displayed the long, clean line of her torso, her perfect bosom, her strong arms. In the space of a few seconds, she rearranged some pins and tucked most of the errant stands back into the severe style.

As Jude stared, his mouth grew dry.

This beautiful woman failed to realize that her efficient motions could carry a man’s imagination into the boudoir, that her simple task drew him into a reverie where she wore nothing but a robe, where she let down her hair rather than put it up as she prepared to join him in bed.

Turning back to the room, she didn’t seem to notice that Jude had been struck dumb. “Shall we proceed?”

He shook away the fantasy and indicated the sofa, inviting her to seat herself. “Mum, will you join us?”

“If it’s part of Caroline’s plan, then I would like that,” Mum answered.

Miss Ritter’s smile blossomed. “I would like that, too.”

Seating herself beside Caroline, Mum suggested mischievously, “Shall we ask for a jumble of things to eat so he has to strain to remember?”

“My memory is excellent,” he warned, and when he brought them their food, he had remembered everything. He presented them each with a well-filled plate, a napkin, and placed their goblets of water on the table nearby so they could sip at any time they wished. He filled his own plate, balanced it on his knee, and proceeded to please Miss Ritter by being the perfect suitor. “Miss Ritter, tell me—if a woman is in love with a man, does she find his discourse interesting?”

“What an excellent question.” She knit her brow as she thought. “I do believe that’s possible. Once I observed a very lively conversation during which the host was quite left out, and the hostess quite ruthlessly steered it back to him. But the truly amazing thing was—in the drawing room after dinner, he did the same thing for her! I was quite astonished.”

“So they have a true love match,” Nicolette said.

Caroline blinked as if she’d never considered the matter in that light. “I don’t know.”

“Do you know anyone who has a true love match?” Jude asked.

“None that I’ve ever seen,” she answered.

“You
are
a cynic,” Jude snapped.

“A realist.” She didn’t seem offended, nor did she wish to argue with him. Rather, she seemed rapt when she asked, “Have
you
ever seen a true love match?”