My Unfair Lady (7 page)

   "So why doesn't your family help you with your situation?"

   He sighed, his breath caressing her ear and causing her to give an involuntary shiver of delight. "You are persistent, aren't you?"

   "Pa says I'm a champion nagger."

   He laughed, caught himself, and then chuckled again. Summer noticed a few startled glances cast their way. "Very well, then, champion. The property entailed to me consisted of two run-down castles, the lands not earning enough to keep the servants, much less the income to the dowager duchess that I'm entitled to provide her. The income, investments, and other land that was unentailed was all left to my stepbrother—after my father had bled the two estates dry to obtain it."

   Summer's head whirled. "Why would your pa do such a thing?"

   She felt him stiffen in her arms. "If I knew the answer to that, madam, I would be content with my lot."

   "I'm sorry."

   "Don't be. There are many of the nobility who are in the same position as I am, saddled with estates that are no longer self-supporting. That's why there's such a ripe marriage market for American heiresses."

   "I told you, I don't want to marry any snooty—"

   His mouth and arms tightened, and he spun her in quick succession about the room, certainly too fast to match the slow strain of the music. Summer clutched at him to keep herself from falling down with dizziness, and her chest thudded against his, the softness of his cravat sweeping the top of her breasts, the warmth of his chest penetrating through the thickness of her corset. A distant part of her mind told her they were dancing too close for propriety's sake and wondered at what kind of wanton woman she could be that she responded to the slightest touch of his body. She clung to him and half opened her mouth, staring at his own and feeling a pull toward it that was an undeniable physical craving.

   The duke stumbled. He'd only meant to teach her a lesson, that he was just as desirable as any American man, but when her eyes turned glassy he couldn't tear his own away, as if she had cast some magic spell over him. And when her lips opened, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to tilt his head and taste them, to want to nip at her full bottom lip. Thank heaven that his sister-in-law's brittle laugh was loud enough to break the spell and bring him to his senses. He'd nearly destroyed his reputation! Kissing a title-hunter. In public, no less!

   Summer's eyes widened, and she pulled back in confusion when he sneered at her. "Not so hard to imagine yourself married to an Englishman, I gather?"

   "You did that on purpose!"

   He swept her to the edge of the dance floor. "Certainly, madam. Just as I purposely baited you on the way here."

   Summer frowned, taken aback by his remark. This man played so many games, she had trouble keeping up with him. What a challenge! "And why did you want to make me angry in the carriage?"

   "You hired me to make you acceptable in society. Having a breakdown before we get to a ball will not produce the results you paid me for."

   Summer grinned. He was right! She'd been so angry at him that she'd forgotten all about her nervousness. And when they'd been in that receiving line, he'd actually offered her personal information about himself that had again distracted her. Why did he have such a reputation for callousness? He seemed an exceptionally considerate man. She didn't pay him to comfort her, regardless of what he said.

   The music ended as he led her off the dance floor. She stepped lightly and grinned at him. "Thank you."

   He raised a brow and shrugged, trying to ignore that kernel of feeling that grew in his chest as he gazed at her glowing face, the sparkle in those rich brown eyes.

   "But that other thing you did…" Her grin had turned upside down. "You don't have to prove to me that Englishmen are every bit as desirable as American men; it doesn't matter what country anyone is from. It's just that I'm already spoken for, and he happens to be an American. And I don't care about titles."

   The duke stared at her a moment, shocked that he almost believed her. He turned and muttered something about bringing her a glass of refreshment, and weaved his way through the crowd, barely acknowledging the deferential nods of his peers. The bloody woman kept being so ridiculously honest and outspoken of her thoughts, he grumbled to himself. How could he keep a professional distance from her if she kept sharing her most intimate feelings with him? He tried not to blame her, guessing enough of her background to know she hadn't been taught even the most basic rules of society, but he still needed to figure out a way to keep his distance.

   In his distraction he bumped against another man, making the red punch in the other's hand slosh over expensive kid gloves. He barely muttered an apology, still obsessed with the thoughts of his American heiress. The child didn't even realize that although he'd tried to seduce a kiss from her, he'd certainly had no intention of actually following it through. How had she managed to make him respond that way? He'd had the most skilled cour tesans, and the most innocent of marriage-hunting English ladies, offer up their lips to him and he'd always been in control.

   "I said," wavered a young man's voice, "that you owe me an apology, sir."

   The duke scowled as his eyes reluctantly focused on the red face of John Strolm. Just what he did
not
need tonight, bumping into the boy who thought he'd killed his intended. "I believe I already made my apology, sir."

   "If that is so, sir, I certainly didn't hear it!" The boy's voice cracked on the last word, and a rustling of petticoats as people turned to stare could be heard as silence descended throughout the room. Byron could see the boy become aware of the attention, his eyes aglitter with satisfaction as if he'd planned this little scene. Well, he probably had.

   Byron sighed. "Then allow me again, sir, to express my apologies over your soiled gloves. Although sadly out of fashion, I'm sure they were the best you had. I'd be happy to pay for their replacement."

   The duke paused, while Mr. Strolm pondered that for a moment. The boy's face turned an unbecoming shade of purple as he realized that the apology had been an insult.

   
I
shouldn't
have
done
that
, thought Byron,
but
some people just make it too easy
. And then he felt her behind him, could smell that fresh-from-the-outdoors scent that she managed to maintain even in a smoky ballroom, and wished she'd stayed away. He intended to make her reputation, not ruin it, and if the foolish boy said something about the rumors that he obviously believed to be true, he could no longer dismiss them as idle gossip to be laughed off.

   The boy's chest puffed up, and his words spilled out before Byron had a chance to call him outside. "I, sir, am not afraid of your venomous tongue as those in the rest of this room are! Say what you will of my unfashionable clothes, my coarse manner—the cut of my hair, even—to His Royal Highness. What worse could you do to me than to kill my intended?"

   Gasps of horror filled the room. Byron mentally shrugged. The boy had done it now, yet still he berated himself for giving him the chance. If he hadn't been so distracted by that woman… and bloody hell, he felt her brush his backside and stole a quick glance behind him. She'd pulled her knife and had the point of it hidden up her sleeve, the grip curled inside her hand. Was she mad? Worse, did she think he needed physical protection?

   He looked up at John Strolm, and like every man in the room, the boy topped him by a couple of inches. But he'd learned in his youth how to take care of himself and felt insulted that the woman didn't think he could.

   The American would ruin any chance she had of being accepted in polite society if he didn't end this situation now, sure that she'd pounce into the fray if it came to blows. The duke felt oddly pleased at the thought, regardless of how ridiculous it seemed.

   He lifted his chin and let the superiority of his rank settle over his features. "Am I to understand, sir, that you believe I pushed the lovely Miss Carlysle out her bedroom window?"

   "I most certainly—that's not my—you know well enough that if it hadn't been for the story you told to His Royal Highness, she'd never have taken her own life!"

   "No, boy. I don't know that, and neither do you."

   The duke knew John hadn't heard a word he'd said, for his mouth kept opening and closing like a fish, and he might as well let the boy say what he wanted before Summer could intervene; he could feel her tightening up like a drawn bow behind him. He lifted a brow, folded his arms, and waited.

   The aristocracy waited with him, their faces revealing an eager delight at the delicious gossip this would cause on the morrow.

   "I'm sure whatever story you told the prince was a lie!" sputtered the boy at last.

   "Although only slightly amusing, I assure you it was the truth. I also assure you that you don't want the story told publicly, for although we all knew Miss Carlysle to have been a lovely girl, she also had a reputation for being… highly spirited as well. What caused her to leap from that window shall remain a mystery, and you should neither blame me… or yourself, for that matter. Good evening, sir."

   The duke knew he'd gotten to the heart of the matter, that the boy might be blaming himself for the deed, for as soon as he said the words, John's shoulders began to shake, and the need not to disgrace himself by bursting into tears gave Byron enough time to grasp Summer's hand and make a hasty exit from the room.

   The boy's grief made him angry, because the Carlysle girl certainly didn't deserve such devotion. The story Byron had told had been true, for he'd been there himself, and he had enough information from friends that it probably hadn't been the first time she'd pulled such a stunt.

   Someone had been alert enough to have called ahead for the coachman, for the rented brougham sat waiting at the bottom of the stairs, the door already open. Probably his stepmother making sure that he left as soon as possible. Although outwardly kind to a fault, in small ways she viewed him as an inferior, and he knew it, as if he shouldn't have the privilege to even wipe his brother's feet, much less carry the title of duke. She probably felt relieved at his confronta tion with Strolm, that it hastened his departure from her home.

   As he assisted Summer into the carriage, he realized she no longer held her knife, and hoped it wasn't left behind in somebody's back.

   "What about Maria?" she asked.

   Byron's voice vibrated with anger. "I'll send the coach back for her." He settled into the seat across from her and flicked his hair off his forehead. "Either you solemnly swear never to pull that knife again in public, or I terminate our business arrangement."

   Summer stared at him in wonder. They'd just been through a trying experience, one that he'd certainly caused by some dreadful story, and he had the nerve to reprimand her for poor behavior. That boy had been big. Didn't the man realize he didn't stand a chance in a fair fight with him? But she had to admit, if she'd had to use her knife and they saw her, she'd never be welcome in anyone else's home. Although she still felt pretty sure she could've discouraged the boy with a few nicks here and there without being seen, the duke was probably right.

   She let out a long sigh as the carriage bounced over the cobblestones. "I swear I won't use my knife in public, if you tell me what that girl did."

   He might not have answered, but she'd spoken as if she believed him, when others obviously didn't. He stopped scowling at her. "It happened several months ago, at a house party thrown by one of your American heiresses—"

   "They're not my—"

   "Do you want to hear the story or not?"

   Her perfect little teeth clamped together with an audible snap, and he nodded with satisfaction. "Lord Churchill and his American wife, Jennie, had rented a summer house, and perhaps because of this, the room assignments hadn't been properly… arranged."

   Summer nodded, a bit bewildered. But she recog nized the gleam in his eye and knew that he was hoping to shock her. She fought a grin and pretended to understand.

   He wasn't fooled, and he seemed to take great satisfaction in explaining further. "In polite society, if a woman is married, and the match is not quite to her satisfaction, well, once she gives birth to an heir and a spare, it's quite acceptable for her to take a lover."

   Summer nodded.

   "Or lovers. As in, more than one."

   She nodded again. Maria had already told her all this; when would he stop repeating himself and get on with the story?

   He must've seen the frustration in her face, sighed with disappointment, and continued. "Somehow the room cards had gotten switched on a few doors, and in the middle of the night, I heard a loud thump and squeal from the room next to mine. Ordinarily I would have ignored it, of course, but the squeal didn't sound like a happy one, and I thought as a gentleman I should at least try to investigate."

"Good for you."