One Rogue Too Many (10 page)

Miss Eliza Dewhurst scurried toward center stage while her older sister, Beatrix, sat down at the pianoforte. With eyes downcast and hands clutched to her chest, Eliza appeared the very definition of mousy. How she would sing for more than a hundred guests without dissolving into tears was a mystery. She surprised him when her sister played the introduction and she broke into song. She had a lusty voice, larger than she was, and she had adopted a rather good imitation of a Scottish brogue.

At first, he paid no notice to the song as he stewed over Gabby arriving on Thorne’s arm. He was eager to hear her explanation. The song went on, telling the story of a blacksmith and a lady. It wasn’t until the lady turned herself into a cloud and taunted the smithy with “catch me if you can” that Miss Eliza Dewhurst’s song selection caught Anthony’s attention.

“So the blacksmith shook his hammer and it turned into a magic stick,” Miss Dewhurst sang clearly, “so he became a lightning bolt for to zap into her quick.”

Anthony sat up straighter in his chair and looked around to see if anyone else noticed the innocent young miss was belting out a bawdy tune. Everyone around him was smiling politely, pretending to listen.

It wasn’t until she sang of the lady changing into a rose bush and the man into a bumblebee to sting her that Thorne gave a small jerk as if snapping out of a trance. He blinked at Anthony, the beginning of a grin lifting one corner of his mouth. Anthony couldn’t help it. Suddenly he was smiling, too.

When the lady turned into a horse and the man became a golden saddle strapped on her back, they sniggered.

Gabby hushed them and nailed Anthony with a severe frown.

Neither he nor Thorne could hide their amusement when the lady turned into a man and the smithy became a bonny lass, and she took him where he stood. The applause, however, drowned out their laughter. Gabby’s plump mouth formed a tight circle as she stared straight ahead.

“I suppose you gentlemen think you could write a song half as beautiful,” she said under her breath.

“At least half,” Thorne quipped.

“Very well. You both have until tomorrow to write a sonnet and prove yourselves.”

Anthony smirked. “And why would we do any such thing?”

“Because I will be the judge, and the winner shall accompany me to Gunter’s for an ice.”

Anthony stammered, unable to form a coherent thought.

Thorne took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Challenge accepted, my lady.”

Nine

Gabby knew it was wrong to lay down the gauntlet with her two suitors, but she was cross with both gentlemen for laughing at Miss Eliza Dewhurst. She was a sweet girl in her first Season and shy beyond reason, except when she was singing. To have two sought-after bachelors twittering in the back row like silly chits would be mortifying for any debutante.

Irritation rolled off Anthony in waves as they sat quietly through the second song. She chanced a side-glance and noted the muscles in his chiseled jaw working. If he composed a sonnet as she had demanded, she would declare him the winner, but he needn’t know the outcome. Let him stew all night.

Lord Thorne deserved punishment as well, but Gabby couldn’t encourage his suit. She would pull him aside after the concert and tell him she hadn’t been serious about the contest. She would also implore him not to tell Anthony. At least one gentleman would get his comeuppance.

She no longer felt as guilty about entering the room on Thorne’s arm. Truly, she hadn’t known what to do. The baron had been waiting outside when their carriage pulled up to Dewhurst Place, and there had been no way to refuse his offer of an escort without insulting him.

She tried to steal a glance at Thorne, but he caught her looking and winked. She couldn’t help smiling in return. He was a handsome scoundrel. If her heart didn’t already belong to Anthony, he would make a good choice for a husband.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he whispered.

“No plagiarizing, my lord.”

Anthony shifted beside her, his elbow conveniently connecting with her ribs. She frowned at him. He raised his eyebrows toward Miss Dewhurst. Chastised, she straightened, folding her hands in her lap.

Thorne leaned close to her ear. “Killjoy.”

She suppressed a chuckle. Perhaps she was being too hard on Anthony for laughing. They managed to make it through the remainder of the concert without any more snickers between the three of them, but it had required Gabby’s focused attention. She had never realized the baron was as playful as he was.

The guests began to mingle, and liveried servants swept in to move the chairs to the outer walls of the room while others carried refreshments to the banquet table on large trays.

She sought a quiet corner out of the servants’ way. Her gentlemen stuck by her side like ticks on a dog, as her brother Drew was fond of saying. It was inconvenient, to say the least. She needed a moment alone with Lord Thorne.

Waving her fan vigorously, she regarded the men. “My, but it is stifling in here.”

Thorne was quick to pick up on her insinuation. “Allow me to retrieve a glass of lemonade for you, my lady.”

“If anyone is going to service the lady, it will be me.” Anthony hurried off before Thorne could protest.

Gabby didn’t waste the moment alone. “Lord Thorne, please don’t write a sonnet. I was only needling Lord Ellis. You won’t tell him, will you?”

His smile slipped. “And the contest? Gunter’s?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mislead you.”

The sparkle in his eyes dimmed. “I take it you are seriously considering his suit.”

Gads, she must be the worst person on earth. Playing the role of rejecter was as bad, if not worse, than being rejected. She wished there was a way to ease the blow. “I don’t want to insult you by denying it, my lord. I have great admiration for you, and I cannot play you false.”

His grin returned. “Admiration is a start.”

She made a sound of protest, but before she could discourage him further, Anthony returned with two glasses of lemonade. He was still in a mood, if she read him correctly. No one else might notice, since his expression was blank, but the only time Anthony’s emotions weren’t as easy to read as a copy of
The
Morning
Times
was when he didn’t want others to know he was bothered.

He passed a glass to her, then sipped from his own.

Thorne’s eyebrow arched like a question mark.

“Get your own drink,” Anthony said.

The baron chuckled, his dark eyes glittering. “I can’t stay anyway. I have a sonnet to write and a lady to escort to Gunter’s tomorrow.” He bowed to Gabby. “Good evening, Lady Gabrielle.”

“He can barely write his name,” Anthony grumbled as Thorne walked away.

Gabby smiled sweetly at him. “You should have the advantage then, I should think. I’ve seen you write
your
name.”

A rapid, red flush climbed his neck and infused his cheeks. “You promised to stay away from him.”

“I did and I meant it. It is he who doesn’t want to stay away.” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth to argue. “I can manage Lord Thorne. Your task is to compose a sonnet to rival Shakespeare.”

He grunted and took another gulp of his drink. She allowed herself an unguarded moment to appreciate his form. His black jacket hugged his broad shoulders, hiding the sculpted arms she knew were underneath.

When he and Drew were young men—perhaps sixteen or seventeen—she had stumbled upon them swimming at the family’s summer cottage. She hid in the brush, mesmerized by the play of sunlight on Anthony’s golden hair and the shadows defining his muscles. The hair on his chest was so light, she wouldn’t have been able to see it from a distance, but water droplets clung to him and glimmered. In her fanciful imagination, he had appeared like the god Apollo.

The years had been kind to him, for he still resembled that gorgeous vision she’d held in her head. Only improved. He had lost his boyish looks and possessed the hard-earned edge of a man.

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Do you like what you see?”

She boldly held his gaze. “Very much, Lord Ellis.”

Being close to Anthony all evening without the freedom to touch him was driving her mad. She reached out to caress his arm. His blue eyes darkened, and she had no doubt if they were alone, he would have his strong hands all over her.

Her mother’s white-feathered headdress moved at a steady pace through the crowd, headed in their direction. Gabby pulled her hand back with a sigh.

“I look forward to spending tomorrow afternoon with you, my lord.”

“Are you implying the winner has already been decided?” he asked with a flash of his heart-stopping smile.

She shrugged one shoulder. “I said you had an advantage, but you must earn the win.”

He nodded slowly, his good humor still intact.

Her mother approached, warmly greeting Anthony with a firm squeeze to his hands. “How lovely to see you again so soon, my boy. I apologize for whisking my daughter away, but the time has come to return to Talliah House.”

“No need to apologize. I too must be going. I have a difficult task awaiting me this evening.”

“Oh? I hope nothing too dire.”

He offered his arm to her mother, then waited for Gabby to take his other. “I’m afraid it is extremely dire, Your Grace. I must learn to write a sonnet.”

Ten

Anthony felt slightly queasy when he walked into Brooks’s the next afternoon. He had worked on Gabby’s sonnet until sunrise and had to admit he had nothing.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. His pocket held an elegant sheet of foolscap—for he’d used his best—scribbled with gibberish.

The porter looked on Anthony with the same bored expression he’d given him days earlier. Nevertheless, Harry could never be accused of favoritism for he was equally disinterested in everyone. “Good afternoon, milord.”

Anthony mumbled a greeting and handed over his cane and hat. Two hours remained until Gabby was expecting him, and he wanted to earn the privilege of taking her for an ice. His prospects were looking bleak.

He touched his jacket pocket and heard the paper crinkle. Last night he hadn’t even been able to recall what a sonnet was exactly, so he had muddled through as best as he could.

The result? Utter rubbish. If she didn’t toss him out on his ear, he would be fortunate.

Perhaps a cup of Turkish coffee would chase away his fog, and brilliance would strike him before he was due at Talliah House.

He claimed one of the leather chairs and ordered a coffee from one of the footmen. The gentleman seated across from him lowered his newssheet to his lap and Anthony grimaced.

“Unusual weather we are having, aye, Ellis?”

“Corby.” He returned the troublemaker’s greeting with a sharp nod. A quick glance around the club reassured him that he would at least be spared Ledbery’s obnoxious company.

Corby returned to his newssheet, and Anthony eased back against his seat with a soft sigh. He was deep in thought when the footman returned with his coffee. Anthony had taken only one sip when Thorne rounded the vacant chair and dropped down beside him.

The baron grinned. “Beautiful day for an outing to Gunter’s.”

“Too bad you’ll have no one to take,” Anthony said.

Thorne shrugged, his smile growing wider, if that was even possible. He might believe his flash of straight teeth made the ladies swoon, but it made Anthony want to knock a few loose this morning.

Toothy
jackass.

Thorne’s eyebrow angled upward. “Are you prepared to sweep the lady off her feet with your brilliant words? If I remember correctly, you never earned high marks for penmanship
or
composition.”

Anthony sipped his coffee, pointedly ignoring Thorne’s insult. He wished he had a witty rejoinder, but the baron was correct. Anthony had never thought those things were important, until now.

“I suppose you think you can do better,” Anthony said. If memory served, Thorne had never been a bard himself.

The baron drummed his fingers against the armrest and cocked his head to the side, his eyes trained to the ceiling. “Let not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.” His voice boomed. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken.”

Damn.
That was good. And Thorne’s delivery had a certain
je
ne
sais
quoi
. No wonder he could claim success with the ladies.

Anthony grimaced. “Out of every available lady, why are you chasing after her? Are you even interested in matrimony?”

Corby peeked around his newssheet, saw Anthony’s glower, and snapped his paper back in place.

Thorne lost his smirk. “One doesn’t court a duke’s sister unless one intends to marry her. I enjoy Lady Gabrielle’s company and she is not hard on the eyes. She suits my purpose well.”

“And what purpose would that be?”

Thorne regarded Anthony as if he was dense. “The same purpose
you
have. She will make a good wife and beget me an heir.”

Anthony’s head felt like it might burst. If Thorne even thought about bedding Gabby, Anthony would strangle him.

Slowly.

And he would enjoy it.

Immensely.

“The lady will not accept your suit,” Anthony said.

Thorne winked. “Any lady can be persuaded to change her mind.” He pushed to his feet and strode away with a swagger.

Anthony gulped his coffee, barely noting it had grown too cold to be enjoyable. Gabby was too intelligent to fall for Thorne’s flattery and eloquent words.

Uncertainty tugged at his heart. She did like beautiful things, however, and Anthony’s sonnet was hideous compared to Thorne’s. “How did he write something that polished in the little time we were given?”

Corby shoved his newssheet into his lap and gaped. “
He
didn’t write that balderdash he was spouting. He was quoting Shakespeare.”