The Dangerous Lord (18 page)

“
I
don't accept it,” Emily said sympathetically. “Believe me, Jordan knows if I ever found him with another woman, I'd take an ax to a certain part of his anatomy.”

Sara smiled at the image, but her smile vanished when she saw Felicity's unbending posture. The poor woman wouldn't admit the reason for her distress, but Sara knew. And she wished she could put Felicity's mind at ease.

The trouble was, she no longer knew Ian at all. Over the years, he'd grown secretive. Just look at his recent behavior. He'd lied to them from the time he'd arrived—about how he knew Felicity, the woman he kept in London, and probably even his reasons for his hurried trip to town.

What's more, his manner had changed. These days he was always distant, aloof. The only time he'd behaved like his old congenial self was tonight in the hall. When he was speaking to Felicity.

Hmm. Sara surveyed the young woman thoughtfully. Perhaps Felicity was wrong about Ian's motives for proposing marriage. What if Ian was merely having the same trouble accepting that he was falling in love as Gideon and Jordan had both had?

One thing her experience had taught her—men hated falling in love. They fought it, they explained it away, they called it sex or passion or lust, anything but love. A man would rather brave hell than admit his weakness for a woman and give her power over him. So why should Ian be different? The more she thought about his behavior toward Felicity, the more that possibility made sense.

“So what do you plan to do about this mess?” she asked Felicity.

The young woman faced them. “I don't know. Ian says he wants me to help him find a wife.”

“The two of you didn't invent that tale to mislead us earlier?”

A mournful look crossed Felicity's face. “I'm afraid not. He says I owe it to him, since my columns have ruined his chances and I refuse to marry him. He has a point, you know. So he wants me to introduce him to other women, advise him on who to marry…that sort of thing.”

The sly dog
, Sara thought. She understood his purpose now, and he was shrewder than she would ever have guessed. “And you intend to do so?”

“I suppose. But I know so few women who might suit him that it seems pointless for me to try.” Her voice grew sullen. “Yet he insists that I do so. It's very annoying.”

“Perhaps you dislike the thought of matching him with another woman.”

“Not at all!” Felicity sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. “I don't
want
to marry him! And I don't care who else he marries, as long as it isn't me!”

The devil you say
, Sara thought. The prospect of watching Ian court other women was killing Felicity, and Ian undoubtedly counted on that to help him win his suit. What a clever maneuver. And guaranteed to work, judging from Felicity's misery.

Maybe Felicity was right, after all, and Ian was simply the most calculating male in England. He'd certainly been moving them all around like chess pieces. Such attention to strategy didn't bode well for his feeling any strong emotion for the woman.

Then again, something had glittered in his eyes when he looked at Felicity—

There was only one way to discover his true intentions. “You know, I could help you with your endeavor if you want,” Sara said in an offhand manner.

Felicity seemed more than eager to pounce on her offer. “Could you? How?”

Sara shrugged. “I know as many young women as you. I can make introductions and help dispel the rumors about him myself.”

“Yes, that would be wonderful! I wouldn't have to be around hi—” Felicity broke off quickly. “That is, it would free me to attend to my own business.”

“What business?” Emily asked.

“My work, of course. I must be free at social occasions
to gather gossip for my column, and I can't do that if I'm busy helping Ian find a wife.”

“Ah, yes,” Sara remarked, watching Felicity with new interest. How odd that a young woman with such intelligence and sensitivity could be so eager to write scandalous material for a common newspaper. “I forgot you're Lord X. But surely your Mr. Pilkington could do without Lord X's column for a short time.”

“He could, but—” The woman broke off, her gaze flitting from Sara to Emily. “I-I wouldn't want to stop writing it. I like it, and I worked hard to gain my readers. I don't want to lose them. Besides, after all the holiday parties in the next few weeks, there will be nothing until the Season begins. I must be free to move about
now
.”

A lame explanation if Sara had ever heard one. Felicity clearly had some other reason for continuing her writing. But what? Judging from the woman's apparel and rumors about her father's inheritance, Felicity had no financial difficulties. “Will my help free you to write?”

“Oh, yes!” Felicity said earnestly.

“Very well, then I shall help you. Gideon and I planned to spend Christmas in town this year anyway. We'll take you home tomorrow, and then accompany you to those social events Ian expects you to attend.” She watched Felicity closely. “I'm sure I can find him a wife without you if need be.”

“Yes, of course you could,” Felicity said in an oddly deflated tone.

Her look of desolation told Sara all she needed to know about Felicity's feelings. Whether Ian was in love or not, Felicity was halfway to being there already.

“But will Ian mind if it's you and not me who helps him?” Felicity asked. “He seemed to think he needed my help.”

Sara caught Emily's eye, and a look of understanding passed between them. Not surprisingly, Emily had guessed
Ian's purpose as well. Their husbands had trained them well to recognize the machinations of devious men.

“I'm sure Ian would welcome anyone's help,” Emily told Felicity cheerily, her mischievous expression showing that she thought no such thing.

“I'll speak to him this evening on the matter,” Sara added. “No doubt he'll be delighted at my involvement.”

The devil he would. If he was, it meant that Ian possessed as little real interest in Felicity as he'd had in Lady Sophie and the Hastings girl. In such a case, it would be best for Felicity to discover that now.

But Sara doubted that Ian wanted anyone's interference in this matter. Sara had never seen the man so agitated by a woman, so reckless in his pursuit. God knows he'd never cornered Lady Sophie in
her
bedchamber.

If Sara's instincts proved as correct as they usually did, he wouldn't like what she told him tonight. Not one little bit.

 

Barely controlling his anger, Ian glared at Sara from his stance beside the fireplace in the card room. “What the hell do you mean—you plan to help me find a wife? I don't want your help, Sara!”

“But Miss Taylor said you were adamant about needing hers.” Sara swept about the room, picking up a newspaper here, straightening a cushion there. “I don't see why my help would be any less welcome.”

“Because I bloody well don't want to marry
you
, that's why!”

She cocked her head to stare thoughtfully at him. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

Her voice was entirely too smug. He searched her face with narrowed eyes. “Yes, you do. You're too intelligent for your own good. And you know quite well that the best way for me to secure Felicity's affections is to make her realize how badly she wants to marry me.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is, my meddling friend. She wants to marry me, and I'll force her to admit it if I have to dance attendance on half of London's eligible women in front of her!”

A sudden urge to smash one of Sara's china figurines against the wall possessed him. The last thing he wanted was Sara mucking things up, especially if it put more distance between him and Felicity. He lowered his voice, striving for control. “I appreciate your attempt to help, but I have this well in hand. I've already set my sights on the wife I want, and I don't need you destroying all my plans!”

“Good heavens, Ian, if she doesn't want to marry you, why waste your time over it? Surely you don't wish to have a wife who cares nothing for you.”

“She
does
care for me, no matter what she said. And she'd make me the perfect wife. She's merely being stubborn about—” He broke off, suddenly conscious of Sara's intent interest.

“About what?”

He narrowed his eyes on Sara. “How much did she tell you of our discussion?”

Sara looked as if she debated something, then shrugged. “Merely that she refused to marry you.”

“Did she say why?”

“She claimed you wouldn't suit. Apparently, while she agrees that she'd make you the perfect wife, she's not so sure you'd make her the perfect husband.”

He scowled. “That's only because she doesn't know me.”

“Or because she knows you too well.”

Her barb hit more deeply than he would have thought. “Thanks for all your confidence in me.”

She ignored his sharp tone. “Tell me, Ian, why do you think she'd make you the perfect wife? She's not the sort of woman you always claim to prefer. She's not quiet or docile. And she has a huge family that she'd expect you to support.”

“I can afford it.”

Sara inexplicably smiled. “Yes, I suppose you can. Then there is her very troublesome profession—”

“She told you about that?” he asked incredulously.

“Her identity as Lord X?” With an air of complete nonchalance, she sank into a plush chair. “Of course. She told me all about your little war.”

That stunned him into silence. He hadn't expected Felicity to reveal so much to Sara. What did it mean? And how would this affect his plans?

“I must say,” Sara went on, “that although her tale explained the events of the past few days, it shed no light on why the two of you should marry. Given your apparent disagreement on many matters, I would think you rather unsuitable for each other.”

“Would you?” He glowered at her. “I suppose that means you're on
her
side. You think she's right to refuse me.”

She smoothed her skirts with sudden concentration. “Perhaps I'm on both sides.”

Striding up to where she sat, he bent down and braced his hands on the arms of her chair. “Don't play games with me, Sara. I'm not in the mood. You can't be on both sides. I want her to marry me, and she wishes to remain unencumbered. So you must choose: either help me or help her. Or stay out of the matter entirely.”

The infuriating woman merely smiled up at him. “I need more information before I make a decision.”

“What kind of information?”

“Do you love her?”

The words exploded in his brain.
Love her
? The subject hadn't come up in his previous courtships. That it should do so with Felicity was very disconcerting.

He shoved back from Sara's chair. “Not all men marry for that reason. Just because you and your brother fancy yourselves in love with your spouses doesn't mean it's the same for everyone else.”

“Then why do you wish to marry her?”

“You know why,” he evaded. “For the same reason every man of my situation wishes to marry. Because I require a wife to run my household and bear my children.”

“Of course. But why her? She's beneath you in station, after all.”

“That didn't matter to your stepfather, your husband, or your brother, so I don't know why you think it would matter to me.”

“All right, so you don't care about that. What
do
you care about that makes you think you should marry her?”

“She has four brothers,” he retorted, seizing upon a fact he'd scarcely considered until now. “Need I point out what that says about the likelihood she can bear me a son?”

“So can many women. You still haven't told me what I wish to know. Why should I help you snag my friend as a wife when any woman will suit your purpose?”

Dragging his fingers through his hair, he glared at her. “You know she's better off married to me than in her father's old house tending four scamps and dabbling in gossip.”

“Are you so sure? She seems to enjoy her odd life. To my knowledge she has no financial difficulties, so she doesn't need to marry you for money. But you haven't answered my question. Why her?”

“Because I
want
her!” he burst out. “She's the only one I want!”

He regretted his admission the moment he saw Sara's delighted expression. With a groan, he shifted his gaze past her. Damn the woman for pressing him into saying more than he'd intended.

But it was the truth. Felicity had stirred something primitive in him, something he thought he'd suppressed long ago. Excitement. Passion. The sheer enjoyment of kissing a woman he truly desired. Just when he'd resigned himself
to doing his duty no matter the cost, she'd burst into his life like fireworks against a midnight sky.

Now he was addicted to the brightness she showered around her whenever she swept through a room. He ached to possess that brightness, to make it his own. He needed to possess her in every possible way. And he could only do that by marrying her.

His gaze shot back to Sara. “Well? Have I given you enough information? Will you help me win her? Or do you still think Felicity and I won't suit?”

“Oh, I begin to think you'll suit each other nicely.” She cast him a blazing but enigmatic smile. “Yes, I'll help you. Sit down, Ian. It's time we made some plans.”

F
elicity scowled fiercely at the pale-cheeked face in the huge square mirror over her dressing table.
Fool!
she told herself.
Ninny! Ridiculous dreamer!

She had no reason to be so somber, and certainly no reason to let her listlessness show in her face! In the week since her return from the country, she'd gone to four Christmas balls, three parties, and a private concert. She'd provided Mr. Pilkington with six good columns for which he'd paid her decently. Tonight she was attending Lady Brumley's annual St. Thomas's Day party, the most prestigious ball of the season, with London's most interesting characters, who would provide her with ample material for even more columns. So why did her malaise persist?

Because of
him
, of course. That false-hearted viscount with the roving eye.

He would attend tonight as well, dancing with one woman after another, seeking a wife with blithe nonchalance. It was what she wanted, wasn't it? She'd refused him, so what did she expect him to do—pine for her?

That's precisely what she'd expected, fool that she was. But she should have known better. She'd done nothing but torment the man since the day she met him. Not that he didn't deserve it, because he did. Still…

Glancing back into the mirror, she scowled again. No wonder he'd given up on her so easily. Look at her colorless face and dull expression! She looked exactly like the common-born woman she was!

Furiously, she dabbed rouge onto her cheeks, then just as furiously, scoured it off. No respectable woman wore rouge these days. Mama had done so in her day, but it was acceptable then.

Why did she care what he thought of her anyway? They were quits now.

“Lissy, what's that red stuff you're playing with?” a boy's voice asked behind her.

It was Ansel who'd spoken, but all her little tin soldiers were ranged at her back, having invaded her chamber en masse this evening. James sat cross-legged on her closed trunk, keeping his posture meticulously erect as he'd been taught at Islington Academy. Devoid of such training, William and Ansel sprawled on their bellies across her bed with their heads resting on their elbows and their bare feet kicking idly in the air. And George, true to form, wandered the room in search of mischief.

“I'm not playing with it.” She set her mother's old rouge pot firmly aside. She would
not
give Ian the satisfaction of seeing her appear all rouged and plucked like some tart. Then he'd know how she regretted refusing his proposal.

Regretted? Hah! She did
not
regret refusing to marry a
man for whom women were merely an amusement and a wife was a manufacturer of dutiful children. Marry a man with a mistress? A man who within a day of her refusal was courting every eligible female thrown his way? Never!

“Do you
have
to go to a ball tonight?” Ansel asked, his golden head cocked to one side as he watched her latch Mama's paste ruby necklace about her neck.

“Yes, Lissy, do you have to?” Georgie put in. “You've been going to parties all week. Don't see why you can't stay here with us tonight.”

James supplied an answer for her. “Lissy's got to have something to write about, lads, so she has to go to parties. You know that. If she doesn't, then we shan't have enough money for Christmas goose. You wouldn't want that, would you?”

The triplets shook their heads in unison, and Felicity bit back a smile. “Tomorrow I promise to spend the entire day with you. Mr. Pilkington sent over tickets to Madame Tussaud's Waxworks Exhibition. It's in the Strand again. Would you like to go see it?”

Even James perked up. “Can we, Lissy, truly? You'll take us?”

“I most certainly will.” She'd seen the exhibition often as a girl and looked forward to discovering what Madame Tussaud had added to the collection.

“Can we go into the Separate Room?” Georgie asked in a hushed whisper.

Felicity frowned at his mention of the notorious collection of death masks from the French Revolution that had started Madame Tussaud on the path of such a strange profession. “Indeed, you may not! It'll give you nightmares.”

“No, it won't!” Georgie protested. “Nothin' scares
me
, Lissy!”

She cast an irritated look into the heavens, questioning God for his wisdom in making little boys so fearless in theory and craven in practice. The triplets were generally
all bluster and bombast…until nighttime brought the standard childhood nightmares.

“We'll see,” she said noncommittally.

The door to her bedroom swung open, and Mrs. Box hurried in. “The Worthin's has arrived. You don't want to keep 'em waitin', luv.”

Snatching up her fan, she rose from the dressing table and faced her brothers. “Well? How do I look?”

“You look like a peacock!” William said, giving his highest compliment.

“She don't look like no peacock, Will.” Georgie sneered at his brother. “There ain't a single feather on that dress.”

Felicity opened her mouth, then shut it, realizing it was pointless to correct so many grammatical errors at once. George really must stop spending time with Mrs. Box and Joseph, neither of whom had adequate grammar.

“You look very beautiful,” James said artlessly, ignoring his brothers, who now argued over William's words. He left the trunk and approached with arm extended. “May I escort you downstairs, lovely lady?”

Stifling a laugh, she nodded and took his arm. “I'd be honored, kind sir.”

With a haughty expression, James waved his brothers closer. “You may carry the train, lads, if you like.”

“I don't have a train,” Felicity protested, but it was too late. Three pairs of grimy hands now struggled for purchase on the back edge of her peach skirt. She winced, but didn't stop them. Her skirts would be soiled the moment she walked into the muddy street anyway. And though the boys held her skirt high enough to reveal a full foot of her petticoat, she knew she must give them
some
chance to participate in her evening, or they'd be little terrors for Mrs. Box the rest of the night.

The top of the stairs was her limit, however. The possibility of tumbling to the bottom with her three enthusiastic helpers tangled in her gown was too real to risk. With a
gentle word, she shook them free like so many clinging kittens. “Now, boys, you might as well stay here—”

“But we want to talk to Lord Worthing,” Georgie protested. “He hasn't come with Lady Worthing before. Ain't he the pirate?”

With a quick glance down to where the Worthings conversed with Mrs. Box, she hissed under her breath, “Who told you that?”

“
You
did,” Ansel put in. “The day you got back from your trip.”

She'd forgotten. And of course they were interested in his adventures on the high seas. That was precisely what she did
not
need—the triplets cornering an earl with earnest questions about how to run a man through.

“Can we talk to him, huh, Lissy?” William asked.

She forced a smile. “Not tonight. Another time, all right?” At their crestfallen expressions, she bent down to buss each one on the cheek. “You'll see plenty of pirates at Madame Tussaud's Exhibition tomorrow.”

That wiped the disappointment from their faces.

“Be sure to mind Mrs. Box,” she added, ruffling Georgie's hair with affection. “And don't stay up waiting for me. I'll be late.”

She felt their eyes on her as James, looking quite the adult, led her downstairs. The boys were growing up much too quickly. Although some days she couldn't wait until they could help with the family's financial burden, most days she regretted the circumstances that would thrust them into adulthood far too soon.

Mrs. Box looked up, caught sight of her and James, and smiled broadly. “There she is, milady. And the young master with her.”

James drew himself up straighter, and a lump lodged in Felicity's throat. He wouldn't be master of anything soon. Today three different creditors had assailed her—the butcher, a shopkeeper from Cheapside, and some gambling
companion of her father's. The last man, a knight, had threatened to bring the magistrate after her if she didn't pay off her father's debt. Thankfully, she'd had the coal money to give him, or there was no telling what he would have done. But the other two she'd sent away empty-handed.

Good Lord, did she need money—bushels and bushels of it. She'd never pay off all the debts at the rate she was going.

Tonight she'd have to gather more material than usual. Perhaps if she could find enough, she might secretly approach a rival newspaper about writing a second column under a second name. If she could only pay a large sum on the worst of the bills…

“You're looking well this evening,” Sara commented as Felicity reached the bottom of the stairs. With a warm smile, the countess turned to James. “And what a handsome man you have at your side.”

James fairly beamed at the countess's praise. He'd been half in love with the woman from the day the Worthings had brought Felicity home from the country.

“I suppose the triplets are already in bed.” Sara's face showed disappointment. “I do so enjoy the darlings, and I'd hoped to introduce Gideon to them. They were asleep when we arrived from the country last week.”

“Actually—” James began.

“Actually,” Felicity repeated, glowering at her brother before he could say more, “I promised them an outing tomorrow, so I had to send them to bed early.”

“Lissy's taking us to see Madame Tussaud's Waxworks Exhibition,” James put in. “The lads are very excited about it.”

“I imagine they are.” Sara laughed, then eyed Felicity speculatively. “I've never been. It's usually in the Strand, isn't it?'

“Yes.” Felicity glanced up the stairs to where her broth
ers stood peeking around the banister, then swiftly added, “I suppose we should be off.”

After a quick good-bye to James, they left.

The ride to Lady Brumley's was sheer torture. Sara and Gideon shared so many secretive smiles and fond looks it made her envy their happiness. It also reminded her of Ian…his kissing her, touching her intimately, whispering endearments…

She sat up straight. Gideon might know the answer to a question that had plagued her for days. “Gideon, do you speak Spanish?”

“A little.”

“What does
querida
mean?”

His gaze narrowed on her. “It means ‘darling.'”

Her heart gave a little twist. Ian had called her “darling” that night at the Worthings? What did it signify? Nothing, judging from his behavior this week.

“Who called you ‘darling' in Spanish?” Sara asked with a smile.

Felicity laughed weakly. “Oh, no one. I read it in a book.”

Sara and Gideon exchanged knowing glances.

The clamor outside the carriage thankfully drew their attention from the subject. As usual, Lady Brumley's affair was a great crush. Coaches crammed the narrow street like dogs trampling each other to reach a bone. One thing was certain—Ian would have plenty of eligible women to choose from tonight.

The thought depressed her. Firmly, she thrust it aside. Who cared about that philandering lord and his roving eye? Not
her
, to be sure. Just because he called her “darling” and knew exactly how to use his hands on a woman's body—

“Drat it,” she muttered under her breath.

“I agree,” Sara said, mistaking the source of her distress.
“It's chaos out there. But don't worry, we'll get through. Wait until you see Gideon handle a crowd.”

A few moments later, Felicity got to see exactly that. Once Gideon stepped from the carriage, every eye was on him, and not only because of his imposing frame. His reputation had apparently preceded him, for everyone gawked at the dark-haired American rumored to have been the Pirate Lord. With his purposeful stride, which Sara and Felicity had to hurry to match, Gideon knifed through the crowd like a hot blade through ice. Thank God. She was eager to be out of the winter wind that slapped them like icy metal paddles. In moments, the three of them were inside the cramped villa and at the top of the stairs to the ballroom, being announced.

“There's Ian,” Sara whispered to Felicity as they strolled down into the swirling scent of crushed bay branches, sweat-dampened wool, and smoking beeswax. Felicity followed Sara's gaze to where Ian danced a quadrille. Superbly. With a pretty woman only half his age, or so Felicity told herself in a burst of temper.

“Ah,” Sara continued, “he's standing up with Miss Trent. Excellent. I suggested her to him, you know. She's a bit of a flirt, but her bloodlines are impeccable and she has three brothers. If he can snag her, she's sure to give him an heir.”

I have
four
brothers, remember?
Felicity wanted to retort. Of course, her own bloodlines were less than impeccable, especially when one considered a father whose liking for drink had sent him tumbling into the Thames.

It didn't matter, she told herself with a scowl. There would be no marriage between Ian and her, and she didn't want one anyway.

She caught Sara watching her and smoothed her features. “Has Ian offered for anyone yet? Considering how he complained of his difficulty in finding a wife, he seems to have done quite well under your tutelage.”