A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior by Suzanne Enoch (12)

Whether Tolly could read minds or merely had a good sense of timing, Theresa was grateful to him. He’d stated that he would do the courting, which made her feel both thrilled and considerably more easy. She didn’t need her guidebook to know that ladies did not court gentlemen.

In other ways, however, this infatuation was troubling. She’d never dreamed of being naked in Alexander’s arms the way she did Tolly’s. In her visions his nether regions had been a blur, which was both understandable and annoying, but she was thinking about them—and him—with almost alarming regularity, and she wasn’t accustomed to such…carnal, highly improper thoughts.

Propriety dictated that a man and woman be married before she ever saw beneath his clothes, but for heaven’s sake, she’d already seen his leg. And his blood. In a sense, she couldn’t actually fault herself for imagining the rest.

She glanced at the small clock on one of the sitting room’s side tables—not even noon yet. Amelia had suggested they have tea at James House this afternoon, and so she’d begged off shopping with Harriet this morning. Any other time her day would be filled to brimming, but becoming acquainted with Bartholomew James required all of her concentration. Much more so than chatting about the weather with dull, handsome Lionel.

Her cousin undoubtedly knew something unusual was afoot, and so did her grandmother. Michael seemed to think she was merely teasing him, thank goodness, but that still left Tolly’s brother and sister. And Tolly. His mood seemed to have improved, but she had the feeling that was partly because his leg was also beginning to mend. If it became infected or if he fell and injured it again, the angry, abrupt man she’d first met might prove to only be a taste of his temperament. She couldn’t very well court him if he refused to see her.

Her own footing wasn’t precisely certain either, considering that she’d promised to be good and proper evermore. Her parents were likely scowling and shaking their heads at her even now just for having rebellious thoughts. But this felt like a chance at…at something, and she simply wasn’t ready to give it up. Not yet.

She heard the front door knocker and then Ramsey speaking, but she didn’t look up from her sketching. She’d begun with the idea of rendering one of Grandmama Agnes’s cats in charcoal, but then she’d become fixated on drawing cat’s eyes, and now the eyes gazing back at her seemed rather familiar, even without their whiskey-colored decoration.

“Miss Tess,” Ramsey said from the doorway of the upstairs solarium, “Lord Montrose is—”

“I’m here,” Alexander finished, walking past the butler into the room. “Apologies for not waiting to be announced.”

Damnation. Hurriedly Theresa set down the charcoal and came forward to meet the marquis, wiping her hands on a cloth as she approached. “Alexander! I didn’t expect you this morning.”

“Since you were occupied on Tuesday, and I had a previous engagement yesterday and the day before, I thought I might offer my company today,” Alexander returned, taking her black-streaked hand and bowing over it. “If you’re free, of course.”

“Don’t you have Parliament this morning?” she asked, motioning for Ramsey to fetch Sally for her. While she would rather not have a chaperone in Tolly’s company, here with Alexander the Great she wanted everything to be proper.

“I begged off. Some drivel about canal expansion. I’d be asleep in my chair anyway if I’d attended.”

“I have a luncheon engagement, but I suppose I’m free until then,” she returned, pushing aside her impatience at having her morning interrupted. What the devil was wrong with her? If she knew one thing, it was how to be pleasantly social.

“Good.” Taking off his gloves, he set them across the back of a chair and sat. “What are you working on?”

“That?” She glanced back at the easel. “Nothing. Just practicing.”

“If you need a subject, I would be happy to sit for you.”

Theresa sent him an assessing look. “I’m not quite proficient enough for people,” she said, smiling. “Vases and fruit are my specialty of the moment.”

“How long have we known one another, Tess?” he asked abruptly, as Sally hurried into the room, nodded at her, and took a seat beside the door.

“Nearly four years, I think,” she answered, her muscles tensing just a little. If he was going to hand her another proposal, he’d picked a poor time for it.

“Do you trust my judgment?”

“I suppose it would depend on the subject.” She frowned. “Is something amiss, Alexander?”

“I followed you the other day.”

A chill went down her spine. “You followed me? Where?”

“On your so-called family outing. When you took your barouche and went driving with Colonel James for three hours.”

Theresa snapped to her feet. “I believe we’ve already discussed my dislike of you wanting to know my entire calendar each day.”

The marquis stayed seated, his pose relaxed despite the alert in his light blue eyes. “I was suspicious. And rightly so.”

“I’m not betrothed to you, Alexander, so I suppose I may visit with whomever I please.”

“But you lied about it. Why is that?”

Yes, why was that, Tess? Had it been to spare Tolly from Alexander’s ire? Or to spare her from any stickiness such as that she seemed to be mired in at that very moment? “I’m not certain why,” she responded after a moment. “But my friendship with Tolly James remains my own affair.”

“As long as it’s only a friendship. If he’s after you, then I have to disagree.”

What would Lord Montrose say, she wondered, if she informed him that Tolly had announced his interest in her at approximately the same moment she’d confessed to her fascination with him?

“I had breakfast this morning,” Montrose said conversationally.

“As did I,” she returned a bit dubiously, debating now how to have him leave without making him more out of sorts about Tolly. “Peaches and toast.”

“I dined out at the Society,” he continued, “with Lord Hadderly. The head of the London offices of the East India Company.”

“I’m acquainted with him. Grandmama doesn’t like his dogs.” Casual as his voice was, something set her on edge. More on edge. Any mention of India seemed to have more significance to her now. And Hadderly had declined to dine at James House.

“Yes. Evidently there have been some gathering rumors about a murderous cult in India, called the Thuggee, who prey on innocent travelers and merchants.”

That did it. Theresa sat directly opposite the marquis, her hands clenched stiffly in her lap. “If you intend on doing something…underhanded to damage Colonel James’s reputation, you will stop it at once. I won’t have it.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You won’t, will you?”

“No. I won’t.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Light blue eyes gazed into hers for a moment. “The reason I mention this, Tess, is because the Company has been working diligently to stop the rumors and discredit anyone carrying them. It’s bad for business.” Abruptly he stood, so that she had to lift her chin to look at him. “I tell you this because of our friendship. I know how highly you regard propriety. No one carrying tales about mythical bandits is going to be terribly popular after tomorrow.”

“What happens tomorrow?”

“The East India Company publishes their views on the outlandish rumors and calls everyone who has claimed to have encountered the Thuggee cowards, traitors, and liars.”

“What?” All the blood drained from her face. “But what does the Horse Guards say about this? Surely they won’t stand for it. They’ve lost men to these brigands.”

He shrugged. “I haven’t heard how or if the Horse Guards means to respond. But I do know how much money the Company drops into their coffers.” Montrose inclined his head. “And now I imagine you’ll want to be elsewhere—unless you would care to go driving with me after all.”

Theresa shot to her feet. “Um, no. I need to—”

“I thought so,” he interrupted. “I’m not your enemy, Tess. And I didn’t give you this information for anyone’s sake but yours.”

She hardly noted what he was saying. Her ties to Tolly might be tenuous by Society’s standards, but all she could think was that he needed to know—at once—that both the East India Company and the War Office were about to call him a liar, and the entire ordeal he’d faced, a coward’s tale.

“Go on, Tess,” Montrose said, heading for the door. “I’ll see you tonight at the Fallon soiree. I hope he appreciates that you’re willing to go speak to him in person.” He shook his head. “I never much liked Tolly James, but now I almost feel sorry for him. Once the report comes out, he’ll go from wounded hero to overmatched and failed officer.”

With a nod he excused himself from the sitting room. For a long moment Theresa stood there in the middle of the floor. Alexander Rable had impeccable manners. He’d politely informed her that the fellow who’d caught her eye was about to be very unpopular. He’d done it without asking her to make a choice, or even requesting an apology from her for making such a silly error in judgment. To keep her own reputation and standing safe, all she had to do was…nothing.

He’d even made the suggestion that she play the heroine and ease her own conscience by giving Tolly the news herself. And then she could go on tonight and dance with her beaux, and tomorrow she could shop and flirt and pretend she’d never befriended the poor, misguided colonel.

She pulled off her smock. “Sally, tell Ramsey to have the coach readied. I’ll be down in a moment.”

Bobbing in a curtsy, the maid hurried out of the room. Theresa went across the hallway to her bedchamber to fetch her gloves and bonnet. As she did so, she caught sight of her reflection in the dressing mirror.

Yes, she’d promised to be good. Thirteen years ago she’d sworn that she would never give her family a moment’s pause, that everything she said and did would be proper, and correct, and honorable. And in thirteen years she’d never so much as stumbled. But then again, this was the first time she’d found the ground beneath her feet to be uncertain.

Theresa took a steadying breath. She would call on Tolly. Anything beyond that she would decide when the moment came.

 

Bartholomew glanced toward his valet as someone knocked at the bedchamber door, but Lackaby continued muttering to himself while he pulled out the left leg seam of the black trousers he held.

Well, Lackaby hadn’t precisely been hired for his grasp of etiquette. “Come in,” he called. Going back to the simple knot he was tying into his cravat, Bartholomew leaned forward in his wheeled chair. Whether it was the twice-daily dashes of whiskey over his knee or the fact that he hadn’t put any weight on his leg in nearly a week now, he felt…better. Sounder, inside and out. More alive.

Of course the main ingredient to his recovery was one witty, lovely female with hair the color of sunshine and eyes the changeable color of the sea. Because of Theresa Weller, his heart persisted in its return to life, despite the fact that his mind knew he didn’t deserve the opportunity.

“Good morning,” his brother said, stepping into the room.

“Stephen.”

“I’m going to White’s for luncheon with Masey and a few others, if you’d care to join me.”

Hmm. His disposition had improved, if Stephen was now inviting him places. “I’ve a previous engagement with Tess and your wife, but thank you.”

His brother closed the door behind him. “Yes. About that.”

The muscles across Bartholomew’s shoulders tightened, but he finished the cravat. He very much doubted that Stephen could say anything about his pursuit of Theresa that he hadn’t already considered, himself. Even so, he had no intention of encouraging criticism.

Stephen cleared his throat. “Lackaby, give us a moment.”

The valet stood.

“Stay,” Bartholomew countered, moving from the cravat to buttoning the last few fastenings of his waistcoat.

The valet sat again.

“Very well.” The viscount walked across the room to look out the window. Either something extraordinary was taking place in the garden, or his brother was working very hard to choose how he wanted to say something unpleasant. “Tess Weller is a delightful young lady,” he finally said.

That wasn’t so bad. “Yes, she is.”

“You’re not the…sort of fellow I generally see about her.”

“So she told me.”

Stephen faced him. “She said that to you?”

“Several times. She thinks I’m sullen.”

“I—Do you like her?”

Bartholomew shoved backward from the dressing table, muscling the chair around to face his brother. “I just told you that she said I was sullen.”

“Then you don’t like her.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Stephen frowned. “Tolly, you’ve just returned from a nightmare. It makes sense that you would be attracted to someone with such a sunny disposition, but I want to make certain you know that she has other suitors. Men who’ve been in pursuit for far longer than you have. And—”

“I might be crippled, but I’m not blind.”

“You are not crippled,” his brother retorted. “You’re injured. But your wound does make competing with Tess’s beaux even more problematic. I don’t want to see you hurt again. That’s—”

“I appreciate your concern,” Bartholomew cut in again, “but I haven’t required your advice or your opinion since I turned seventeen.” He held his brother’s gaze, touched by the compassion and worry he saw there. Stephen had certainly never done anything to hurt or trouble him. “Do you have an objection to my…interest in Theresa Weller?”

“No! God, no. But—”

“So your objection is that you don’t think I am capable of winning her hand, not that winning her will add her to the family.”

“No. Yes. No.”

“Mmm-hmm. I’ll manage my own affairs then, Stephen. Thank you for your concern.”

The viscount jabbed a finger in his direction. “Just don’t send your surly self against Violet and Amelia and me if the world doesn’t turn your way. We’re family.”

“The world doesn’t turn my way. And whether you believe it or not, my main concern is that I not hurt you.”

“I—”

The door rattled again. With a glance at the seated Lackaby, Stephen returned to the doorway and pulled it open himself. The butler stood there, a silver salver laden with a calling card in his hand.

“My lord,” Graham intoned, “Major-General Ross is here to see Colonel James.”

“Ross? Do you know him, Tolly?”

Bartholomew gestured for the card. “Yes. He’s with the Horse Guards.” The card didn’t contain a note or a sentiment—nothing but “Major-General Anthony Ross,” printed in very unimaginative style across its front. Not a very friendly greeting from someone he’d once saved from a bayoneting at the hands of Boney’s Imperial Guards. “Tell him I’m not up to visitors today.”

The butler nodded. “Very good, sir.”

“Graham, my boy,” Lackaby spoke up, “muster the lads to move the colonel down the stairs, will you?”

Graham’s stony face could have cracked granite. Not only had the butler more than likely never been called “my boy” before in his life, but being ordered about by an inferior—Bartholomew was rather surprised he didn’t drop dead on the spot. “Lackaby, go find our own damned troops,” he ordered.

“Aye, Colonel.” With a jaunty grin the valet slipped past the butler and down the hallway.

“That…man is trouble, my lord,” Graham announced, and vanished as well.

“I’ve tried to sack him thrice already,” Bartholomew told Stephen, “so good luck.”

His brother snorted. “I’ve surprised myself with the amount of chaos I’m willing to tolerate in exchange for having you home.” He reached out a hand as if to touch his brother’s shoulder, then lowered it again. “I won’t warn you to be cautious, because I know you don’t require my advice. All I’ll say, then, is to enjoy your luncheon.”

“Thank you.”

As his brother left, Bartholomew favored Ross’s card with one more glance before he placed it on the dressing table. Eventually, he supposed, he would have to agree to chat about the weather with old friends and acquaintances. Not yet, though. He’d allowed only one exception to disrupt his virtual hermithood. And as he’d discovered, she was also the most likely person to understand what he’d become.

“Colonel.” Lackaby strolled back into the room, his quartet of assistants with him. “Your lady just turned up the drive.”

“She’s early.” Bartholomew flipped open his pocket watch to make certain. Tess was nearly an hour early. Each day he saw her, the sight left him surprised; because each night he expected her to come to her senses and change her mind. “Get me downstairs,” he said aloud.

Huffing and puffing, Lackaby and the other servants set him back on his wheels in the foyer just as Graham opened the front door to admit Tess and her maid. At least she didn’t have to see him tumbling headfirst down the main staircase.

“Tolly,” she said, hurrying past the butler before he could even acknowledge her presence. “I need a private word with you.”

His stomach muscles clenched; so she’d come to her senses after all. “Lackaby,” he said, gesturing toward the door just off the foyer.

Theresa led the way inside. “Sally, please wait in the kitchen,” she told her maid as she took over the short handles of Bartholomew’s chair. “And Lackaby, go away.”

The valet sketched a bow. “With pleasure.”

Once they were alone in the room, she pushed him close by the hearth. “What’s amiss, Tess?” he asked, craning his neck to keep her in view.

“Oh, I don’t even know how to tell you.”

For a short moment he watched her pace. And whatever news she meant to give him, he couldn’t help noticing the soft sway of her hips, the flash of shoe and ankle as she crossed the floor. It served him right for hoping; he knew better. Now that he’d done so, being rejected by the enchanting Tess Weller would hurt more, but it was no more than he deserved. “Just tell me,” he said. “There’s little chance you can wound me, my dear.”

Finally she came to a stop in front of him, then she clenched her fists and tucked them beneath her chin. “I don’t believe in passing on gossip,” she said, her voice unsteady, “but I have no reason to think any of this is untrue. Tolly, tomorrow the East India Company will be publishing a report. They’re going to say that the Thuggee threat is imaginary, conjured by cowards who couldn’t perform their duties. The Horse Guards is apparently going to remain silent on the issue, though I’m not certain about that.”

Bartholomew stared at her. The information was so far from what he’d expected to hear from her that for a hard beat of his heart he thought he’d imagined it. Then it all crashed into him with the force of a brick wall. And he had to sit there in his damned wheeled chair with his damned mangled leg and take it.

“Tolly?” she said quietly. “Bartholomew? I believe you. I want you to know that. But I also thought someone should…warn you about what’s coming. The—”

“Thank you,” he said stiffly. “Good day.”

She blinked, though he scarcely noted it. “Good…That’s all you have to say? This is terrible news! What are you—”

“I don’t need you to tell me what sort of news this is, Miss Weller. Thank you for informing me. You should leave now, before someone connects your name to mine. We both know you don’t want that.”

Theresa put her hands on her hips. “And what is that supposed to mean?” she demanded. “I have done nothing wrong, so I see no reason for you to be angry with me, Colonel.”

He grabbed the arms of the chair and shoved, lifting himself into a standing position. From there he could look down at her, remind her that he was more than a cripple and an object of pity. “I am going to ask you one last time to get the devil away from me. Because if you don’t…” He reached out, grabbed her arm, and yanked her up against him. Roughly he kissed her, knowing it was for the last time and refusing to dwell on how sweet her mouth was or how her touch warmed him inside.

“Save yourself from scandal, Tess,” he said, and pushed her away. “Get out. Now.”