A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior by Suzanne Enoch (2)

As Theresa stepped down from the coach, Amelia gave her a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I need to speak with you,” her cousin whispered, then released her to greet Michael.

Amelia had never been a great gossip, but her tone was certainly conspiratorial. Her own interest piqued, Theresa made her way through the greetings of her cousin’s husband, Stephen, Lord Gardner, and his delightful younger sister, Violet. No other guests seemed to be in attendance.

They went into the morning room just off the foyer rather than upstairs to the drawing room, but since they were all family now, she supposed there was no reason for formality. Before she could take a seat, Amelia grabbed her by the arm and hauled her back toward the hallway. “Theresa and I will be back in a moment,” her cousin said.

“Whatever are you up to?” Theresa asked as they continued down the hallway toward the back of the house.

“Nothing. I just wanted to chat with you in private.”

With a grin, Theresa followed Amelia into her husband’s office. “Grandmama Agnes is after another cat,” she said conversationally. “A black one this time. That’s why she begged off dinner tonight; she thinks Lady Selgrave knows the location of a ‘prime litter,’ as she put it.”

“Good Lord. Black cats? She’s not tinkering with witchcraft now, is she?”

“That hadn’t occurred to me.” Laughing, Theresa sank into one of the guest chairs in the small room. “She says it’s because she has all the other colors, but you never know.”

“Well, keep an eye on things. She’s your responsibility now that I’m married.” Amelia settled into the opposite chair. “I met Stephen’s brother this morning.”

“Did you?” It seemed an odd topic for a secret conversation. “What was he like?”

“Not at all what I expected. I told you he was wounded, didn’t I?”

“Yes. And I already told Michael to behave himself tonight. So don’t worry; we will be calm and compassionate.”

“Very calm, I hope.”

Theresa looked again at Amelia. They’d been raised together since Amelia’s mother had died when Amelia was eight and Theresa’s own parents when she’d been ten, more like sisters than cousins. And something—whether it was Colonel James or something else—was clearly troubling her cousin. “I’m very good at conversation,” she said aloud. “And at being charming. You know I won’t leave you to chat with a soldier unassisted.”

Finally Amelia smiled. “I know. And thank you. On our first meeting, he seemed rather fierce.” Amelia stood, offering a hand to Theresa. “Oh, and Stephen’s purchased me a horse,” she continued, returning to the hallway. “Can you believe it? Me, with a horse.”

“I’m certain he chose a gentle animal for y…”

As they looked toward the foyer, Theresa’s voice trailed off. At first glance she thought that Stephen had come looking for them, but almost immediately she realized that the man standing there was not Lord Gardner. For one thing he was taller by a good three or four inches. And the viscount’s brown hair was short and orderly, not the collar-brushing uneven mess of rich mahogany that belonged to this man.

And then there were the eyes. Stephen’s were kind and brown, crinkling at the edges with humor. Not whiskey-colored and gazing straight through her as though she’d already been catalogued and dismissed. She cleared her throat. “Hello.”

He didn’t move. A moment later Amelia stepped between them. “Oh, good. You’ve come,” she said warmly, though she didn’t approach him. “Tess, this is Colonel Bartholomew James. Tolly, my cousin, Theresa Weller.”

“You look like your cousin,” he informed her in a low voice.

Theresa blinked. “Do you think so? Leelee’s hair is so much prettier than mine.”

With a chuckle, Amelia gestured them both to the morning room. “Don’t expect me to disagree with that. We’re all in h—”

“I like your hair,” the colonel interrupted. “It reminds me of sunshine.” He glanced at Amelia, and then his gaze caught Theresa’s again. “Where is dinner being served?” he asked.

“Oh, we decided to eat in the breakfast room, so you wouldn’t have to climb the stairs.”

The gaze left Theresa again, and she blinked, feeling almost as though she’d been dragged forward against her will. Or not against her will, rather. His gaze, his bearing—they spoke of raw, barely contained power. Mesmerizing.

“I’ll wait there, then.” Not until he turned away did she realize that he held a cane in one hand and that he had a terrible limp. Moving further into the shadows, he disappeared through the neighboring doorway.

Realizing she’d been holding her breath, Theresa exhaled sharply. “That is your brother-in-law?” she whispered.

“Yes,” Amelia whispered back. “Much less like Stephen than I ever expected.”

“He’s very…intense.” But it was more than that. In the moments she’d gazed at him, it seemed as though everything not absolutely necessary for him to be alive had been done away with. She nearly felt that she’d seen straight through to his soul. It had been a very dark place.

“Don’t be afraid of him, Tess. Come along,” her cousin said, taking her arm. “I’ll tell Stephen that he’s arrived.”

She shook herself. “I’m not afraid of him. He merely wasn’t what I expected, either.” Not at all.

His brother and sister were charming and chatty and amiable. Colonel James, however, seemed their exact opposite in every way. She shook herself. It wasn’t as though a wild beast had been let loose in London. It was merely that he was…outside of her usual experience. Far outside. Theresa glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the breakfast room doorway. Outside was rather more exciting than she’d expected.

“He’s here?” Lord Gardner said, standing as she and Amelia walked back into the room.

“Yes. He went to sit in the breakfast room.”

The viscount gave a brief frown. “I suppose I should apologize in advance for Tolly,” he said in a low voice. “He’s had a rough go of it.”

Michael patted him on the shoulder. “No need for that, Stephen,” he said warmly. “No one could expect your brother to dance a jig after his unit was massacred.”

He couldn’t dance a jig, regardless, from the look of that cane. Theresa kept silent, only nodding as they all decided to join the colonel in the breakfast room. It seemed a shame about his leg and his fearsome demeanor, because the more she considered it, he was actually quite handsome in a dangerous sort of way. But he needn’t worry about his welcome; he was a wounded hero, and there were oh-so-many rules about how one addressed a hero. Luckily, she knew them all.

 

Bartholomew took the seat nearest to the door. Family dinners had used to be one of his favorite activities; Violet alone always had enough gossip and anecdotes to keep them laughing for hours. But now he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed, and he didn’t give a damn what anyone else in his old circle might be up to.

He accepted the glass of wine one of the footmen provided for him, and downed it at one go. This was the room where he’d been taking all his meals since his return from India, but it irked that his family had decided they had to accommodate him by serving dinner on the ground floor. Especially when they’d invited guests, and especially when he meant this visit to be as brief as possible.

At least once this was done he could retreat to the Adventurers’ Club. And behaving according to his mood would only help his cause, since he needed to convince Violet and Stephen not to attempt to track him down. That had been the first thing Sommerset had said upon inviting him to join the club: No one else was allowed to know about it. The reason the club served as a haven was that no one else clamored for entry or came by to sample its services.

“You might have stuck your head into the morning room and said hello,” Stephen commented from the doorway. The rest of the family and guests shuffled in behind him.

“Hello,” Bartholomew returned, halfway through his third glass of wine. The servants were accustomed to his drinking, but he didn’t need any particularly acute skills of observation to see that neither Stephen nor Violet was pleased to see the bottle in front of him and the glass in his hand.

“Tolly, this is Amelia’s cousin Michael, Lord Weller, and his sister, Theresa. Michael, Tess, Colonel Bartholomew James.”

He nodded, his gaze on the chit. Staring was rude, he recalled, but he stared anyway. Her hair was the color of rich churned butter, and though he could detect no flaw at all in the soft curls bound by pins, he would have preferred to see it loose. It looked long, perhaps down to her waist. And her eyes were pretty, too, a grayish green that reminded him of the ocean.

“Tolly.”

He shook himself, breaking his gaze to glance at his brother. “What?”

“You haven’t given us the name of the friend you’re staying with.”

“No, I haven’t.”

The chit, Theresa, took a seat across the table and down at the far end—well away from him. That fact didn’t escape his notice. He’d frightened her, then. And it had only taken a dozen words and making eye contact. And his general appearance, of course.

“I heard about your battle with those Indian bandits,” the other cousin, Lord Weller, commented, sitting beside Violet.

“Oh, really?” Tolly set his glass down with a clank and leaned forward. “What did you hear?”

“I…” The fellow cleared his throat. “That your unit engaged a group of highwaymen the locals had taken to calling the Thuggee, and you were the only survivor.”

“Well, that sounds fantastic.” He emptied the bottle into his glass. “I must be a bloody hero.” He snorted. “Imagine that.”

“You’re a damned drunk, is what you are,” Stephen grumbled.

“Then stop talking to me. Christ. What do I have to do, begin throwing things?”

Everyone stared at him.

Well, not everyone. “I’m certain I would never have had the courage to go to India,” Theresa Weller said smoothly. “Much less fight anyone there.”

He glared at her. Sympathy? He wanted them to be angry and to ask him to leave, damn it all. “Then we should all be grateful they don’t let chits into the army,” he shot back.

“Tolly.” Stephen’s expression tightened.

Miss Weller, though, waved at the viscount. “I take no offense, Stephen. In fact, I strongly agree with Colonel James.”

“Oh, you do? You agree with the most basic tenet of warfare in the last thousand years? How startlingly mundane of you, Miss Weller.” Somewhat to his surprise, he was disappointed. It was likely too much to expect that the prettiest chit in the room would have any sense.

A scowl crossed her face, then smoothed away again, to be replaced by a determined smile. “No doubt I’m an easier target than an armed attacker, but I certainly bear you no ill will.”

“Well said, Tess,” her brother put in.

“This is damned disappointing,” Bartholomew said aloud. “Not a bloody one of you has any spleen. It’s bad enough that you have a chit wagging her tongue because you’re all afraid to do so.”

Her frown reappearing, Miss Weller stood. “Please mind your manners, Colonel. There’s no call for such language.”

Ah, finally. “I bloody well disagree.”

She slapped her palm against the tabletop. “Ooh, yes, we’re all very frightened of you,” Theresa Wheeler stated, this time not attempting to hide the frown that drew her fine brows together. “Can’t you tell?”

“If you had any sense at all, Miss Weller, you would sit down,” he growled. She would do, although he preferred a fight with family. They were the ones he wanted to avoid, after all.

“You obviously don’t wish to be here,” she continued forcefully. “As you were invited, in the future I would suggest that you merely decline to attend. It will save on the arguing.”

“Tess,” Stephen’s wife whispered. “Don’t argue with him. He’s—”

“He’s what?” Bartholomew broke in, grabbing onto the table and awkwardly shoving himself to his feet. “He’s damaged? I think we all knew that.”

“I didn’t notice until your little tantrum,” Theresa retorted, lifting her chin. “Clearly, though, your manners are damaged.”

“I’ll just let those of you with undamaged manners enjoy your dinner, then,” he snapped, levering his cane around and stalking for the door.

“Tolly, where the devil are you going?”

“Back where I came from.”

“I want to see you tomorrow.”

Damnation. At least the chit had enough sense to know that he wanted to be left alone. “You know how to reach me.”

“Yes, but—”

He hooked the door handle with his cane and slammed the door closed behind him. A sharp pain ran up his knee, but he wasn’t about to stop and see to it now.

Swearing, he staggered sideways into the hall table. Do not fall down, he ordered himself, reaching out to steady himself against the wall. Drinking on an empty stomach in enemy territory—Lucifer’s balls, he’d been an idiot.

The door opened behind him. To the hushed sound of “Theresa, don’t,” and “leave him be,” muffled footsteps tromped up behind him. And then she grasped his arm.

He jerked around to face her, and nearly lost his balance again. “Do not put your hands on me,” he hissed.

She looked up at him, gray-green eyes steady and completely unafraid. “Don’t be an idiot. They might all be terrified of hurting you or your feelings, but I’m not.”

“You’re the damned reason I’m leaving.”

“No, I’m not. You’re the reason you’re leaving. And when there’s no one about for you to offend, curse all you like. Damnation. You see? I can curse, too. It’s only that I choose not to do so because it’s terribly lowbrow.”

“What happened to you being so polite?”

“You made me angry.”

“It took bloody long enough.” He stumbled again.

“Yes, well now I’m attempting to apologize for my behavior.” She ducked beneath his arm, drawing up against him. “Do you have a coach, or are you riding?”

“Riding,” he grunted. Whatever the devil was afoot, he certainly didn’t like it. And he didn’t like the way she put her free arm around his waist, as though someone as slender and delicate as she was could keep him on his feet. “And I don’t want your apology.”

“You have it, regardless. So argue with yourself.” She reached out to pull open the front door and held on to him while he hobbled out to the portico. “Your horse is waiting; you never intended to stay.”

Her tone was accusing, but considering that she was correct, he didn’t see any reason to deny it. “No, I didn’t. Hence me not caring about your apology.”

“With those manners, I’m surprised you were invited here at all.”

Bartholomew scowled. “They had to ask me; they’re family.”

“And thank goodness for that, or someone would have punched you.”

He sent her a sharp glance. “I don’t find you the least bit amusing, you know.”

She gazed straight back at him. “Well, you shall have to improve your sense of humor. Why don’t you spend a few minutes at the Haramund soiree tomorrow night?” she returned, taking his cane as he grabbed onto the saddle horn. “I do like to dance, Colonel.”

“I don’t dance.” With a stifled gasp he swung up on Meru and settled his bad foot into the stirrup. “Clearly.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to dance with you. You have no manners.” Shoving his cane into its straps, she stepped back. “I meant that you can watch.” With that she turned her back and returned to the house.

“That little…” Bartholomew stopped. He had absolutely no idea how to finish the sentence. As far as he was from being a virgin, Theresa Wheeler in a matter of five minutes had set him so far back on his heels that he’d nearly fallen over. Literally.

He’d set out to be curt and uncommunicative. What he hadn’t expected was to be called on his poor behavior. The last time he’d been so unsure of his footing had been when he’d literally had his legs cut out from under him. He didn’t like the sensation any more now than he had then. This time, though, he could do something about it. Something simple. He could avoid the Haramund soiree.

 

The other members of the James family weren’t terribly pleased with her, Theresa realized, but compared with how she viewed her behavior, their opinion of her actions couldn’t possibly be worse than her own. Conversation throughout dinner remained stilted and far too cautious. Even Amelia sent her glances of veiled annoyance whenever no one else was looking, and considering that she’d promised conversational compassion, she couldn’t blame her cousin for her annoyance. Yes, the colonel had overstepped, but he didn’t pride himself on his manners. She did.

“What were you thinking?” her cousin finally demanded, wrapping both hands around her arm once they left the men to their cigars and port.

“I was thinking that he was rude,” Theresa whispered back, watching as Violet pranced upstairs to the drawing room ahead of them. “I tried to keep my temper, but…well, there’s no excuse for my behavior. Should I leave?”

“No. Of course not.” Her cousin frowned thoughtfully. “You’re generally so much more careful about what you say.”

Yes, she was. “I apologized to him.” Well, she hadn’t, precisely, but at least she had helped him down the front steps. If he’d fallen, she would have been worse than mortified. “If you and Stephen and Violet wish to be angry with me, then do so. Heaven knows I deserve it.”

“Tolly didn’t used to be rude like that,” Violet put in unexpectedly. “When he last came back on leave three years ago, he was funny and warm and kind, just as he always was. He was awful tonight. Much worse than you were.”

Now she felt even more terrible. “I’m never rude like that, Violet. I’m so sorry if I drove him away.” Even though she hadn’t. The fact that he’d been attempting to goad someone into snapping back at him, however, didn’t excuse her. She should have been the last one to lose her temper. She never lost her temper. Not in thirteen years.

Amelia hugged her sister-in-law. “Everyone’s more than likely been prodding at him for months. Perhaps he just needs a bit of fresh air without being smothered.”

“I can hardly smother him if he won’t even tell me where’s he’s staying.” Violet shrugged free and plunked into a chair. “He is very mean now.”

“He’s hurt,” Theresa offered. “He deserves compassion.”

“At least you made him think about something aside from his injuries.” With a grimace, Violet looked away. Then the eighteen-year-old faced her again. “I’ve changed my mind,” she announced. “I’m glad you spoke up, Theresa. I wish I’d done so.”

With a forced smile, Theresa sat beside her. “I’m glad you didn’t. I suppose this way he can know you’re not happy with his behavior, and he can be angry with me instead of you. I’m more than willing to take that upon my shoulders.” She deserved to have it there.

Amelia was looking at her again, her cousin’s expression more concerned this time, but Theresa pretended not to notice. The last thing she wanted was for Amelia to begin comparing her outburst tonight to the one that had inspired her concern with propriety, her booklet on proper behavior, and everything else she’d done over the past thirteen years.

Once Michael and Stephen rejoined them, Lord Gardner evidently realized that with Violet and Amelia no longer annoyed with her, he’d best give in as well. By the end of the evening they were all the dearest of friends once more.

That was just as well, because Theresa didn’t quite feel up to further explanations, or even apologies. In fact, she felt unusually distracted with trying to decipher why she’d allowed herself to be goaded into snapping back. She wanted to blame her odd behavior on the very provoking Bartholomew James. At the least he’d set her off kilter from her very first view of him.

It was quite late when she and Michael boarded their coach to return to Weller House. With a sigh, she settled into the corner, happy to have a moment to sort through her thoughts.

“What the devil happened to you, Tess?” Michael asked abruptly, pressing the toe of his boot against her slipper.

“Stop that.” She sat upright. “I’ve already attempted to explain myself to Violet, and no one’s angry with me. Leave be.”

“I don’t mean your upset of our in-laws, Troll. I mean you lost your temper.”

Theresa scowled, as much at the use of his old pet name for her as his words. “I don’t know what happened. I’ve been trying to figure it out, and I can’t.”

“I’m actually relieved to know you still have a temper.” He leaned forward to pat her on the knee. “Still, you might have chosen your target a bit better.”

“Yes, I know. Colonel James is a wounded hero.”

“Not just that. Rumor is, these Thuggee don’t take prisoners,” he returned. “They ambushed his unit and killed everyone they could. Then they hunted down the survivors.”

“And Colonel James escaped.”

“That’s one story.”

She looked at her brother. He had a definite flare for the dramatic, and he did torment and tease her on occasion, but he sounded serious. “What’s another story, then?”

“That he hunted them down.”

“Oh.” If she asked, Michael would no doubt regale her with every gory detail, real or fantastical, but she could imagine it well enough herself. And she knew what he meant, now. That she’d begun an argument with a man who killed people, and one who clearly wasn’t…balanced. “That’s only a story, though, yes? You don’t know for certain what happened.”

“Not for certain,” he conceded, clearly reluctant to do so. “Stephen wouldn’t say. He may not know, either. Colonel James doesn’t seem to be very communicative.”

“Violet said he didn’t use to be that way.”

“If I saw everyone under my command slaughtered and then either ran from or killed the men who’d done it, I wouldn’t be chatty, either.”

“No, you’d be chatty, regardless.”

“Ha-ha. Don’t antagonize him, Tess. That’s tonight’s lesson.”

Don’t antagonize him. Theresa turned her gaze out the window at the darkness of Mayfair. Just to herself, without taking into account what she should be feeling, she could admit that she’d rather enjoyed unseating the colonel. And she half hoped she would have another chance to do so. Where no one else could overhear and be appalled, of course.

It didn’t seem at all proper, but it had been very…interesting.