A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior by Suzanne Enoch (3)

Bartholomew awoke with a start, springing out of bed before his body remembered that his left leg would no longer support him in such an athletic move. With a sharp gasp he fell to the floor.

“Damnation,” he growled, shifting to straighten his leg, concentrating on taking short breaths to avoid shrieking like a chit.

In one sense, the pain was welcome. It roused him from an endless night of gunfire and screaming and the more muffled sounds and sensation of choking. He leaned back against the side of the bed. At least he could tell even in the pitch dark that he wasn’t back in India. The air was too cool, and faintly smelled of cigar and chimney smoke rather than forest and earth and dust.

Knuckles rapped faintly against his door. “Colonel?”

Scowling, Bartholomew glanced over his shoulder up at the bed. The very high bed. “Come in, Gibbs.”

The door opened. The Adventurers’ Club morning caretaker slipped into the small room. Wordlessly the stout fellow stepped forward and bent down, grasping Bartholomew beneath the arms and lifting.

“Thank you,” Bartholomew grunted, as he pulled free to sit on the edge of the bed again. “Sommerset doesn’t have you listening at my door, does he? This isn’t precisely the club.”

“It is a part of the club, Colonel. And no one is in the lounge, so I thought to take a bit of a stroll.” He gestured at Bartholomew’s bad leg. “Want me to have a look at it?”

Tolly started to refuse without even considering his answer; he could barely stand to look at it himself. That was one of the reasons he wore a pair of old trousers to bed; so he wouldn’t have to see it. The other reason was habit. Over the years he’d become accustomed to having to rise in the middle of the night. The army didn’t precisely keep regular hours. “No.” The pain had begun to subside, and he didn’t think his leg could get much worse without falling off completely.

“I’ll see you in the morning, then.” With a nod, Gibbs turned on his heel.

“Gibbs.”

The servant stopped. “Yes, Colonel?”

“Do you know how I might go about obtaining an invitation to a soiree?”

Gibbs pursed his lips. “Which soiree?”

“It’s at Haramund House. Tomorrow night. Or tonight, rather.”

“Haramund House. Lord and Lady Allen. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

“Thank you again, then.”

Tolly lay back as the servant left the room and closed the door quietly behind him. He had no idea why the devil he was even considering attending the damned party. Hopefully Gibbs would turn out to be less resourceful than he generally seemed to be, and no invitation would be forthcoming.

If he did attend, however, Theresa Weller was not going to have the last word. He wouldn’t even watch her dance. In fact, he would make a point of not watching her dance, and of making certain she knew that he wasn’t watching.

For a time he attempted to return to sleep, but the memory of the dream provided very little incentive to succumb. Finally he sat up again, threw a shirt on over his head, then grabbed his cane and left the bed chamber for the main sitting room of the Adventurers’ Club. The back wall was lined with books and maps. Most of them were Sommerset’s taste, but in his favor at least the duke was well traveled and an avid collector.

Settling for a silly and highly erroneous history of the Indian Sikh, no doubt written by an accountant who’d never left the protection of Fort William, he lit a candle and sat close by the fireplace. As Gibbs had said, no one else was about—which was pleasant for a change. The club never closed its doors, and he wasn’t the only member who didn’t sleep well.

He glanced toward the door in the far corner. It led into Ainsley House proper, Sommerset’s London residence. Whatever had possessed the duke to create a very exclusive club in his front rooms, Bartholomew at least was grateful for it. Here no one gave a damn who was rude or who wasn’t, and no chits teased him about dancing.

“The Sikh Mystery?”

His eyes shot open, his fingers instinctively reaching for the rapier hidden inside his cane. Sommerset sat in the chair opposite, eyeing him. Judging by the light pouring in through the set of generous-sized east-facing windows, he’d missed daybreak by at least an hour. “Damnation,” he muttered, lifting the book from across his chest.

“I purchased that book for a laugh,” the duke continued, taking a swallow of steaming tea from a delicate china cup. “Glad to see it’s served a purpose other than for kindling.”

“A cure for sleeplessness, yes.” Bartholomew motioned at the tea. “Is there more of that?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Sommerset gestured, and Gibbs appeared a moment later, carrying another cup and saucer. “Thank you, Gibbs.”

“I live to serve, Your Grace.”

The duke lifted an eyebrow as the servant vanished again into the shadows. “I would say he’s become high in the instep, but he might well have been serious just then.” He took another swallow of tea. “That reminds me. Here.” Producing a folded note card from one pocket of his coat, Sommerset handed it over.

Bartholomew opened it. Embossed and complete with a small blue ribbon dangling from the bottom edge, it was an invitation to the Haramund soiree. “This has my name on it,” he said aloud, then sent a glance around the large room.

“It’s just you and me in here for the moment,” Sommerset commented, following his gaze. “And it’s not a crime to attend a party.”

“But this is addressed to me.”

“I am a duke, you know. If I can’t perform a miracle here and there I might as well be a butler in expensive clothes.” He brushed at the sleeve of his well-tailored brown coat. “And butlers don’t get to dance with attractive women.”

“I don’t dance,” Bartholomew returned, considering that he’d twice in the space of one day had to inform people of that fact. It should have been damned obvious. Fleetingly he wondered if Gibbs had mentioned the circumstances under which he’d made the request for the invitation, but then he decided that he didn’t care. It wasn’t the first night he’d awakened screaming. And Sommerset, he’d observed, tended to be very well informed. “Thank you for this.”

“You’re welcome. And I presume you’ve put a stop to your family asking after your whereabouts?”

“Yes. If they want to reach me, they’re to leave word at the Society.”

“Good.” Sommerset finished off his tea and stood. “And while I don’t give a damn what our club members choose to attire themselves in, you’re getting blood on my Persian carpet.”

With a curse, Tolly straightened. His bare left foot was spattered with blood, while more of the stuff soaked his trouser leg up to the knee. “Apologies.”

“Don’t bother with that. I’ve sent for Dr. Prentiss. And it’s been better than eight months since you were wounded, has it not? Shouldn’t you have healed by now?”

There were a great many things that should have been, and weren’t. “Infection,” he said stiffly. “Mostly gone now, but it wouldn’t knit. And I fell on it last night.”

“Speak to Prentiss about that. He’s saved the lives of at least two other club members since their return to London.”

Ah, the do-this-and-be-cured conversation. He’d had them before, but hadn’t expected to hear such nonsense from the Duke of Sommerset. “Thank goodness. I’d wondered when the miracle would occur. I should be dancing by midnight, don’t you think?”

The club door opened, and Lucas Crestley, Lord Piper, walked in. The duke nodded at the morning’s first arrival, then returned his gaze to Bartholomew. “What I think, Tolly,” he drawled, “is that yesterday you would have been skeptical about walking by midnight.” He tapped the Haramund invitation with one finger. “Someone’s got you thinking about dancing.”

As the duke walked back toward the private door leading to Ainsley House, Tolly silently reminded himself that the Duke of Sommerset, even at the relatively young age of two and thirty, was one of the most brilliant men he’d ever encountered. Clearly Tolly was going to have to work harder if he wanted to keep his affairs to himself.

On the other hand, what did he care if Sommerset discovered that some chit had teased him about dancing? The answer was that he didn’t give a damn, of course. Clenching the Haramund invitation in his fist, he pushed upright. Grabbing the cane with his other hand, he stood for a moment until he was sure of his balance, then headed through the back door to his small, borrowed room to shave and dress, and to wait for the miraculous Dr. Prentiss.

And yes, damn it all, he was thinking about dancing.

 

Theresa looked from the black cat on her lap to the black cat curled into the one sunny spot on the window sill. “If that one is Blackie, then who is this on my lap?”

Grandmama Agnes, Lady Weller, chortled as she spooned another lump of sugar into her morning tea. As she told it, in her day she’d been a diamond of the first water, while today she’d faded to a mere emerald. With her bright green eyes and vivacious smile, she looked like one. Her wit, however, remained diamond-sharp, if a bit eccentric. “He’s Midnight,” the family’s matron said.

“How do you tell them apart?”

“Blackie has one white back paw, and Midnight has one white front paw. I do believe that Millicent had her eye on Midnight, but I was far too clever.”

“Of course you were. I’ve yet to see Lady Selgrave best you in a cat negotiation.” With a grin, Theresa finished off her own tea and put Midnight off her lap. Then she had to stand quickly; she’d discovered that if she remained seated in her grandmama’s part of the house for longer than a heartbeat, she would have a cat on her lap. “Are you certain you don’t wish to go walking with Leelee and me this morning?”

“Oh, no. Mrs. Smith-Warner and I are going to visit Lady Dorchester. She has a terrible case of the gout, you know. I’ve told her to take the waters at Bath, but she refuses to miss any of the Season even for the sake of her health.”

“Give her my best wishes, then,” Theresa said, leaning down to kiss her grandmother on the cheek.

“You are a dear heart, Tess.”

“As are you, Grandmama.” Halfway to the door, she paused. “You are still attending the Haramund soiree tonight, aren’t you?”

“Lord Wilcox has promised me a waltz,” Lady Weller said with a chuckle. “Since he’s been attempting to learn the dance since last Tuesday, I must attend.”

“I would like to see that myself.” Especially considering that Lord Wilcox had only given up wearing powdered wigs two years ago. “He’s become very progressive, hasn’t he?”

“I think he’s smitten with me, and you know how progressive I am.”

“Indeed.” Smiling, Theresa slipped out the door into the main part of the house.

Some gentleman or other was always smitten with Grandmama Agnes, though Theresa suspected if they knew how many cats the dowager viscountess owned, they might be less enthusiastic. Or perhaps they wouldn’t be, considering how much property her grandmother owned thanks both to her blue-blooded parentage and to her marriage to the late Viscount Weller. Plenty of room for cats, when a fortune came along with them.

Ramsey opened the front door to admit Amelia just as Theresa finished tying on her bonnet. “You’re ready, Tess,” her cousin exclaimed, after greeting the old butler.

“Of course I’m ready. You said ten o’clock.”

“But I’m five minutes early.”

Theresa deepened her smile. “A lady should take the time to put herself together well, but neither should she lessen the affect of her appearance by being tardy.”

“Ah. I seem to remember reading that somewhere.”

Of course Amelia had read it. Even though her cousin had seemed a little hesitant to assist in any way with the booklet’s publication, once she’d realized that Theresa meant to do it anonymously, she’d read every word of it. At least Theresa supposed that had been the reason for Leelee’s hesitation—the worry that Tess would be looked at askance for publishing. “Did you hear that Gilroy’s has their new hats on display this morning?” she asked aloud, shaking herself.

“Oh, heavens. Come along, then.”

Once they were well on their way, Theresa slowed a touch and wrapped her arm around her cousin’s. “Now, you must tell me. What do you know of your husband’s brother?”

“Tolly?” Amelia sent her a shocked look. “You’re not interested in him, are you?”

“I admit he’s very handsome, but heaven knows he could stand to acquire some manners.”

Amelia stopped so quickly that Theresa nearly lost her balance. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’? I made a mistake at dinner, and I wish to correct my error. There is a way to draw anyone into polite conversation, and I should never have lost my temper.”

“Colonel James is a very troubled man who was lucky to have survived his ordeal in India. He nearly lost a leg—and from what Stephen says, he may still do so. He’s not…social enough for you, nor is he concerned with such things. Leave him be.”

No, he wasn’t social. There was something else entirely about him, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. And that was more than likely what intrigued her. And it was more than likely why her own poor behavior where he was concerned troubled her. She wouldn’t make the same mistake a second time.

“I didn’t say I wished him to court me, or any such thing,” she said aloud, forcing a chuckle. “I only want to know about him. Single gentlemen are so rarely deliberately rude in polite company. Especially in my company. Even if I hadn’t worked so diligently at knowing the rules of proper behavior, I do have a dowry of two thousand a year.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“That has nothing to do with it. Most single gentlemen know by now that they have nothing to gain by rude behavior. Not in my presence.”

Amelia laughed reluctantly. “I heard Olivia Grey referring to you as ‘the paragon’ the other day. And she meant it.”

“Then you know I have no ulterior motive. Tell me about your brother-in-law.”

“Very well, but you’re going to be disappointed, because I don’t know very much.”

“You know more than I do.”

Her cousin took a deep breath. “Tolly is twenty-eight, three years younger than Stephen. He’s been an officer serving in Europe and then in India for ten years. Just over eight months ago he and his company were escorting a local zamindar or chieftain or whatever they call him, to Delhi. They’d been sent to accompany the fellow because of a rash of robberies by highwaymen. There was some sort of altercation, and Tolly was the only survivor. He arrived back in London just a month ago, and that’s only because the weather was favorable on his return voyage.”

“Violet said his nasty temperament is new.”

“I never met him until yesterday, so I couldn’t speak to that. I will say that both Stephen and Violet have always seemed very fond of him.” Amelia waved at Miss Traynor across the street. “Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

Not a bit. “Yes. Thank you. That wasn’t so painful, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t. But I thought you would want to know his favorite music, or which game bird he prefers, and whether he enjoys reading.”

Theresa chuckled. “I told you that I wasn’t smitten with him. I’m only curious because of his lack of manners.”

That wasn’t quite true. It wasn’t only his lack of manners that intrigued her. And Amelia’s tidbits had only served to whet her appetite for more information about Colonel Bartholomew James. She had no idea why, because he had been brusque and rude and antagonistic. In the past, she’d actively avoided anyone with a questionable reputation, not wanting to be connected with such nonsense even by association. And yet she’d been thinking about Tolly James—and when she would next see him—all morning. Perhaps it was her own need to improve. One’s manners could never be too perfect.

“Are you going to tromp down the street all the way to the Thames, or should we shop?” Amelia asked.

Shaking herself, Theresa stopped. They were three shops past Gilroy’s haberdashery. “Oh, dear. My apologies. I suppose I was thinking about what I should wear to the Haramund party this evening.”

“Oh, you should wear that new green and gray silk from Madame Costanza’s dress shop. You’ll receive at least half a dozen proposals because of that dress alone.”

“It’s not the quantity of marriage offers that count, Leelee. It’s the quality.” With a laugh and a quick look about to be certain no one else had heard her comment, she towed her cousin back to Gilroy’s. “You know that I’m not waiting for a proposal, my dear. I’m waiting for the proposal.”

“Then we can only hope that Hercules or Achilles or perhaps Apollo are still about and seeking a wife.”

“They’re all too violent and bloodthirsty.” Theresa sent her cousin an amused scowl. “And even if they weren’t they are all a bit old for me.”

Finally Amelia joined her in laughing. “You are utterly incorrigible.”

“I’m completely corrigible, except when I’m with you. And I apolo—”

“Don’t you dare.” Her cousin’s smile faded, and Amelia put an arm across her shoulders. “It’s not poor behavior when you jest with your family and friends. And I’m glad and honored that you still jest with me. Saying something unexpected doesn’t always make it the wrong thing to say.”

Well, Amelia was in error about that. After the way Theresa had lost her temper last night, she needed to be especially careful not to do so again. No matter that the thought of another argument with Bartholomew James made her heart beat faster or not.

 

Bartholomew handed his invitation over to the Haramund House footman. The man didn’t bat an eye, so apparently wherever Sommerset had acquired it, the paper was legitimate.

“If you’ll wait here, Colonel,” the servant said, “the butler shall announce you in turn.”

Glancing at the short line of notables awaiting the fanfare of an announcement before they entered the ballroom, Bartholomew shook his head. “I know who I am,” he muttered, “and no one else gives a damn.” Not waiting for either a protest or an agreement, he limped through the milling crowd and slipped into the main room.

He took a seat in the first vacant chair he sighted. Only one poor soul had offered assistance to help him up the stairs, and that fellow wasn’t likely to do so again. Drawing in a stiff breath, he sent his gaze around the room. Before he could demonstrate to Miss Theresa Weller that he didn’t give a damn about either her or dancing, he needed to find her.

“Colonel James,” a round fellow greeted him, stepping out of the crowd. “Didn’t expect to find you at a soiree.”

“And why is that, Mr. Henning?” Bartholomew asked, barely sparing the man a glance.

“Well, you…because…you know.” Francis Henning backed up a step as he blustered.

“No, I don’t know. Humor me.”

“It’s…well, you’ve a bit of a limp. And you ain’t exactly been social since you came back from India. I wouldn’t even have known you was in Town if I hadn’t read about it in the newspaper.”

Finally Bartholomew eyed him. “And yet I apparently am being social.”

“I suppose.”

“Go away, Henning.”

“Oh. Very well, then.”

As Henning sped away, Tolly spied Theresa Weller—and the breath that he’d drawn to sigh, instead caught in his chest. Good God. Her spun gold hair curled about her temples and coiled onto the top of her head, while the gray-green of her eyes matched the colors of her gown to such perfection that the silks might have been made expressly with her in mind.

Because he saw her an instant before she saw him, he had the opportunity to watch her pretty eyes widen a little, and the tip of her tongue swipe quickly at her lower lip as their eyes met. She wasn’t quite as collected as she pretended, then.

Apparently he remained enough of a gentleman to wish to stand as she lifted her chin and approached. At the same time, stumbling to his feet wouldn’t precisely strengthen his position, and so he forced himself to remain seated. “Miss Weller,” he said, nodding.

She stopped in front of him. “Colonel James. How pleasant that you came to watch me dance.”

A slow smile touched his mouth. Clearly she wouldn’t believe him if he claimed to have made an appearance for some other reason—and it would be a lie, anyway. He’d made a fair living at turning disadvantage into advantage, however, until that one, last time. “I did,” he drawled. “I shall watch you every moment. Try not to disappoint me, will you?”

Miss Weller tilted her head, examining his expression. “I think I shall save a dance for you,” she announced.

“That would be a waste of a quadrille,” he retorted. If she was attempting to injure his feelings, he’d been cut by a far sharper blade than her tongue.

“Well, if you can’t dance, then we’ll have to find something else with which to amuse ourselves.”

For a heartbeat he was tempted to tell her precisely how he could imagine the two of them amusing themselves. It would involve smooth, bare skin glowing softly in candlelight, and the sound of her moaning beneath him. His cock twitched, and Bartholomew blinked. It had been a while since that had happened.

“Cat got your tongue, Colonel?” she prompted, still gazing at him. “It’s polite to respond when someone converses with you.”

“I was just considering what you would do if I agreed to us going somewhere to amuse ourselves,” he said after a moment.

“As long as your suggestion is polite and respectful, I am at your disposal.”

“Then, Miss Weller, perhaps we should take a stroll in the garden during your first available dance.”

She glanced down at her dance card. “Ah, the second country dance.” This time she smiled. “That would be acceptable.”