A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior by Suzanne Enoch (9)

Theresa played the two of hearts, then feigned a frown as Jane Redmond and her partner proceeded to thrash her and Grandmama Agnes at whist. Yes, she should likely have been paying more attention to the game, but she happened to be more concerned with other things. At the moment her main worry was the relentless way that Sarah Saunders was flirting with Michael.

Her brother generally knew better than to be impressed by batting lashes and compliments to his broad shoulders, but tonight he’d scarcely looked at anyone else in the room. Under different circumstances the idea that her brother might be intrigued by someone wouldn’t overly trouble her, for she would be more than happy to add a sister-in-law to their small family. But quite simply and quite uncharacteristically of her, she didn’t like Sarah Saunders. Not one little bit.

They were of nearly the same age, but Miss Saunders had somewhere decided to become a horrible gossip. And the information she most enjoyed hearing and repeating was the bit with sting. Theresa had never been the recipient herself, but then she made being proper the main focus of her life.

She drew a breath. “Grandmama, I seem to be utterly destroying any chance for victory. Shall I see if Mrs. Wingate would care to replace me?”

Grandmama Agnes snorted. “If we weren’t blood relatives, my sweet, I would have cast you aside thirty minutes ago. Yes, for heaven’s sake, find Jenny.”

Grinning, Theresa excused herself from the game. Jenny Wingate had been sending the players glances all evening—Lord Saunders’s sister was an inveterate gambler. In less than a minute Theresa found herself replaced and utterly forgotten. And that, thankfully, left her free to meddle.

At least that was the plan. When she reached Michael’s side, she wrapped her hands around her brother’s arm. “What are you up to?” she asked with a broad smile.

He glanced down at her, his gaze surprisingly serious despite the grin he bore. “Just attempting to decipher the mystery of the ages—why Sarah Saunders remains unmarried.”

Sarah giggled. “It’s because I am so very particular.”

“Well, it’s certainly not for lack of beaux,” Theresa added with another unfelt smile. “Might I steal my brother away for a moment?”

“Certainly.” Sarah sketched a curtsy. “Pray don’t go too far, Lord Weller.”

As soon as she and Michael crossed the room to stand beneath the pretty garden window, Theresa pinched the back of his hand. “What are you doing?”

“Ouch,” he exclaimed, jerking his hand free. “Stop that, Troll.”

“That didn’t hurt.”

“It hurt that you thought I needed to be rescued.” He sent a glance at Sarah, already busily chatting with another trio of her friends. “That chit is dangerous.”

Theresa stopped her frown. “Why? What did she say?”

“She said that her maid heard third-hand from someone at James House that Colonel James tried to kill himself yesterday.”

For a moment, she stared at her older brother. “That’s ridiculous.”

“That is what I was attempting to imply when you dragged me away.” He tapped the tip of her nose with one forefinger. “I am not, contrary to your thinking, a complete imbecile.”

Finally she gave a genuine smile. “I never thought that. It’s only that you frequently baffle me.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He took a step closer, looking out the window to cover the motion. “We need to speak with Amelia. Whatever the colonel’s troubles, the family doesn’t need their servants bandying tales about London.”

Her smile faded. “Michael, Bartholomew James did not attempt to kill himself. He asked a physician to re-break his leg, so it would have a chance to heal correctly.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And I know that for certain, because I was there. In fact, I assisted with the surgery.”

Michael whipped back around to face her, his expression startled and his complexion paling. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He continued to glare at her. “Thank God Sarah hasn’t heard about that. Troll, you cannot go about assisting surgeries willy-nilly. You’re a viscount’s sister, and a duke’s granddaughter.”

“I never do anything willy-nilly,” Theresa protested. “Captain James is our cousin-in-law.”

“There’s no such thing.” Michael blew out his breath. “Isn’t it enough for you just to enjoy the Season?” he said more quietly. “You’ve been out for nearly five years. If you’re bored, agree to one of the million proposals you’ve been handed, and marry someone.”

Bother. It always boiled down to marriage, lately. “It’s closer to a dozen proposals, and several of those were from the same men. And I imagine I’ll settle down and marry once I begin to have less variety from which to choose.” Lifting her chin, she walked away from him.

She supposed she might have mentioned that he was three years her elder and hadn’t married, either, but truthfully she didn’t feel much like having that argument tonight. As long as he wasn’t seriously flirting with Sarah Saunders, he could do as he pleased. With three of her current suitors in attendance she could likely do some flirting herself, but flirting well took concentration, and tonight her thoughts remained rather scattered.

Tomorrow she would have to inform Tolly that at least one rumor claimed he’d attempted suicide. He wouldn’t much like that. In fact, it might make him wish to withdraw even further from Society—if that were even possible. But from what she’d learned of him, he would prefer to know what was being said behind his back to remaining blissfully ignorant. Not that she could imagine him being blissful about anything.

“Tess, Tess,” Miss Harriet Silder called as she fluttered up, “there you are. Do you have any idea how many men have stopped me tonight to ask whether you would like to go riding tomorrow?”

Theresa grinned, taking her friend’s hand. “They might ask me that question and save us all a bit of bother.”

“Yes, but if they ask me, then they haven’t been turned away by you.” Harriet pulled her in the direction of the open balcony doors, and together they made their way through the crowd.

The air was much cooler outside, and Theresa took a deep breath as she leaned her elbows on the railing to look across the Saunders House carriage drive. “How long do you think we could remain out here before we’re missed?” she asked, slipping one foot half out of her shoe and flexing her toes.

Harriet shook her pretty dark curls. “I think it might be more worrisome not to be missed.”

With a laugh, Theresa kicked out of her other shoe. “It might be worth experiencing.”

Her friend leaned beside her, knocking into her elbow. “I called on you this afternoon. Ramsey said you’d gone to visit an ill friend. Who’s ill?”

“Oh, drat. My apologies, Harriet. I shall make it up to you.” Theresa studied the outline of the stable for a moment. This morning she’d crossed out two paragraphs of her new guide and rewritten another. Whatever was afoot, she didn’t like it. Well, she wasn’t supposed to like it, anyway. “I was actually visiting at James House. You know Amelia’s brother-in-law is crippled.”

She felt rather than saw Harriet looking sideways at her. “So Colonel James is the ill friend?”

For a second she hesitated, and then was angry with herself for doing so. Yes, he was far from being one of Society’s favorites, and yes, he was abrupt and occasionally insulting. But he’d done nothing wrong. Nothing other than being the subject of Sarah Saunders’s latest gossip, anyway. Nothing other than kissing her—but no one else knew about that. “Yes. Amelia said he wasn’t feeling well, so I decided to stop in and cheer him up.” Not quite the truth, but Tolly might very well not wish anyone to know the particulars of his recent injury. Re-injury, rather.

“I heard that he—”

“He didn’t,” she cut in. “Please don’t tell me you actually listen to Sarah’s gossip.”

Harriet sighed. “I do try not to, but she’s so very good at it.” She smiled. “So, what is Colonel James like? I saw him years ago, and I thought I glimpsed him at the Ridgemont soiree the night before last, but I can’t say we’ve ever been introduced.”

“He’s…interesting. And very witty, which I have to say surprised me a bit.”

“And handsome. I did notice that.”

For a second Theresa reflected that she didn’t much like other ladies—even good friends like Harriet Silder—noticing how handsome Tolly was. Then she decided she was being absolutely ridiculous. “Yes, he is very pleasing to the eyes.”

“Do you…Hmm. Speaking of pleasing to the eyes,” Harriet muttered, leaning forward to look more closely at the horse one of the grooms was leading from around the front of the house, “isn’t that Montrose’s animal?”

“Yes, it is. Topsy. I hadn’t realized Alexander would be attending tonight.”

“Well, he’s certainly missed the dinner. I wonder what the lure could be?” Harriet grinned at her.

“Very amusing. If he’s here, it is because Sarah or her parents invited him. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Ah. So he’s pursuing Sarah, then, is he?” Harriet elbowed her again. “What’s troubling you?”

Other than rumors that a hero for whom she felt a very troubling attraction had attempted to do himself harm? “Nothing,” she said aloud. “I’m a little surprised at myself for coming here, I suppose.”

Her friend straightened, taking Theresa’s arm to return her to the drawing room. “You’re here because your grandmother asked you to come,” she said with a smile. “Now be your usual charming self, and Montrose will never know you’re less than pleased to see him.”

“It’s not that,” Theresa protested. “For heaven’s sake.” All she needed was to gain a reputation for being some kind of disapproving ice queen. It was only that tonight she felt as though there was something else she would rather be doing.

“Then I shan’t set my cap at Montrose,” Harriet whispered, grinning.

Theresa didn’t think she would mind all that much if anyone else did pursue the marquis. Not that she didn’t like Alexander—she liked all of her suitors. It was just the feeling that they shouldn’t be wasting so much of their time waiting for her.

“Tess,” Lord Montrose said, grinning warmly as he met them in the middle of the drawing room. “And Harriet. How pleasant to see you here this evening.” Glancing at the scattering of guests around them, he deepened his smile. “If I’d known how many lovely young ladies would be present tonight, I most certainly would have put my estate manager off until tomorrow.”

“Everything is well at Montrose Park, I hope,” Theresa responded, taking his arm when he offered it.

“Yes. Just a few questions about which fields to plant. Thank you for your concern.”

“Well, you’ve told me several times how lovely it is there. I would hate to learn that it’s been overrun by rabbits or squirrels or something.”

The marquis laughed. “That might ruin the crops, but it would improve the hunting.” He placed his free hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. “You could be Montrose’s mistress, you know,” he continued in a lower voice. “All you need do is tell me yes.”

A nervous flutter touched her stomach. Then she set a smile on her face. “You are very kind, Alexander. And you know I’m simply not yet quite ready to marry.”

He nodded, his expression not altering a jot. “Knowing the eventual outcome, I remain patient.” His fingers tightened briefly, then released hers. “Though you do realize that at least announcing our engagement would save me from invitations to dinners like this one. And it would save you from having to dance with the likes of Francis Henning.”

“Suffering builds character,” she returned, then had to push away the unbidden image of Bartholomew James lying pale and unconscious in his bed. By all rights he should have the most character of anyone she’d ever met. “Speaking of which,” she continued aloud, freeing her hand from his arm, “our hostess didn’t invite you here to flirt with me.”

With a mock scowl he sketched a bow and retreated across the room. For the remainder of the evening Theresa wandered from group to group—not so much to avoid monopolizing anyone, but rather because she couldn’t escape the restlessness beneath her own skin, the sensation that she would much rather be elsewhere. Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer. The moment her grandmother finished a game, and before they could begin another round, she hurried forward.

“Grandmama,” she leaned down to whisper, “I’ve a terrible aching head. Would you mind horribly if—”

Grandmama Agnes slid approximately two pounds’ worth of coins off the table and into her palm. “I am being a scoundrel,” she announced, standing, “taking my winnings and leaving.”

“You’re a cruel woman, Agnes,” Lord Wilcox returned with a grin. “Promise me a chance to win back my losses.”

“We shall have to see about that.”

She took Theresa’s arm as they went to find Michael. “You are so coy,” Theresa whispered with a smile.

“In all these years I’d like to think I’ve learned how to entice a man,” her grandmother returned. “Michael? Michael. Escort us home. Your sister doesn’t feel well.”

Dash it all. At her grandmother’s pronouncement everyone began crowding in, asking whether she felt ill and if they might call on her tomorrow. Generally she would have felt guilty for pulling attention away from the party’s hostess; she’d never been much for petty dramatics. Not since she was ten, anyway. Tonight, however, what she most felt was impatience—she was impatient to be home with her own thoughts, and she was impatient for tomorrow when she could go chat with Colonel Bartholomew James again.

“I’ll have Mrs. Reilly send you up some tea,” her grandmother said, giving her a brief hug as they walked into the Weller House foyer.

“I don’t think she needs tea,” Michael put in, stooping to scoop up one of their grandmother’s newest acquisitions, a fluffy white kitten they’d named Cotton. “I think she was trying to separate me from my new beloved, Sarah.”

Theresa grimaced at him. “Please don’t even jest about that. She’s horrid.”

“She is my dear friend’s niece,” the family’s matron put in, plucking an additional cat, brown Mr. Brown, from the hall table. “Though truthfully I don’t think Jenny is terribly pleased with Sarah’s wagging tongue, either.” She eyed the butler. “Why are my cats all over the foyer?”

Ramsey bowed. “Henry went up to feed them, my lady, and he claims they ambushed him in order to escape.”

“They missed me, no doubt.” Grandmama Agnes retrieved another of the purring animals. “Come, my dears,” she cooed, climbing the stairs, “Mama Agnes will find you some cream.”

A trail of cats ascended the stairway behind her. With an amused snort Michael set Cotton down, and the kitten clambered up after them. “How many are there now?”

“At least a dozen.” Theresa sighed. “I’m going up to bed.”

Her brother stepped around her to block the stairs. “What’s got you so melancholy?”

“I’m not melancholy. I’m thoughtful.”

“Also unlike you,” he countered with a teasing grin. “You know I would never seriously consider marriage to Miss Saunders.”

“I know that. I would kidnap you and lock you in the cellar if you attempted it.”

He grinned. “Now you sound like yourself. Proper, but fearsome.” Michael lightly pinched her nose as he moved out of her way. “Good night, Troll.”

“Perhaps you should marry Sarah,” she decided, shaking her head at him. “You would certainly appreciate my kindness and graciousness more in comparison.”

“Mmm-hmm. By the way, I’m going riding with Gardner in the morning, if you want me to escort you over to see Leelee.”

Her breath caught, abrupt excitement coursing through her. “At what time should I be ready?”

“Nine o’clock. Frightfully early for you, I know, so I’ll understand if you—”

“I’ll be ready.” She’d thought to have to conjure an excuse to visit James House and the colonel therein, and now one had been handed to her. Little as she cared to trust in providence, this did seem rather lucky. Not for her fondness for proper behavior, but definitely for her tumbling mind.

 

“The physician said you were to remain in bed, Colonel.” Lackaby paused halfway through opening the bedchamber’s curtains and turned, frowning, to face the bed.

“I take anything a damned sawbones tells me with a grain of salt,” Tolly replied, shoving aside the sheets and pulling himself backward, toward the headboard. “And I’m still in bed. I’m merely sitting up in it.”

The valet squinted one eye, then returned to opening the room. “That was Arthur’s way, too. ‘No one on this damned continent outranks me, Lackaby,’ he’d say, and ‘I bloody well don’t follow anyone’s orders but my own.’”

Bartholomew lifted an eyebrow. “You called the future Duke of Wellington, Arthur?”

“Not to his face. But I suppose I can tell the story however I wish to.”

“I suppose you can.”

With a nod, Lackaby went to the dressing table and gathered all the neatly arranged shaving items there. “Since your lady isn’t here, I reckon I can hold the mirror if your hands are steady enough to do the shaving.”

“Yes,” Tolly agreed, somewhat relieved that he wouldn’t have to have that argument again today. Then he frowned. “But she’s not my lady.”

“No? It looked…well, never mind that, then. Whose lady is she?”

Bartholomew was fairly certain that servants weren’t supposed to pry—at least it had been that way the last time he’d been in England. Even so, he didn’t precisely give a damn. “She’s her own lady, I’m fairly certain. And my brother is wed to her cousin.”

“Ah. So she’s family.”

Oh, she was definitely not family. At least he had never for an instant thought of her as a relation. In fact, persons who thought about their family members the way he continually thought about her could be arrested for it. “Yes, family,” he said aloud, deciding he didn’t care to explain how or why the broken, battered weed was lusting after the Season’s fairest flower.

He flexed his toes again, as he had been doing every ten minutes or so during every waking hour. The motion still hurt, but less sharply now. Either that or he was simply becoming accustomed to the new pain, as he had to the old.

Lackaby leaned in to eye his knee. “I think the swelling’s gone down a bit,” the valet observed, handing over the brush and soap. “Your brother the viscount means to purchase you a wheeled chair.”

Anger stabbed through him. “Does he now? Why doesn’t he purchase me a damned headstone and be done with it?”

“A headstone’s less maneuverable at soirees,” the valet returned, holding out the cup of soapy water and the brush.

“You have a very clever tongue, Lackaby,” Tolly snapped. “Keep it between your teeth.”

With a slight bow, Lackaby angled the mirror so that Tolly could begin shaving. “Yes, Colonel.”

The process took longer than usual, but then his arm kept becoming fatigued and succumbing to the shakes. By the time Lackaby collected the razor and handed over a towel, Bartholomew was ready to lie down for a rest again. Clenching his jaw, he kept his seat.

“Dr. Prentiss says you are to have only tea, a beef broth, and toasted bread,” the servant commented as he replaced items on the dressing table. “What shall I fetch you for breakfast, then?”

“Tea, toasted bread, and a poached egg or two.” He didn’t have much of an appetite this morning, but he had no intention of remaining in bed for a second longer than he had to.

“Very good.” The valet didn’t bat an eye. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Once Lackaby vanished, Bartholomew swung his good leg over the edge of the bed and reached over for the cane someone had left behind a chair. “Damnation,” he muttered, glaring at the polished stick of stout, scorched ash. His third leg, decidedly out of his reach.

“You even curse when no one else can hear you?” the cheerful female voice came from the doorway. “That’s very dedicated of you.”

He lowered his hand. Warmth eased through him, from his shoulders down to his toes. It felt as if the room had suddenly become bathed in sunlight. “I’ve already shaved,” he said, as Theresa Weller swirled into the room, all sparkling eyes and yellow muslin gown. “Apologies, but I didn’t know how far afield your services to the wretched might take you.”

“Hmm.” With a coy smile she walked up to the side of the bed and leaned in to run her forefinger along his cheek. “Very smooth,” she said, her voice oddly pitched.

That was bloody well enough of that. Bartholomew grabbed her hand. “I think I warned you about teasing me,” he murmured.

“Don’t kiss me; it’s not seemly,” she returned, placing her free hand on his shoulder and leaning in to brush her lips against his.

And he’d thought to be the aggressor. Bartholomew drew her forward to sit across his thighs, lifting his hands to cup her pretty face. Whatever the devil was wrong with her, she seemed to like him—and he hoped with an odd fierceness that nothing would happen to alter her opinion.

She moaned softly, the sound spearing through him. Abruptly the ten months he’d been celibate felt like years, and he shifted. For a great while he’d never expected to want anyone ever again, but Theresa Weller decimated that thought with no more than a sigh and a kiss.

A male throat cleared from the doorway. With a stifled yelp, Theresa leaped off his lap. Pain tore through his knee as he tried to catch his balance. “Damnation,” he rasped.

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry!” Tess, her cheeks flushed, clutched her fingers into his shoulder as though she thought he would fall out of the bed. “I forgot.”

His attention immediately arrested, Tolly looked up at her. “So did I.”

Her smile drove away every shadow in the room. “Then I take it back. I’m not sorry.”

“Should I go out and come in again?” Lackaby asked. A large tray of food in his arms, the grinning servant looked from Tolly to Tess.

“No. And stop bloody grinning, you cheeky bastard,” Bartholomew ordered.

“One thing’s been clarified,” the valet said, coming forward to fold down the tray’s short legs and set it across Bartholomew’s vacated lap. “You ain’t family.”

“I’ll see to feeding him, Lackaby,” Tess commented. “Will you fetch me some tea?”

His satisfaction with the kiss fading, Tolly frowned. “I’m not helpless. Not today, at any rate.”

“Then pretend you’re making me feel helpful.” She gave him an assessing look, then reach out to tug on a lock of his dark hair. God, he hadn’t been so intimate with anyone in months.

Bartholomew glanced at Lackaby. “You heard her. Get some bloody tea for the chit.”

Lackaby saluted and vanished out the door. “You know,” she said immediately, brushing a finger along the edge of the mattress, “if you weren’t bedridden I wouldn’t be able to sit here with you.”

He swallowed. “Seems a shame, then, to waste the moment.” Reaching out one damnably unsteady hand, he gripped her wandering fingers. “You are rather compelling, Theresa,” he murmured, “even to a man half dead.”

Her cheeks darkened. “Thank you.” Clearing her throat, she eyed Bartholomew’s overflowing breakfast tray. “That looks…ambitious,” she commented.

It was. “I requested eggs and toast, which was more than Dr. Prentiss recommended. I can only assume that Lackaby is attempting to kill me.” He gestured at the chair still resting beside the bed. “I don’t suppose you’d care for any of this.”

Tess grinned again, the expression lighting her gray-green eyes. “I thought you’d never ask.”

So she wouldn’t take the hint and kiss him again, but she would share his plate. That was something, anyway—though he wasn’t quite certain what it all meant. At the moment he was more than willing to take the time to figure it out.

As Lackaby returned with a tea tray, Amelia and Violet appeared in the doorway. He knew they weren’t there because of the kiss, since neither of his female relations looked ready to shoot anyone. At least Lackaby knew when to hold his tongue, then. Perhaps he and the valet would make do, after all.

“Tess!” Amelia exclaimed. “Lackaby said you were here.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, around a mouthful of sweetbread. “I came with Michael. I didn’t think you’d risen yet.”

“Of course,” Amelia said, in a highly skeptical voice. “Might I have a word with you, cousin?”

Theresa nodded. “Certainly.” As she stood, she placed a hand on the headboard and leaned closer to Tolly. “I have some news for you, as well,” she whispered, her voice pitched so that only he would be able to hear it. “And you won’t like it.”

As long as the news wasn’t that she’d decided to stop calling on him, he didn’t much care what it might be.