A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior by Suzanne Enoch (14)

The moment Lackaby rolled him into the ballroom, Bartholomew’s gaze went to the large, chatty group standing to one side of the dance floor.

Of course she’d be at its center. Theresa Weller was the sun around which all lesser planets circled. But then the sun had hidden behind the damned moon that was the Marquis of Montrose the moment she’d glimpsed him and his very obvious chair. Then she’d fled the blasted room with the man.

“No one’s so much as glancing in our direction,” Stephen commented under his breath.

“Yes, they are.”

“Well, they aren’t approaching. Why the devil did you have to wear that damned uniform?”

“It made me the man I am today.”

Stephen leaned over him, something which Bartholomew had swiftly realized he disliked. “Do not send your sarcasm my way, Tolly. I am on your side, if you’ll recall.”

“I know that,” Bartholomew retorted, keeping his voice low. “If you’ll recall, I informed you that standing by me would not be pleasant.”

“At least Sommerset shook your hand. The man has a great deal of influence. At the least, everyone’s afraid to cross him. To his face. But unless he stands beside you all evening, th—”

“Which he has no reason to do,” Bartholomew cut in. The duke had already made it more than clear that his support wouldn’t for the most part be public.

There was no reason for it to be otherwise. And in truth, tonight he wouldn’t have cared if everyone present turned his or her back on him—save one. She, however, had already fled the room.

Lackaby leaned over his other shoulder. “Whatever you’re looking for here, Colonel, you ain’t going to find allies. Never seen so many noses pointed in the air.”

“I’m not looking for anything,” Bartholomew returned. “I’m reminding them that I’m here.”

“Well. That seems to be working, then.”

It was, at that. The East India Company could claim that India was safe as kittens, but he had a rather obvious limp. They could call him incompetent, which he could almost sense coming, but they couldn’t deny that he’d been wounded. In India.

The music for the evening’s first dance began. Montrose reappeared to take a petite, dark-haired chit by the arm and lead her forward. Other than noting that nearly everyone seemed to want to dance tonight, Bartholomew didn’t pay them any mind.

Of much more interest was the lad, Lord Biskell’s second son, as he recalled, standing just to the side and looking from Theresa’s grandmother to the dance floor as though he’d lost something. Bartholomew could guess what it was. Tess hadn’t reappeared from wherever she’d gone off to with Montrose. A few moments later Biskell’s son gave the room at large an uncertain smile and wandered off in the direction of the refreshment table.

Theresa Weller would not leave a dance partner standing without excuse or explanation. “Lackaby.”

The valet stood behind him, tapping his toes to the rhythm of the quadrille. “Aye, Colonel?”

“Push me over there.” He indicated the door on one side of the room through which Tess and Montrose had vanished.

“How do I get one of them sugared orange peels?”

“You don’t. Push.”

With a jolt he and the chair moved. He saw the looks and the swift glances away. He’d seen them since he’d entered the room. He didn’t care; tonight was only about making his presence known. In the next day or two he would begin pushing back.

“Stop here.”

The chair stopped. “Well, this seems much nicer over here,” the valet observed, sarcasm thick in his tone.

Bartholomew held up one hand. “Cane.”

“Colonel, you keep walking on the damned leg and it’s likely to give up and fall off.”

“Cane.”

The valet blew out his breath. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” With exaggerated care Lackaby handed over the stick of scorched ash with its very sharp rapier hidden inside. The valet’s warning was a good one; whatever Bartholomew wanted to accomplish, he had to weigh whether he wished to do it with one leg, or two.

Any sense of self-preservation, though, paled in comparison with his desire to find out where Tess had got to. Whether she wanted him to find her or not.

He pushed upright, hiding his wince as the movement pulled at healing bone and muscle. Leaning on his cane much more heavily than he liked, Bartholomew left the ballroom behind. The half dozen doors to his right and to his left were all open, with the exception of one.

Despite his inclination not to trust his instincts any longer, he headed down the hallway toward the closed door. A pair of servants caught up and passed him, continuing on toward the stairs that would be at the rear of the house.

Sending a quick glance up and down the now-empty hallway, he gripped the door latch and pushed. The door opened silently before him. He moved quietly, not certain what to expect or even completely convinced she would be there.

“Bloody hell,” he heard from across the room in Tess’s distinctive voice.

He knew in an instant that something was awry. Theresa stood near one of the bookcases that lined the left wall. In her hand was a glass. As he watched, she took a delicate sip.

“Bloody hell,” she said again, making a face.

Christ. As swiftly as he could, Bartholomew shut the door behind him. “Theresa.”

Visibly jumping, she faced him. “Vodka is a vile drink,” she said. “I prefer whiskey.”

“Then why are you drinking vodka?”

“I had to try it, you know. Otherwise, how could I judge?”

Something had definitely happened. Reaching behind him with his free hand, Bartholomew threw the bolt to lock the door. Whatever was amiss, he certainly knew enough about Theresa Weller to realize she would be mortified if anyone caught sight of her now.

“Tess,” he said slowly, keeping his voice low and level, “what’s troubling you?” What he wanted to do was grab her and shake her and ask if Montrose had done something to harm her. If he had, the marquis was a dead man.

She blew out her lips. “Do you know what I am?” she asked.

Several answers came to mind, among them lovely and inebriated. “What are you?” he asked aloud.

“I am two things.” She lifted two fingers at him, looked at the V she’d made, then giggled and covered the gesture with her other hand. The glass fell to the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice it. “That was naughty, wasn’t it?”

“Only if you meant it to be. Which two things are you?”

“Oh, yes. I almost forgot. I am predictable, and I am a coward.”

He cleared his throat. “I must say, I don’t find you predictable at all.”

Theresa clapped once, then jabbed a single finger in his direction. “No, you don’t,” she exclaimed. “I am not predictable around you. It’s your fault.”

“Hmm. Don’t expect me to apologize for that.”

“I knew you wouldn’t.”

“And I know you’re not a coward, Theresa.”

“But I am. And everyone knows it. Alex, Alexander the Great, gave me a week to decide whether to marry him or not. And he knows what I’ll say, because he knows I can’t be around you.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Because of the scandal.”

The scandal. He’d actually forgotten about that for a moment, the way he seemed to forget everything dark when she was about. And he wanted so badly to kiss her that he was almost willing to pretend that nothing outside that room even existed. Almost. “I should be going, then.”

“No! You should stay.” Theresa hurried forward.

Before he could put out a hand to stop her, Tess hit him in the chest. The cane slid out from beneath his grip, and he went down on his backside. Theresa fell with him, landing across his chest with a thud that knocked the air from his lungs.

For a dozen heartbeats he lay there, trying to recover his breath and assess whether his leg remained attached to the rest of him. Petite though she was, Theresa packed a punch. “Tess?” he rasped, putting a hand across her back.

Abruptly she lifted her head, looking down at him from mere inches away. Disheveled blond hair framed her face, her gray-green eyes as surprised as his likely were. “Don’t seduce me,” she ordered, her gaze lowering to his mouth.

He wanted to. If she hadn’t been drunk and upset, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. “I’m not.”

“Oh.” Slowly, almost as though she was being dragged forward against her will, she sank down along his body again and kissed him.

She tasted rather strongly of spirits, but Bartholomew didn’t give a damn about that. Her mouth molded against his, warm and soft and perfect. He drew his arms around her hip and shoulder, holding her close against him. Desire twitched into his bones.

Fingers began plucking at his neat, military-style cravat, pulling at the knot there. With a silent curse and a very clear understanding that he would very likely regret the next few moments for the rest of his life, Bartholomew broke from her mouth.

“Anywhere but here, Tess,” he said softly. “And any time but now.” He shifted to put his hands over hers, between them, to stop her from undressing him.

“But this is what you want,” she breathed, frowning.

“Yes, it is. But not so you’ll hate me for it tomorrow.”

She scowled down at him. “You’ll miss your chance, Bartholomew. Tonight I am cursing and drinking. I’m almost certain I won’t do either one tomorrow. And that means I won’t do this, either.” She lowered her mouth onto his again.

He sank into the kiss for a moment, then pushed her shoulders, lifting her off him. “Then I suppose I will do without.”

“But—”

“You won’t want me tomorrow, Tess. You made that clear. And I’d prefer that you simply avoid me rather than hate me.”

“I hate you a little bit at this very moment.”

“I hate myself more than a little at this moment.” He gave her one last, close look, then set her away from him so he could sit up.

“It isn’t fair, you know,” she said, blowing a strand of her hair from her forehead. “I meant to be a paragon of virtue.”

Good God, was he ever falling for the wrong woman. “You still are. We’ve only kissed.”

“I wrote a booklet on proper behavior. It’s widely circulated.”

“I heard that you had.”

“I like kissing you, very much. And I keep thinking about how much I would like…everything else with you.”

“I think about that, as well.” He glanced around them. The most likely object to be able to support his weight was the wall, and that was several feet away.

“Perhaps if you told me that you mean to live quietly until some other scandal takes everyone’s attention away from the East India Company nonsense, then we could…kiss again. I might even be able to pretend to visit Amelia and come see you instead.” She brushed her fingers through his hair. “You do need a trim, you know.”

“Yes, I know. The problem, sweet Tess, is that if I agree to be labeled an incompetent and a coward, I’ve doomed the reputations of my men. No one else can speak for them.”

“That’s very good of you, I have to admit. And you look…spectacular in your uniform.”

“Thank you, and it’s not a matter of goodness. They were able, well-trained soldiers. If I hadn’t trusted the wrong man…” He stopped. Sweet Lucifer. He’d never spoken of what happened. Not since he’d delivered his official report to his commanding officer. “I owe them their good names,” he finished aloud.

“But then you’ll set yourself against the Company, and everyone will take sides, and it will be very, very nasty. And you’re making it worse, by wearing your uniform.”

Slowly Bartholomew reached out to brush his fingers along her cheek. Once she sobered up, he wouldn’t be able to touch her again, and he wanted—needed—to touch her. “It will be,” he agreed. “But I’ve lived through worse, and I survived. I think you have, as well.” He caught her gaze. “We have each lived through the worst thing that will ever happen to us. The decision is what to do next.”

Gray-green eyes held his for a long moment. A tear ran slowly down one cheek. “But I already decided that,” she whispered.

“Change your mind.”

“I—”

“But first, help me up, will you?” Yes, he wanted her to reconsider her obsession with propriety, but not tonight. He might not be much of a gentleman, but he knew that serious decisions were not to be made while intoxicated.

“What? Oh yes.” Theresa stood, her skirts falling around her in a disheveled delight of silk and skin. She staggered, and he put up a hand to steady her.

Theresa dragged a chair over, and between it and her hauling on his arm, Bartholomew managed to stand. She bent over and handed him his cane, and nearly toppled over again, herself.

“Theresa, sit,” he said, indicating the chair.

“I’m missing a quadrille,” she stated, listening with exaggerated care to the muted sound of music beyond the door.

“You are not going out there. Sit down.” When she frowned at him, he jabbed a finger at the chair. “Sit. And stay there. I’ll find someone…discreet to assist you home.”

“But my dance card is full.”

Clearly logic wasn’t doing him much good at the moment. Using his greater height, he put a hand squarely in the center of her chest and pushed. Tess went down into the chair, her skirt floating up again and briefly revealing a lovely pair of knees. Bartholomew put his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned over her. “Stay here. Promise me.”

She looked up at him, her mouth so sweet and beckoning it made him ache. “I promise,” she finally said.

“Good.”

He turned for the door, sending a glance back over his shoulder to make certain she was still where he’d left her, then unlocked it and slipped out into the hallway again. She wouldn’t remain there long, and if she wandered out among the other guests drunk, tomorrow would likely find her fleeing to the nearest convent.

His gaze caught Amelia, out on the dance floor with Stephen. She would have sufficed, but interrupting her to have her hurry out of the room would cause too much attention. Then he saw Tess’s grandmother. Stifling a frown and hoping there was a reason Theresa was so fond of her, he limped in her direction.

“Lady Weller,” he said, inclining his head.

She turned from chatting with an even older woman he vaguely remembered as Lady Beaumont to look up at him. “My heavens, you are handsome. Even up close. So many men can make one’s heart stop from across the room, but up close they disappoint. But you, Colonel James, are a handsome man.”

Any other time he would have found the conversation amusing. “Thank you. Would you walk with me for a moment?”

Her gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. “Oh, yes, we do need to discuss my granddaughter Amelia’s birthday party, don’t we?”

He nodded as she wrapped a hand around his arm. “Yes, we do.”

As soon as they were out of earshot of Lady Beaumont, her grip tightened. “What’s amiss, young man?”

“In the library you will find that Miss Weller isn’t feeling at all well, and needs to be seen home—through the rear door.”

Agnes Weller gasped. “What happened? Did Montrose—”

“She’s inebriated,” he interrupted, keeping his voice pitched low. “Very.”

The dowager viscountess released his arm. “I’ll see to it.”

With a last nod he turned away, heading back for his chair.

“You confuse her,” the old woman’s voice came. “Thank God.”

He would decipher what that meant later. For the moment he needed to move away from where Tess and her rescuers would be. The eyes of the guests would be following him tonight. And for the first time since the Company’s report had been published, he was grateful.

“There you are, Colonel,” Lackaby said, angling the chair so Bartholomew could more or less fall back into it. “I was near ready to send out a search party.”

“Get me over to the other side of the room. Now. No arguing, no commentary.”

The valet’s mouth closed with an audible snap. With a nearly neck-breaking jolt the chair went into motion, hurtling him across the edges of the room to its far side. Then they stopped with an equally spine-bending bump.

“Thank you,” Bartholomew grunted, easing his white-knuckled grip on the chair’s arms.

“Can I talk now?”

“If you must.”

Lackaby blew out his breath. “Good. Because I just spoke to Williams, whose brother is a footman at Wellington’s town house. Arthur will be heading for breakfast at Carlton House at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Bartholomew had ceased trying to discover why Lackaby, apparently indispensable to Wellington during their days in India, now needed to discover the duke’s schedule through such roundabout means, but he was glad to hear the news. “Then we should go for a walk at half eight in front of Apsley House.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

 

Theresa awoke to a quiet, dark room. Squinting open one eye, she lifted her head a few inches, just enough to see that she’d made it to her own bedchamber.

Distantly she recalled being found in the Clement House library by Grandmama Agnes, and then Michael half carrying her down the back servants’ stairs and around to their coach. Her family knew that she’d been drinking whiskey and vodka and quite possibly some brandy. “Oh, dear,” she mumbled, burying herself beneath the sheets again.

Not only had she acted foolishly, but she’d been caught at it. And now her head felt like a horse was sitting on it, and her mouth was as dry as the most arid Arabian desert. If anyone else had seen her—oh, she could very well be ruined. She had embarrassed her family. She’d been caught out by…She’d kissed Tolly. Again.

More than kissed him, actually. She’d thrown him to the ground and begged him to take her. Theresa dug herself deeper into the bed. She was never emerging. Never. Ever.

Her door opened. With the curtains drawn and her eyes squeezed shut she had no idea who it was or what time it might be, but it didn’t matter. “Go away,” she said into the pillow.

“I’ve brought tea and sugar,” her grandmother’s voice came. “They might help your head a bit.”

Several soft thuds hit the edges of the bed around her. Apparently Grandmama Agnes had brought feline reinforcements. But she still wasn’t looking. “Just leave it.”

“Very well.” China clinked as it settled on her dressing table. “I have one thing to say first.”

“Oh, please don’t. I know I was awful,” Theresa wailed. “And I’m so, so sorry. I will never misbehave ever again. I promise.”

“I was about to say,” Agnes continued, “something upset you, and you had a bit too much to drink last night. The world did not crumble, civilization did not fall, and you were not ruined.”

“I was luckier than I deserve.”

“You were exactly as lucky as you deserve. There are a very few life-altering moments we recognize as they arrive, my darling, and they should be regarded carefully and thoughtfully. Last night was a…a hiccup. Hardly worth noting.”

“But the—”

“And Tolly James is an intelligent young man. It’s a shame, the things he must have had to face on his own.”

Theresa wrenched open one eye and peeked out from beneath the covers. “He’s aggravating.”

“I would hope you find him so.”

Her heart started beating harder, matching the pounding of her head. “But I said some things to him last night…Oh, I can never look at him again.”

She caught her grandmother smiling in the dimness before she dove beneath the covers again.

“It’s not funny,” she protested.

“Oh, Tess, I apologize, but yes, it is funny. Come downstairs when you’re ready. I have some soup and bread waiting for you.”

“But aren’t you disappointed in me?”

“I never have been, and I don’t see any reason to begin now.”

As her grandmother left the room, Theresa finally sat up. The throbbing in her skull redoubled, but she kept one eye open anyway. Caesar, Mr. Brown, Lucy, and Captain Mouser all lay around her, warm and soft and utterly unconcerned with anything but their own comfort.

If she were a cat, everything would be much simpler. All they cared about was being fed and petted. Yellow-eyed Lucy was very popular with the gentlemen, and neither she nor her fellow cats ever even thought about their reputations.

Holding her head with both hands, she stumbled to the tea. Pouring a cup with unsteady hands, she dropped in four lumps of sugar. It was much sweeter than she preferred, but after a few minutes the ache in her head dulled a little.

From what her grandmother had said, her reputation remained intact—thanks, mostly, to Tolly. She owed him a favor. Several favors, considering that he hadn’t taken advantage of her even when she’d asked him to.

So now she had a dilemma. Propriety said she should stay far away from such an explosive scandal. But she didn’t want to stay away from him, and she owed him a good turn.

Slowly she dressed, stopping frequently for more tea. However fuzzy last night remained, she recalled one thing very clearly. Tolly said they’d each already faced the worst possible consequence of their actions. Someone must have told him about her parents, but when and where he’d found out didn’t signify.

What he’d said, though, made a kind of sense. Grandmama Agnes and Michael and Amelia used to tell her that she’d been a tired, upset child and none of what happened had been her fault. They didn’t say it any longer, because she’d never listened.

But the idea that she had already faced the worst thing she would ever face—she could believe that. Theresa stepped into her shoes and then opened her door, moving back to let the cats precede her into the hallway.

What was anything compared to that night? To the days afterward? After all this time, it abruptly felt like a path of sorts had opened up before her. But it wasn’t all up to her, even if she did decide to…well, she didn’t even know yet. She was definitely thinking about something, though, even if she couldn’t admit it to herself, because her heart was beating very fast.

“Good morning, Miss Tess,” Ramsey said from the foyer, as he motioned John the footman back to the breakfast room.

“Good morning, Ramsey. Where might I find my brother and grandmother?”

“Lord Weller is in his office, and the dowager viscountess is, I believe, in the garden cutting flowers.” He motioned toward the breakfast room. “Cook has made up a pot of hot onion soup.”

She grimaced. “I haven’t much of an appetite this morning. Please send some toasted bread to Michael’s office, if you would.”

The butler inclined his head. “I will see to it at once.”

Michael’s office was two doors down the hallway from the breakfast room. Theresa knocked at the closed door, then pushed it open at his reply.

“Thank you for rescuing me last night,” she said, before he could begin chastising her.

“You’re welcome.” He closed the ledger book in front of him. “I’ve done enough…questionable things that I’m not going to yell at you, but I am a bit curious, Troll.”

She sighed. “About what?”

“Why after all this time did you decide the Clement soiree was the place to go completely mad? Aside from the fact that Lord Brasten keeps a fine wine cellar.”

She set her tea on his desk, then dropped into a chair. Immediately she regretted the motion, and pressed her fingertips to her temple. “Oh, heavens.”

Michael sat forward to nudge her tea closer to her. “You’ll be feeling better by noon, I imagine.”

Three more hours of this. Well, she’d done it to herself, so she would live with the consequences. “Alexander proposed to me again.”

He nodded. “He asked my permission. I told him that he needed yours.”

“He had this odd idea that I’m infatuated with Tolly James, but that I won’t dare go near the colonel because of the scandal. That apparently means that I must make a final decision, and he wants it in the next week.”

“Mmm-hmm. That seems an…understandable stance for him to take.”

“Oh, you think so, do you? I considered it completely underhanded. Counting on my cowardice is just mean.”

Her brother gazed at her for a long moment. They were only three years apart, and generally she considered them to be on fairly even ground. Today, though, his light green eyes were full of compassion and sympathy, and even wisdom. And despite her aching head she felt very—well, not young, but unsure. She’d never walked this path before, and she wasn’t certain if she should.

“If you don’t wish to marry Montrose, all you need do is say so. You don’t need to set yourself three sheets to the wind and risk being ruined.”

“I didn’t do that because I’m upset over Alexander. I did it, I think, because I never do anything.”

“My dear,” came from behind her, as Grandmama Agnes swept into the room, “while I can’t condone your sudden interest in liquor, I am very pleased that you haven’t completely done away with that spirit that’s always filled you.”

“You’re happy I misbehaved?”

“All I will say about it at this moment is that indulging oneself should be done sparingly. Because if you go looking for trouble, it will find you.”

“That’s not terribly helpful.” Theresa swallowed. “And what about scandal? If I am seen speaking with Tolly, the—”

“I suggest one step at a time,” Agnes interrupted.

“And no more drinking,” her brother added.

She looked from one to the other of them. Of course she’d been the one to be obsessed with propriety, but even so their…cavalier view of what a few weeks ago would have had her weeping in shame continued to surprise her.

As Tolly had noted, suffering a few sideways glances was far easier than living through the tragedy she’d known. Clearly he felt the same, or he wouldn’t have worn that magnificent uniform of his last night. And so if she wanted to have another chat with her friend who happened to be at the center of a possible maelstrom, then she supposed she could give it a try.