A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior by Suzanne Enoch (4)

First Theresa had wanted Tolly James to attend the party, then she’d decided it would be best after all if he didn’t. Then she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what she would say to him under either circumstance.

And then he’d appeared. Those whiskey-colored eyes had already been gazing at her when she first spied him, and she wondered how long he’d been looking at her. That seemed significant, especially after he’d said that he intended to watch her all evening. A delicious, excited shiver ran down her spine.

She had suitors aplenty, but no one who spoke so directly or made so little effort to be charming. Why she found that attractive she had no idea, but in all honesty it might have had at least a little to do with his appearance. Even so, it wasn’t a question of overlooking his manners because his other qualities compensated.

Rather, it was the whole of him that just felt more…interesting than anyone else of her acquaintance. More interesting, and more real. Not a predetermined set of witticisms and observations she’d heard a hundred times before. She merely needed to remember her own rules, and they would end the evening with her having proven that last night was only a misstep, and that he could gain more respect and empathy from people by minding his manners.

Theresa glanced over her shoulder at him again, to find him still watching her, sitting back with a glass in one hand. Even just sitting there, he was unlike everyone else in the room. It was as if he’d been marked by whatever it was he’d been through. Not on his handsome face or even his leg, but deeper inside where it only showed in his eyes.

A hand brushed her arm. Startled, she turned around. “Alexander,” she said, smiling as she recognized the tall, golden-haired man standing before her.

Behind his back they called him “Alexander the Great,” though Alexander Rable, the Marquis of Montrose, more than likely wouldn’t have minded hearing it said to his face. He sketched an elegant bow. “Tess, you look absolutely ravishing this evening.”

“Ah. For that compliment, you may have a waltz.”

“Good. I was worried that I’d arrived too late to claim any dance, much less a waltz.”

“I was about to give it away.”

“But you didn’t.” He took the dance card and pencil from her fingers. “You were about to leave me with nothing but a country dance, weren’t you?” A slight scowl drew his arched brows together, and he lifted his head again. “‘B. James’?” he read.

“Yes. Colonel Bartholomew James. My cousin married his brother.”

“I know who he is.” The marquis’s gaze moved past her to where she knew Tolly still sat, no doubt watching the entire exchange. “My cousin is with the East India Company, you know. And there are some rumors that James deserted his men, and that’s why he’s still alive. More or less.”

All she had to do was look into Colonel James’s eyes to know that he hadn’t deserted anyone. Except for his own family, of course. Arguing about a man whom she barely knew, however, wouldn’t be seemly. “I believe we’re at a dance, Alexander. That means we should discuss only pleasant topics.”

“How pleasant would it be for you, then, to limp about the floor with him? There are a multitude of less sought-after chits available tonight to offer him charity. Cross out his name.”

“I could never do such a thing.” Not even if she wanted to, which she didn’t.

“Don’t frown at me, Tess,” Montrose said smoothly, returning her dance card to her. “I’m only saying that you needn’t put yourself out when there are others who would be happy to do so. As far as anyone else knows he’s a wounded hero, after all.”

She did not need anyone to tell her what her duties and options might be. For heaven’s sake, she had literally penned a booklet on the subject. And so she also knew when a lady could—albeit delicately—allow her displeasure to be known. The fact that she’d rarely ever done so before didn’t even signify. “Whatever your opinion of him, Alexander, I have agreed to dance with Colonel James, just as I’ve agreed to dance with you. If I decline one, I shall have to decline them all.”

He blew out his breath. “I see. I’m going to fetch myself a drink, then, and desist from any further arguments with beautiful women. I’ll be back for my dance.” Bending down, he collected her hand and drew it up to kiss her knuckles.

While she took a moment to settle her thoughts, he strolled back into the crowd. Yes, he’d done the proper thing by leaving, but it wasn’t very…satisfying. “Coward,” she muttered, then turned around—and stopped abruptly. “Colonel.”

Bartholomew James stood directly in front of her, close enough to touch. The way her heart jumped, she almost felt as though she had been touched. For a long moment he gazed down at her in silence, his whiskey-colored eyes seeming to see straight through her skin and into her soul.

“Is there something you require?” she finally demanded, folding her arms across her chest and lifting her chin to reduce the difference in their heights.

“You have no idea what I require.”

“Which is why I asked.”

His mouth pinched at one corner, then relaxed again. “I want my dance now.” He turned on his heel. “Out in the garden.”

“I am not going out into the garden with you,” she returned, keeping her expression easy despite the sudden rush of her heartbeat.

“Coward,” he said over his shoulder, in the exact same tone she’d used against Montrose.

Oh, he was aggravating. Blowing out her breath, she tromped after him. “Very well. I imagine I can outrun you,” she said stiffly.

“I imagine you can.”

“You know I actually have a partner for this dance.”

“Then go dance. I’m going out to the garden.”

She saw Elliot Pender making his way toward her, and she smiled at him. “I cannot be impolite, Colonel. It’s not seem—”

Colonel James was halfway across the room and out of earshot already, despite his game leg. Damnation. If she stayed and danced, he would still call her a coward, even when she had a perfectly legitimate reason for remaining behind.

“Tess,” Elliot said with a bow as he reached her. “Our country dance?”

“Elliot, I’ve a pebble or something in my shoe.” She made a show of shaking her right foot. “Would you give me the country dance after the waltz in place of this one?”

“I…Certainly. I’ll just go find—”

“Oh, thank you,” she interrupted, and hurried away.

She felt a bit silly following behind a badly limping man who hadn’t even checked to see whether she was still there. If it would keep him from calling her a coward again, however, she would tolerate it.

The colonel shouldered open one of the full-length windows and rather ungracefully stepped out into the Haramund House garden. Torches lined the curving stone pathway, dimmer than the bright chandelier light inside, but still nearly enough to read by.

“Are we going to march all the way around the house?” she asked. “Because I didn’t wear my walking shoes. And I told Mr. Pender I’ve a pebble in one of my slippers.”

He stopped, his back still to her. “Montrose is courting you.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Then why in God’s name did you…flirt with me yesterday?”

Theresa opened her mouth to retort that she hadn’t been flirting with him at all. The breath of vulnerability in his hard voice, though, stopped her. She had the sudden impression that no one had flirted with him in some time. And of course she’d been flirting with him. She might not have called it that at the time, but as she stood behind him now, alone in the garden, it was obvious. She wouldn’t have come out there if she hadn’t felt an attraction. Elliot Pender was a perfectly acceptable fellow, after all, and yet she hadn’t thought twice about leaving him standing there, mouth open. That was not how a young lady conducted herself.

“I am not married to Lord Montrose,” she stated belatedly. “And until I am married to someone, I suppose I may speak with and dance with whomever I please.”

He turned around, faster and more graceful than she expected him to be. “What about what pleases me?” he asked, catching her right hand in his left.

This close she realized that the top of her head just came to his chin. Her brother had always said she was a tall chit, and indeed she was accustomed to being eye to eye with a dance partner. Not tonight, however. Not with Bartholomew James.

Realizing he was still gazing at her, Theresa rose onto her toes. “Let go of my hand.”

“Do you think me a charity project?” he demanded, keeping his grip firmly around her fingers.

“I do not.”

“Good.” Colonel James pulled her against him. “Because I don’t want charity,” he stated. “Yours or anyone else’s.”

As she opened her mouth to protest that she hadn’t considered he required charity, he leaned in and kissed her.

He felt warm and solid, and unexpectedly electric. Good heavens. She lifted up, drawing her free arm around his shoulders. For a bare second she felt…unbound, as though she wasn’t even touching the ground.

Then he broke away, taking a stumbling half step backward. “There,” he said roughly. “You flirted, and now I’ve kissed you. Go back to Montrose.”

She wanted to demand another kiss. Theresa took a steadying breath, blinking to try to pull her scattered wits back into place. “I don’t believe you’re allowed to order me to do anything,” she retorted. “And you’re…you’re not allowed to kiss me like that.”

“How should I kiss you, then?” Abruptly he closed again, taking her mouth in another hot, lingering kiss. “Like this?”

Oh, good heavens. “I—stop that!”

“Or were you only antagonizing me because you thought I was nothing but a cripple? Or a eunuch? I’m not. A eunuch, that is. You’d best figure out what you’re about, Tess.” He turned around, heading for the front of the house. “You know where to find me.”

Actually, she had no idea where to find him, since he evidently wasn’t staying at James House. She stood there as he limped out of sight, still unable to decide whether she was more offended or intrigued. Clearly he’d been attempting to make a point of some sort, but considering that she still couldn’t quite catch her breath, she wasn’t certain what that might have been.

“There you are, Tess.” Lord Montrose strolled up the pathway. “Very well, be angry with me if you must. But don’t deprive all the other poor gentlemen the pleasure of a dance with you.”

“I’m not angry with you,” she returned, taking his arm and practically towing him back to the ballroom.

Tolly James had been correct about one thing. Handsome as he was, she hadn’t considered more than the fact that she enjoyed the look and sound and intrigue of him. As of that kiss, he’d made one thing very clear. He made her forget herself. And that was very troubling, because she hadn’t lost her hold on proper behavior since she’d been ten years old. And that was the last time she’d ever done so.

 

Bartholomew stepped down from the hired hack at the edge of the Ainsley House drive. His leg felt like it was bound with saw blades, but he tried to ignore that as he made his way up to the west wing of the house. Beneath a vine-and flower-covered archway the plain, unobtrusive doorway waited, locked and unattended.

Pulling out his key, he opened the door. Inside the large main room of the Adventurers’ Club lay before him, all dark-paneled walls and bookcases and bits and bobs from foreign lands. Four other club members were already in attendance, two of them playing whist, one reading, and the fourth one making his way through what looked like an entire bottle of whiskey.

“Colonel,” Hervey, the club’s other caretaker, butler, footman, and nanny said, approaching from the direction of the extra rooms. “Good evening.”

“Hervey.”

“Cook’s just pulled a roast chicken from the oven. Might I interest you in a plate?”

“Yes, thank you.” Refusing to grimace, Tolly took a seat at one of the empty tables scattered through the large room. From what the Duke of Sommerset had said, before he’d turned it into a gentleman’s hideaway the room had originally been a morning room and an office. However much the renovations had cost, it gave Tolly an otherwise nearly impossible privacy.

That was fortunate, because at the moment he didn’t feel very communicative. He shouldn’t have kissed her. It had been weakness, frustration over hearing the dazzling Lord Montrose calling him an object of pity and charity. He’d easily defeated that bastard at every game of skill and sport they’d ever engaged in at Oxford, and now the damned earl called him pitiful.

Since his return to London, every look and every whispered comment had reminded him that his worth as a man related directly to unsubstantiated rumor and the mere fact of his survival. It had practically struck him between the eyes that Tess Weller was the first entity in eight months and two continents able to make him forget…everything—even if only for just a moment. And then with her teasing, flirting manner—he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He hadn’t wanted to stop himself.

The servant set a steaming plate of roasted chicken in front of him. “Thank you, Hervey. Some of that Polish vodka, too, if you please.”

“I’ll see to it, Colonel.”

For the first time in months, he was hungry. And that was a good thing. He damned well didn’t wish to end up an invalid again, particularly when he’d just flung a challenge at a very sharp-tongued chit.

The front door of the club opened again. Apparently several Adventurers were feeling less than social this evening. Tolly wondered whether anyone else had kissed a lady and then fled.

“Well, if it ain’t the man and his monkey,” Thomas Easton exclaimed from across the room, and Bartholomew looked up.

He’d seen the imposing Captain Sir Bennett Wolfe on a handful of occasions over the past few weeks, and witnessing the uproar that had accompanied the explorer’s return from Africa had made him exceedingly thankful to have been more or less ignored, even with the whispers over the reason for his survival.

“Left your lady love at home all alone, did you?” Easton continued with a grin.

“I would say you’re less of a fool when you’re sober, Easton,” the captain returned, heading for the wall of bookshelves at the back of the club, “but I’ve never seen you sober.”

“I spent a bloody year in Arabia being sober,” Easton returned. “Never again.”

Sir Bennett searched the shelves for a moment, then pulled a book down. As he turned around his gaze met Bartholomew’s, and he changed direction. “Colonel James,” he said, offering his hand as he stopped at the table. “You’ve been asleep or drinking most times I’ve seen you here, sir.”

Tolly shook his hand, eyeing the young vervet monkey perched on the captain’s shoulder as it eyed him in return. In the month since he’d arrived back in London very few people offered to shake hands with him. It was a social, human gesture, and he frequently felt like neither of those things. “You’ve been chasing disaster, most every time I’ve seen you.”

With a brief grin, Wolfe inclined his head. “I think I’ve finally got it on the run,” he returned.

“I heard you were on your way to Greece.”

“Next week, as a matter of fact.” Hefting the book, the captain backed a step toward the door. “If Sommerset asks, I’ll have this back tomorrow. Just verifying some Latin etymologies.”

“You’re writing another book?”

“Eventually. This is actually to settle a wager I made with my wife.” The captain gave a mock scowl. “I have the sneaking suspicion that Phillipa is going to win. She generally does.”

Bartholomew settled for nodding as Bennett Wolfe left the club again. There wasn’t much he could say in reply other than “good luck,” but from his expression the captain seemed perfectly content with the idea of losing.

Perfectly content. On occasion, in the past, he’d felt that way. Like sleep, it was something he imagined he’d never find again. He allowed himself to feel envious for a brief moment, then returned to his dinner.

Theresa Weller enjoyed dancing. Aside from that, she was a favorite among her fellows, and her feet seemed barely to touch the floor even when she was standing still. If nothing else, he was irretrievably earthbound.

It had only been a kiss, anyway. Two kisses. If he hadn’t surprised her, he more than likely wouldn’t have managed it. And if he’d been solid on his feet, he imagined that she would have kicked or slapped him for taking such a liberty.

He rubbed at his temple. If he could capture some sleep for a damned change, at least his mind would be more solid. And then he would realize that he had already spent too much time contemplating a bloody kiss, that before his last assignment in India he’d been a quite competent and sought-after lover, and that perhaps he’d only needed that one last kiss to bid his old life farewell.

Belatedly he remembered that he’d neglected to stop at the Society Club for any messages. He wasn’t likely to have any, however, so it could wait until tomorrow. Simple enough—except that he then had to wonder if Stephen would invite him again for dinner, and if the cousin of Stephen’s new wife would be attending.

With a curse he downed the dregs of his glass and shoved to his feet. A little temptation served him right. Some of his men—his dead men—had left behind wives and children. Those soldiers wouldn’t be dreaming of kissing or holding anyone again. Which made him what, lucky? He limped to the club’s rear door and shouldered it open. If he didn’t get his left boot off now, he would have to sleep in it again.

Yes, that was him—lucky. And cursed. Under the circumstances, the one deserved the other. And neither left any room for the temptation of a sharp-tongued, kissable chit.

 

For someone who could barely put both feet on the ground, Colonel Bartholomew James was exceedingly elusive, Theresa decided. A pair of stolen kisses and then…nothing. For two days, it was as if he’d never existed at all.

“Whatever are you thinking about?” Lord Lionel Humphreys asked from beside her. “I’ve never seen you so quiet.”

That was only because she always had to carry the conversation when Lord Lionel came to call, and she hadn’t felt up to it this morning. “I was only wondering how long this fine weather will last,” she improvised. “What say we go for a drive and enjoy it?”

“I—well, I rode to Weller House. On a horse.”

She bounced to her feet. “Even better. I’ll have Cleopatra saddled while I run upstairs and change.” She summoned Ramsey and gave the butler her instructions.

“But I—that is, I thought we might chat a bit. You and I.”

Oh, dear. “We can chat while we ride,” she said over her shoulder, not slowing her flight through the door and to the staircase. At least out of doors she would have something else with which to distract herself.

“But I—I had something particular to say to you, Tess.”

Her maid, Sally, who’d been sitting unobtrusively in the corner of the morning room, made a choking sound but didn’t look up. Keeping a smile pasted on her own face, Theresa stopped and turned around. So Lionel had chosen this morning to deliver his marriage proposal. As if she could seriously consider marrying anyone who could barely put three syllables together without having to stop and re-measure his words.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “but it’s Wednesday. I never have serious conversations on Wednesdays.”

“Yes, you do.”

For heaven’s sake, she was attempting to spare the man’s feelings. He was attractive enough, and wealthy enough, she supposed, but as far as she was concerned he lacked a bit in the brain area. And that would be difficult to look past—as would be the fact that she didn’t love him. The thought of marrying him had never seriously crossed her mind.

“Well, I don’t today,” she returned, hurrying on up the stairs. “It’s far too pretty outside to remain in here for any reason.”

“Oh. Very well.”

Stifling a sigh, Theresa returned to her bedchamber. As she dug through the wardrobe for her forest green riding habit, she heard Sally enter the room behind her. “You’re not supposed to laugh when a gentleman makes to propose to me.”

“I apologize, Miss Tess,” the maid said, pulling out the dressing table chair for her. “But I wasn’t laughing; I was only surprised. I thought Lord Lionel and Lord Montrose were friends.”

“So did I. Perhaps Lionel only means to deduce my feelings toward Alexander.”

She took a moment to consider that. It was possible; Lionel was definitely more of a follower, so if Alexander had asked him to be an intermediary, he would likely do so. On the other hand, Lionel could be suitor number five to propose to her this Season.

“If I’m not being too forward, Miss Tess, have any of the handsome young gentlemen caught your eye yet?”

“You are being too forward, Sally, and they’ve all caught my eye. Montrose dances well, John Kelly has a very sharp wit, Lord Lionel is very handsome, Richard Bromford has a superior stable and, well, you see? They’re all quite acceptable. It’s just that none of them are exceptional.” She hid a frown. It wasn’t their fault. Any of them. “Or perhaps I’m simply not ready yet to decide.”

“It is better to have too many choices than too few, I think.”

Theresa shook herself. “Indeed it is.” There was that third trail of reasoning, of course, the one she traveled alone; they all thought they knew her, and she didn’t agree. Laughing, chatting, dancing, dressing prettily—that was all they saw, and all they required. And all they expected.

No one other than her immediate family members even challenged or argued with her. That was the way she wanted it. She paused as she stepped into her riding habit. Tolly James argued, and he kissed. The question remained, though, whether that made him challenging or merely unpleasant. And that was only one of the questions she had about him.

For instance, if he liked her enough to kiss her, why had he then disappeared for two days rather than come calling? That was not how things were done. Theresa blew out her breath, straightening her spine as Sally came around to button up the back of her dress. Why the devil did she even care if he made another appearance or not? He’d been rude and forward, and he had yet to say anything nice to her except for the pedestrian comment about her hair.

“There you are, Miss Tess. All set.”

“Thank you, Sally. Have my lavender gown pressed for this evening, will you? I think it and those silver hair ribbons will show well at the Ridgemont soiree tonight.”

“Oh, yes! I’ll see to it right away.”

Lord Lionel seemed to have given up on the idea of speaking with her privately, because when she returned downstairs he was already out on the front drive waiting with the groom and her bay mare.

“Thank you, Wallace,” she said, as the groom handed her up and then mounted his own horse to accompany them. “What do you say to St. James’s Park, Lionel?”

“Why not Hyde Park?”

“Oh, it’s so crowded at this time of day.”

The Marquis of Quilby’s second son swung up on his chestnut gelding. “As you wish, Tess.”

So now he was humoring her, more than likely because he was annoyed that she hadn’t given him the chance to ask her about marriage. She was only attempting to save his blasted self-respect. Of course he had such an overblown sense of his own—or Montrose’s—irresistibility that he had no idea she was actually being kind. Of course she could never allow him to realize either of those points.

Theresa smiled. “And you will now tell me the names of everyone you know who will be attending the Ridgemont soiree tonight.”

His expression lifted a little as they trotted down the drive. “Everyone?”

“Absolutely everyone.”

She almost immediately regretted making the request, but it did give him something to say. And it therefore allowed her to enjoy the ride and the remainder of the morning without having to fish about for topics of conversation. Theresa smiled and returned the wave of the trio of Parker-Lyons sisters in their barouche.

Once they reached St. James’s Park she started Cleopatra along the hard-packed earth path that ran beneath the tall stands of oak and ash trees. Yes, this was much more fun than sitting on a sofa and dashing the hopes of a likely suitor before he could realize on his own that they would never, ever suit.

Ahead of them someone on a big gray horse rode across the path at a breakneck pace, winding in and out of the trees with a speed and precision that only the finest of riders could manage. It wasn’t a particularly safe endeavor considering the number of carriages and pedestrians about, but horse and rider avoided them all with little apparent effort.

“He’s going to break his neck,” Lionel said from beside her.

She’d forgotten her would-be suitor was even there. “Who is that?”

“Bartholomew James. It’s his gelding, anyw—”

“That?” Theresa pointed at the rider, her jaw nearly dropping. “That is Tolly James? He can barely walk!”

Lionel shrugged. “He ain’t walking.”

She returned her gaze to the rider. “No, he isn’t,” she mused.

As they drew closer she could make out what looked like a tightly wrapped sheath of leather around his left knee, from mid-thigh to mid-calf. Considering how much a rider used his knees, especially on twists and turns such as those he and his horse were engaging in, Colonel James must have been in extreme pain. And yet he continued his bruising ride.

“Maybe he’s been looking for sympathy and he’s not as crippled as he pretends.” Lionel stopped half in front of her, blocking her view of the colonel. “The East India Company don’t like stories of men getting murdered, regardless. He’d best watch himself.”

Theresa had seen enough. “Let’s go, shall we?” Clucking at Cleopatra, she turned the mare away.

A heartbeat later Colonel James and his splendid dark gray horse thundered up on her—then came to a sliding, grinding stop. “Good morning, Miss Weller.”

For a bare second she felt breathless, quite unable to remember what she was supposed to say. Hatless, his too-long dark hair tossed by the wind, his great-coat flared out behind him, his whiskey gold eyes alight, he looked absolutely mesmerizing. She shook herself. “Colonel.”

“Were you out looking for me?”

“I should say not.” For a second she glared at him. Clearly he was attempting to unsettle her. “Though I am forced to observe,” she continued aloud, “that if you can ride this well, surely you can manage a dance. Or at least a social call.”

Before he could respond to that, she sent Cleopatra into a trot. She hardly noticed when Lionel caught up to her and resumed his recitation of the evening’s guest list. That should do it. She couldn’t think of a way to make it more obvious to Bartholomew James that he interested her without standing straight up and saying it. And ladies did not do such things.