Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 03] Page 4

  “But then I should have to bar you all, for I know nothing more about you than I do about him.” She stood and held out her hand. “Mr. Blythe-Goodman.”

  “If that’s even his name,” Mr. Eames muttered.

  Mr. Blythe-Goodman approached her and bent over her hand. Blimey, he was tall.

  Julia immediately heard Aldus in her mind. “Don’t say ‘blimey,’ Julia. Say ‘goodness!’ or ‘heavens!’.”

  The reminder of Aldus pierced her sharply. She must have paled, for Mr. Eames cried out. “Lady Barrowby, are you ill?”

  Bloody hell. Not more notes! She shook her head quickly. “No, do not concern yourself! I am quite well! It is only that I—” There was no reason to hide it. “I was only thinking of his lordship.”

  All the gentlemen murmured sympathetic things, but Julia caught a flash of something else in Mr. Blythe-Goodman’s expression. It was gone before she could define it, but it made her uncomfortable.

  Marcus gazed at the woman coolly, then released her hand and stepped back.

  He’d been warned. He ought to have known that if Lord Liverpool waxed eloquent about a woman’s beauty—eloquent for Liverpool—that she would be truly extraordinary.

  Extraordinary didn’t even begin to cover it.

  Exquisite. Perfect. Dazzling. All applied, yet none portrayed the additional attributes that kept this motley crowd of men coming back for the crumbs of her attention.

  Voluptuous. Graceful—in a coiled-spring sort of way, like a feline at rest. Jaw-dropping.

  Arousing.

  Oh, yes. That word said it all quite well. Before them all stood the single most arousing woman Marcus had ever had the painful pleasure of being gobsmacked by the sight of.

  The miniature in his pocket must be years old, the image of a mere girl. Before him now was a creature who was entirely a woman.

  She was demurely clad in deepest mourning and, until now, Marcus had never seen a woman who wasn’t washed to a sickly pallor by that particular dull black. On Lady Barrowby, the drab color only made her golden hair shine more brightly and her fine, alabaster skin gleam like moonlight.

  She’d worked the moment nicely as well, with the touching declaration of mourning and the tears that had misted her eyes just enough to make them shine. She was very lovely, the picture of bereaved grace and elegance.

  That didn’t mean she wasn’t lying.

  “Tell me, Mr. Blythe-Goodman, what brings you to our far corner of Derbyshire? Are you here on business?”

  Marcus leaned back casually on the sofa. “I’m interested in a position that has recently become available.”

  Well, that was refreshing. Most gentlemen abhorred the very idea of actual work, although most of them surely would end up taking some sort of employment if they couldn’t marry well.

  Then it struck her that he was making reference to taking Aldus’s place as her husband. His arrogance irritated her anew. She lifted a brow. “I’m sure there are others in pursuit of such a choice position. I do hope you are not out of your league.”

  For some reason this made him flush darkly, the most honest reaction she’d seen yet. Could she have been mistaken? If he was actually in pursuit of employment, her comment was unforgivable. Julia looked away. She’d not meant to injure him.

  She wished he would smile again. One of his front teeth was slightly imperfect. She liked that chipped tooth. It said, “I am a man, not merely a pretty plaything.”

  Not that she would be playing—nothing of the sort!

  Oh, dear. The timing of Mr. Blythe-Goodman’s arrival into her life was dreadful. There was so much at stake right now. She could not afford such an exceptional distraction!

  If only he had come … well … never.

  3

  His riveted gaze reminds me of a hunting beast with the prey in sight. Oh, let me be your quarry …

  Marcus was having a bit of difficulty concentrating on what Lady Barrowby was saying to her paramours.

  Above her modest neckline he could see the bounty of her breasts still swelling, as if the bodice were a bit too tight. In addition, the waist was cinched more than the current classically draped fashion dictated, so that the curve of her rounded hips was revealed to a group of men who hadn’t seen a woman’s waist since boyhood.

  Although Marcus’s own mother had worn such a fashion, it suddenly seemed a deliberate tease aimed at his entire generation. A woman’s true shape, revealed!

  Perhaps the style will catch on, he found himself fervently wishing.

  “God, I hope so,” whispered the man standing next to him.

  Marcus clenched his jaw tight. Had he actually spoken aloud without thinking?

  She would not surprise another such response from him. He forced himself to look at her with detachment. Was it her large, heavily lashed blue eyes that drew the other men, or the perfection of her even features? Her cheekbones were high enough to be coolly Slavic, but her eyes had a sleepy downward slant that made one think of damp, rumpled bedsheets that smelled of sex.

  That is, if one were susceptible to that sort of thing.

  Then again, it might be those full, pink lips that she moved with the slightest extra emphasis when she spoke, as if she savored the feeling of the words—which was a ridiculous notion, indeed. Her speech was merely a bit slower than Marcus was accustomed to, having recently spent weeks in the company of those sprightly chatterboxes, the Ladies Greenleigh and Reardon.

  Ladies, indeed, through and through, unlike the seductively catlike Lady Barrowby, who looked as though she could bed an entire battalion of soldiers and then walk away from their spent bodies looking cool as buttermilk.

  To his astonishment, Marcus was angry. He could feel his fists balling at his sides and cold fury eating at his gut. He’d meant to come to Barrowby and charm its lady, gain her confidence, endear himself with flattery and blandishments, much the way Elliot had.

  He couldn’t do it. There was far too much at stake for him to achieve that kind of distance. For years he had waited and worked for his chance, sacrificing more than he even wanted to think about—and this mendacious beauty was trying to steal it away. What had she to offer the Four but trickery and a superior bosom?

  Worse imaginings surfaced. The Falcon, Cobra, and Lion had already seen her, spoken to her, heard her plea for the Fox’s position. They were virile sorts all—and if she affected him thus, what might she have gained from men without his own rivalry-induced resistance?

  For a single breathless moment, his future stretched before him as the protégé of the Lion. Servitude without power, obligation without advantage, forever and once again second best.

  He shook himself slightly. There lay dangerous ground, for the Four were not supposed to look to their own advantage. That was one of the reasons why they were chosen from the highest born, from the ruling class—for there was less likelihood to need social advancement or monetary compensation. It was much more difficult to bribe someone who already had everything.

  And he’d known when he’d taken the Lion’s offer that he was pledging service to a young, healthy man who might well outlive him.

  His gaze fixed on the source of his fury where she sat allowing Elliot to tease a smile from her “I devour men for breakfast” lips.

  Instantly her face was transformed by a gamine’s grin, changing her from unattainable, if exquisite, statuary to a warm accessible female.

  Every man in the room held his breath. Marcus felt his own chest grow tight and forced himself to exhale.

  Old Barrowby might have fallen for her wiles, more the fool he, but Marcus was on to her game. She would find that her claws had no purchase on his flesh.

  Her soft laugh crossed the room to crawl beneath the skin on the back of his neck. His mind might be resolute against her but his body wasn’t listening very well. He could feel the glow of her beauty on his flesh like the heat of the hearth fire behind him. Appallingly, he felt his groin swell.

  He stepped away
from the mantel—too bloody warm over there anyway—and strode to look out the window onto the chill, gray day. Rather, he aimed his vision in that direction, but he found his gaze caught by the golden reflection of her sitting in the lamplight. The wavering glass did not reproduce her exactly, thank God, allowing Marcus’s body to submit to his will once more.

  He toyed idly with a decorative box that rested on a side table, distracting himself with the intricate inlay until his heart slowed and his cravat did not feel quite so tight.

  At last he felt able to turn back to the party in the room, only to find her gaze fixed on him.

  “Is it too warm in here for you, Mr. Blythe-Goodman?”

  Marcus met her curious gaze with measured calm at last. “Fret not, my lady. I find the atmosphere most congenial.”

  “The atmosphere is, but you are not.” Elliot was also gazing at him curiously. “Have you spoken more than ten words since entering this house?”

  Marcus shot Elliot a glance. “I just did.”

  Lady Barrowby smiled at that. Marcus felt a momentary flash of ridiculous pride that he had brought it into being once more. He strangled that emotion and buried it deep.

  “Mr. Blythe-Goodman, I must correct you,” she said with a subtly teasing tone. “That was precisely ten words, not ‘more than ten.’ “

  The measured melody of her voice threatened to inspire a permanent craving for it within Marcus. He could well see why she had such a following of devoted suitors. She was an actress of the highest caliber, to know precisely what would most appeal to a particular man. She was truly waxing professional over Elliot now.

  Marcus burned to know why.

  You mean, why is she paying attention to Elliot and not you?

  Very well, if Elliot had already claimed the role of fawning, inoffensive charmer, then Marcus would take on the part of rousing, haughty challenger.

  He bowed. “Very well. I accede to your superior tallying ability, my lady.” His words replied appropriately enough to her gentle ridicule, but his tone said he doubted she could count above ten without the removal of her shoes.

  Clearly taken aback, Elliot seemed without words for once.

  Lady Barrowby’s blue eyes flashed icy warning and Marcus was rewarded by her full and complete attention, just as he’d wanted—er, required—for his mission, of course.

  “As long as you realize your inferiority, Mr. Blythe-Goodman, then we shall have no disagreement.”

  He met her gaze with arrogant assurance. “Did I not already denounce my own error? Or should I call for a recount, simply to be sure?”

  “Are you sure you can survive the strain?” she said tartly. “I fear the effects of such heavy labor on your alleged mind.”

  Marcus could feel the eyes of the other men upon them, watching them volley words, but her ladyship’s attention seemed entirely focused on him. Excellent. “My mind is quite present, my lady, I assure you.”

  “Oh, really?” A fine brow arched high. “I see no evidence of such. What have you to prove this?”

  “My mind is telling me that you are of four-and-twenty years, your accent comes from the south of England, and your butler’s is from the Sicilian Alps.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I am but three-and-twenty, thank you.” Then she shrugged and let a rueful smile cross her expression. “Until two weeks from tomorrow.”

  Amid a burst of birthday congratulations—good God, could those fellows be any more obsequious?—Marcus found himself once more at the point of her ladyship’s surprisingly focused attention.

  “All of that could have been gathered from common talk in the village,” she retorted. “Does a propensity for gossip now equal intelligence? If so, I must promote my lady’s maid to replace the Dean of Oxford.”

  The crowd murmured their appreciation for her jab. Both Marcus and Lady Barrowby ignored them. “There are other things my mind tells me,” he replied. “However, I do not discuss a lady’s personal business before other gentlemen.”

  “Meaning you discuss it before other ladies? Or perhaps you mean before men who are not gentlemen.” Her tone was that of a teacher to a slow student.

  Marcus felt his face darken and tamped down on his temper. He would not allow her to control this discourse, no matter how ridiculous the turn of it.

  “I mean that if I were to discuss the fact that you are wearing another woman’s mourning dress, then I would not be behaving like a gentleman.”

  She started slightly at his revelation, then raised her chin. “Mine are still being made,” she said calmly. “This gown belonged to Lord Barrowby’s first wife.”

  Elliot and the others turned back to Marcus with looks of “dare you to make something of that?” in their eyes, but he saw a new respect rising in Lady Barrowby’s gaze. If nothing else, she knew the value of good observation.

  Respect was not enough. He needed to get closer, to find out more, to discover her weaknesses and gain proof of her manipulations.

  So he smiled at her just the way he’d wanted to when he’d made her laugh.

  Oh, my. Julia blinked. If Mr. Blythe-Goodman was a fine-looking fellow when he was sulking, then he was a veritable god when smiling. She touched one hand to the back of her neck.

  If she’d ever thought him dark and remote, she’d been wrong. His green eyes had sparked when she’d teased him and the intensity of his regard had made the other men disappear, even her friend Mr. Elliot.

  He was less distant than he was … caged? Yes, that was it. He reminded her of a wild creature long caged—one with eroding patience, waiting for its opportunity to escape. Not tame, never docile, merely endlessly, ruthlessly patient …

  What a fancy. Mr. Blythe-Goodman was nothing more than another handsome young gentleman without means of his own, looking for a rich wife to see him clear of his debts.

  From his attitude so far, he didn’t even like her!

  Abruptly, she tired of the verbal sparring and glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. Heavens, was it so late?

  She stood. The gentlemen leaped to their feet as well.

  “I fear I must now return to attending my duties,” she said politely. “It was lovely of you all to call.”

  Eames and Stuckey backed out at once. Elliot lingered a moment, sending her a considering glance. “I am glad you were able to spare so much time for us today,” he said, but his tone and expression implied that he was not entirely happy about it.

  Julia had never spent more than a quarter of an hour in their company before. She was appalled to realize that she had been conversing with Mr. Blythe-Goodman almost exclusively for much longer than that. Elliot was clearly sorry he’d brought his friend along and Julia wasn’t much happier about it.

  Her life had no room for diversion.

  The journey down the hedge-lined road back to the inn promised to be a quiet one for Marcus, at least until Elliot opened his mouth.

  “What possessed you to be so rude to her ladyship?”

  Elliot was furious with him, Marcus could tell. Perhaps it was the way Elliot kept shooting deadly glares at him as they kept apace on their ride back to the village. Or perhaps it was the enraged silence that had lasted so blissfully until this moment.

  Marcus remained bland. “Was I? So sorry.”

  “It isn’t I you should be apologizing to, you lout! What a thing to say, about her wearing another woman’s gown! How could you be so sure of such a thing, anyway?”

  “Tight bodice, twenty years out of fashion, an inch of unmatched fabric added to the hem,” Marcus replied easily.

  “The hem? The hem? What sort of man are you? With such a creature before your gaze, you were looking at her hem?”

  Marcus sighed. He ought to allow Elliot to doubt his masculinity. There was value in being underestimated but it rankled to leave it.

  “I noticed the entire set of attributes, Elliot, which is how I remarked the bodice was too tight.” He couldn’t resist another dig. “She ought to have added anot
her inch to that hem, for I saw a pair of very pretty ankles as well.”

  “Humph.” Elliot subsided, although Marcus noted that the fellow looked a bit envious that he’d missed her ladyship’s ankles.

  “Well, be careful,” Elliot continued. “Several of the others are quite upset with your behavior. I’ve no doubt you’ll hear more about it back at the inn.”

  “Oh, dread. The inn.” Marcus pulled his mount to a halt. “I don’t think I can bear another drop of that pig pizzle.”

  “Pig pizzle, eh?” Elliot looked thoughtful. “No, I believe Stuckey already disproved that submission.”

  Marcus made a face. “Then I’ll take his word for it.” He rolled his head on his neck for a moment. Lady Barrowby brought out a new tension in him—surely due to the gravity of his mission. The very future of the Four rested on his shoulders, after all.

  He raised his gaze to see Elliot sitting easily in his elegant but worn saddle, on his elegant but elderly horse, the very picture of a dandy on his last stretched bit of credit.

  “You ought to move on, you know,” Marcus said abruptly. “She isn’t going to wed anyone so soon after her husband’s death. There must be dozens of other ladies who would welcome your suit.”

  Elliot smiled slightly. “Rich ones? Young, lovely rich ones who like me above all the others?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Or used to.” He tilted his head. “How did you do that? How did you know she’d respond to your insult as a challenge and not simply take offense?”

  Because she is so much more than you think she is.

  The thought came from nowhere—and a ridiculous notion it was. She was tricky and cunning, but Marcus could not believe that she was anything more than that. He refused to consider that she might be any sort of real competition for the seat of the Fox.

  “I didn’t,” Marcus said finally. “I simply tired of you lot buzzing about her like flies on taffy. It’s sickening. Have a little dignity, man.”

  He reined his horse around and took the lesser-traveled fork. He glanced back to see Elliot stand in his stirrups.