What a Gentleman Desires (20 page)

“Don’t twist my words, Valentine. It would be a punishment for both of us. You didn’t deliberately see me in my unfortunate... I’m not going to repeat that.”

“I knew I wouldn’t do this right,” Valentine said, pulled nearly into a ditch by the showy pair as the mail coach went racing by. He really should be concentrating on the road ahead, instead of trying to remember what stupid thing he’d said that had begun this less than helpful conversation. “Do you want me to tell you I love you beyond reason? I could do that, but we’d both know that isn’t possible. As you said yourself, for all we’ve been through, we barely know each other.”

She smiled at him, and somewhere inside he felt something break into small pieces. “I think you’re too much the gentleman for your own good. Didn’t Mr. Piffkin say rescuing damsels in distress is in your bailiwick?”

“Yes, Kate’s told me that a time or ten herself. However, if that’s the case, let me press my gentlemanly advantage. There’s also your sister to consider. She may be much improved from the night we first found her, but what happened to her isn’t something someone gets past all that quickly. She’ll be more than simply accepted at Redgrave Manor. I know my family. She’ll be cared for, most assiduously, I’m sure, by Trixie. She’ll have the time she needs to put the past behind her. As my fiancée’s sister, there’s no questioning why she stays with us indefinitely.”

Her question surprised him, but not for long. After all, Daisy was a commonsensible person.

“You live at your brother’s estate?”

Valentine considered the question from her point of view. He was a younger son, the youngest son at that. Some would think him the poor relation, sponging off his brother’s largesse, holding out his hand for his quarterly allowance. Or lazy. Or both.

“I don’t believe I live anywhere, actually, having never seen the need,” he admitted. “I spend time at Redgrave Manor, or at the mansion in London, and sometimes with Trixie, when she laments that she’s just an old woman, alone in the world. But for the most part, I’ve been traveling ever since I left school. Scotland, the Continent, Greece, even Russia. First on a Grand Tour, and then on the occasional assignment for the Crown, although you could pretend not to have heard that part.”

“Happily, yes.”

“You’ll probably want a residence of your own, won’t you? An estate, and perhaps a town house or at least a flat for the Season? My brother Gideon may have inherited the earldom, but thanks to our mother’s dowry and Trixie’s financial brilliance over the years until Max and I reached our majorities, he and Kate and I are probably what you would term odiously wealthy in our own rights.”

“You could be rich as Croesus and own a dozen castles and it makes no difference. I’m not marrying you, Valentine.”

“Even for Rose?”

She lifted her chin. “Shame on you. And before you say anything else, the subject is closed.”

Silence you could slice with a knife. Profound and even portentous silence. Eerie silence.

He’d forgotten one.

The
guilty
silence that remained throughout most of the entirety of the journey, including one decidedly unpleasant stop for luncheon, was so loud inside Valentine’s head he was tempted to clap his hands over his ears to keep it out.

But now they were close to London, and to Trixie, who never failed to sniff out every secret. Not that a blind man wouldn’t notice if Daisy still refused to speak to him. She’d never needed those spectacles in order to be taken seriously. Oh, no. Miss Daisy Marchant could probably successfully halt a charging elephant in its tracks with just a glance.

God, how he adored her. He didn’t know why he did, which was one of the reasons he hadn’t declared his undying love or whatever women expected to hear, but he adored her. She was everything he never knew he wanted or needed.

He shouldn’t have lied. He shouldn’t have said he didn’t love her, believing she’d find such a declaration difficult to swallow on such short acquaintance. Instead, Cupid had conked him over the head with his shovel, and Valentine had used it to dig a hole and toss himself into it.

Now what? Maybe Trixie had an idea.

Wait a moment.

Trust Trixie to have an idea even marginally connected to common sense? Was he out of his mind? Was that what love did to people?

“Daisy?”

“No,” she answered shortly, holding on to her bonnet in the breeze.

“You didn’t know what I was going to ask.”

“I don’t
care
what you were going to ask. The answer is no.”

He pushed on, working under the premise he may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb: “I care for
you
. Very much.”

Silence.

“I said, I care for you, Daisy. Very much.”

She looked over at him, and then looked away. “You’re impossible.”

“Not really. Anything’s possible, if you just apply yourself. I’m going to apply myself to hearing you say yes. You won’t be able to resist me.”

“I’m resisting you now, with barely any effort.”

“Ah, but you’re weakening. Resistance is futile when I apply myself. Just ask Piffkin.”

Now, unfortunately, he had her full attention. “That’s it, isn’t it? Mr. Piffkin told Rose that you wanted me alone with you so that you could propose. That’s why she didn’t object to traveling without me. She’ll be expecting me to be delirious with happiness while feeling her own future secure. I told you how she’s terrified of being penniless and alone. And you did it all on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Not really, no,” he answered honestly. “I’d foolishly thought you’d see reason and say yes. But now that you’ve pointed it out to me, I suppose you could come to that conclusion. I think a July nuptial would be pleasant, don’t you?”

Silence prevailed once more, but this was even one more variety of silence, and almost enjoyable. This time the silence was because he felt he’d rather left Daisy with nothing to say. Not that he wouldn’t pay for his momentary victory at some point, which was another reason he adored her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I
T
WAS
THE
bone structure, Daisy concluded. Many a young debutante was apple-cheeked and fetching, or shy and winsome and winning. Youth didn’t last, and superficial beauty faded along with it. But not bone structure. That was forever, and the dowager countess of Saltwood had been sculpted by a master artist.

Her brow bones were high and clearly defined above huge, bright eyes, her nose thin and straight; patrician, one would suppose. And that jawline was a marvel, only slightly square, and with no sign of allowing the flawless skin covering it permission to sag.

Trixie Redgrave was petite, curvaceously slim, wore her blond hair in becoming ringlets strung with jewels and, good Lord, painted her toenails. She reclined on a one-sided lounge chair fashioned of white brocade satin, her gown a marvel of pleats and tucks of blue silk that perfectly matched her eye color. Her slim throat and wrists and fingers were adorned with diamonds and aquamarines that dazzled beneath the light of the several chandeliers in the drawing room at Cavendish Square.

The ring on her negligently dangling right hand, her right arm perfectly posed along the back of the single side of the lounge, held a diamond as large as the proverbial goose egg.

Daisy was certain she was seeing a well-practiced pose. She mentally conceded it was a most effective one.

Trixie arranged the last bit of pleat over her bent knees. “Ah, and now that’s over, my dramatic entrance. Impressed?”

“Possibly overwhelmed, my lady,” Daisy answered honestly from her seat on a soft-bottomed damask chair that was helping her forget the curricle seat. She’d been sitting here primly for more than an hour, taking an occasional small sip from a glass of lemonade at her elbow, before her ladyship had floated into the room on the scent of something elusive but delicious, and had risen only to curtsy before the dowager countess arranged herself daintily on the lounge.

“No you’re not. If anything, you’re faintly amused. I believe we’ll rub along quite well. I apologize for keeping you waiting, Daisy—I’ll call you Daisy because Valentine does—but all of this takes more than a bit of time to accomplish, and I was only stepping out of my bath when told of your arrival,” Trixie said with a sweep of her arm that indicated her person, head to toe. “Even the chandelier above our heads is fitted with specially made candles that cast a faintly pink glow. Harsh lights and sun directly on your skin are a woman’s worst enemies, especially as you age. A lesson my granddaughter steadfastly refuses to learn. You’ve been made comfortable?”

“Yes, my lady, thank you. I’m both fed and rested. Val—Mr. Redgrave has gone out, I believe to Grosvenor Square, where he hopes to see his brother Mr. Maximillien Redgrave. His note promises his swift return.”

“Val’s on a fool’s errand if he’s looking for Max. Richard and I only just returned to town ourselves yesterday, but as far as I know, the boy is still being exceedingly good at being a very bad boy on the Continent. I imagine that’s a hum and he’s really gone to see Lord Perceval, most probably to rub his nose in some grand accomplishment, which would do Spencer good, to my way of thinking. Valentine has had a grand accomplishment, hasn’t he? Other than you, my dear, whom he suggested I will enjoy greatly. I believe you’re to be
my
grand accomplishment. Have you ever worn pink? With that particular shade of red hair, the effect could be stunning.”

“I’m a governess, my lady. Pink of any shade is out of the question.”

“Yes, but a governess no more, correct?”

“To hear your grandson tell it, yes. I strongly disagree.”

There was a faint, one might believe amused cough from the doorway as the butler entered, carrying a single glass of wine on a silver tray. He bowed over the dowager countess and she accepted the glass. “Thank you, Soames. Delightful, isn’t she? Not his usual sort at all, which may account for some of the attraction. Either that, or our prayers have been answered and our little boy has finally grown up. This should be grand fun.”

Daisy considered her options. Stomping from the room in high dudgeon was briefly considered, but just as quickly abandoned. Pretending she hadn’t heard or understood was ridiculous. Which left changing the subject entirely her final option. Unfortunately, she could think of only one other subject.

“The statues lining that imposing curved staircase leading up from the street, ma’am. When I noticed them upon our arrival, Mr. Redgrave informed me there’s a story behind them, although many wish there were fig leaves in front of them.”

“Val in particular. My late and exceedingly unlamented husband had the commissioning of the statues. Fig leaves are the invention of the prudish, you know. The ancient Greek and Roman statues these were carved to represent were meant to be a celebration of the heroic male. They’re works of art. That’s what I tell those who ask. But to be honest, it’s great fun to see my male guests embarrassed by the truth. There’s really nothing less impressive than, shall we say, an
uninspired
manhood.”

“Trixie, you promised!”

Daisy watched as Valentine all but stomped into the room in much the way she had considered stomping out, and laughed. “Don’t climb up into the boughs, for goodness’ sake,” she told him. “I’m a governess. I’ve studied anatomy.”

“Not the way this one has,” Valentine grumbled, kissing his grandmother’s prettily offered cheek and then sitting down beside her as she tucked her bent legs a bit more to provide him room. “I haven’t returned a moment too soon. Next you’ll be regaling Daisy with one of your many exploits.”

Trixie began lightly rubbing her hand up and down Valentine’s upper arm. The shared affection was wonderfully obvious. “Which one, pet? Do you have anything particular in mind?”

“I’ve got several I’m still attempting to
banish
from my mind.” He turned slightly to look at his grandmother more closely. “You’re going out? At this hour?”

“Would you listen to him, Daisy? They’re all the same, too. As if they were the adult and I were the child. Yes, dear, I’m going out. Richard and I are promised to Imogene for a late dinner with her son, Simon, the Viscount Roxbury, you know. I believe I’m to assist her in marrying him off. Or was that in
not
marrying him off? Yes, that’s it. Imogene is in no hurry to become the dowager viscountess.”

“Whatever. Surely you can cry off, Trixie.”

“I could, but you’d only want to keep this poor girl sitting here while you tell me how you met, what you did and how much trouble you’ve caused the Society, while she clearly longs for her bed. Don’t you, dear?”

“Thank you, ma’am, yes.” Daisy did her best to not allow her shock to show. The dowager countess knew Valentine and his brothers were hunting the Society—and approved? She looked to Valentine, and smiled sweetly. “Perhaps you and I can have a dish of tea before I gratefully retire.”

“There, it’s settled, even as I recognize Richard’s footsteps on the stairs.” Trixie gave Valentine a small push to dislodge him and got to her feet with an alacrity not usually shown by ladies of a certain age. “You’ll both breakfast with me tomorrow at ten, in my rooms.”

As Daisy got to her feet, dropping into a curtsy, Valentine lifted his grandmother’s hand to his lips and kissed her. “Tomorrow at eleven, right here. I’ve heard enough about your bedchamber to not want to see it.”

“I told you, Daisy. A prude. Honestly, I don’t know where I went wrong with the boy. Behave yourselves if you must. Goodnight, children, I’m off!”

* * *

“W
ELL
,
THAT
WAS
more than faintly excruciating,” Valentine said after procuring himself a glass of wine from the drinks table. He downed half its contents in two gulps before leaving the glass behind as he returned to stand in front of Daisy. “Let’s go upstairs to your chambers and talk.”

“I think not.”

He tried a boyish smile. “I promise to behave myself.”

“I don’t. I’m still longing to box your ears. You’re much safer here. Your grandmother wishes to see me in pink.”

Valentine put his hands behind his back, considering the idea. He couldn’t see Daisy in pink. He’d rather gotten used to her in brown, which was not at all possible anymore. “She wanted my sister to stop wearing her riding habit to the dinner table. Would you care to guess who won that battle? A word of advice, Daisy. Let her win if losing isn’t all that earthshakingly bad, because there will be times you need to win.”

“And yet you wonder why I wonder why you brought me here. She’s marvelous, really, your grandmother. But perhaps just in small doses?”

“I can’t explain Trixie to you, because we’re none of us able to see inside her head. But I already told you that my grandfather began the Society. You already know Mailer routinely turned his wife over to the other members of the Society. Now, much as I’d rather you not, think what that implies. Trixie was my grandfather’s perhaps fourteen-year-old bride—she really never says the same age twice. My father took up the reins in his turn, until my mother shot him. We can’t ask her why she did it because she’s dead, but I believe we can all guess why. Trixie, my mother, the wives of all the members, they were handed around at those damn
ceremonies
like party favors.”

“Valentine, stop, please.”

“Not yet. My grandmother, my mother, your sister and only God knows how many more, all victims of the Society. We’re involved because we feel responsible for much of what happened in the past and because this third incarnation of the Society has dared to use Redgrave land for some of its activities. And yes, because no one knows of our family’s past involvement, and we’d prefer to keep it that way.
Now
do you agree to go upstairs to your chamber so we can speak more privately?”

“I agree to allowing you to continue as you escort me to my chamber, but that’s all.” Daisy was doing her best to assimilate everything Valentine had just told her. Most striking, and most sad, was that his mother had murdered his father. “You didn’t witness it, did you? Your father’s demise?”

Valentine took her hand in his; he could tell she was feeling sorry for a little boy now grown. “No. It happened a long time ago, when I was still in the nursery with Kate. I really don’t remember either of them. Trixie has been the only constant in any of our lives. Trixie, each other and Redgrave Manor.”

“All of which you now consider to be under attack.” Daisy was surprised to find herself on the stairs; her legs must have moved of their own volition. “You can’t allow the Society to be traced back to its source. You’re not working for the Crown, or Lord Perceval. You’re working for the Redgraves. No wonder you were so upset when you believed I was sent to Fernwood as some sort of spy, or something.”

“You make a tolerably good spy, by the way.”

They’d turned the corner at the top of the stairs, and headed down the hallway. “But I gave up too soon. I stayed at Fernwood hoping to find evidence against Lord Mailer, but I had already told myself Rose was lost to me. I may never forgive myself for that. My loss of heart. If you hadn’t come along?” She sighed as he opened the door to her chambers. “If you hadn’t come along, Valentine, my sister very well could have been dead by now.”

She looked around the chamber. “And why are you still here? Is there more I don’t know?”

“Indeed there is.” Valentine took himself over to the high tester bed and rather gracefully launched himself onto it, landing on his back at the same time he tucked his bent arms behind his head against the pillows. “Mailer kept a journal. Remind me never to do anything so silly, please. At any rate, I discovered it in his study once he was dead. He had plans for your sister.”

He patted the mattress next to him. “You may want to sit down.”

“I believe I’d rather stand.” Daisy couldn’t take her eyes off him. In her bed, or at least
on
it. Lying there in all his handsomeness and tousled hair and devilish smile, his ankles crossed, completely at his ease. How wonderful it must be to have such confidence in oneself, to be able to give oneself over to relaxation. She’d never felt capable of letting down her guard that way; not Miss Proper, Miss Straight-back, Miss Prunes and Prisms. “You’re still the only one here who considers us betrothed. Now tell me about Lord Mailer’s plans.”

Valentine jackknifed into a sitting position, his long legs dangling over the side of the bed. “He made a mistake a few months before meeting your sister. In...in the throes of passion, some might say, he managed to choke the life out of one of the female participants. Although titillated—or so Mailer believed—the Society frowned on such a waste of good... Well, we’ll forget that part.”

Now Daisy did sit down on the nearest chair, as her knees were threatening to give way beneath her. That could have been Rose’s fate. “Oh, that poor woman.”

“Yes. They told him to find one woman for himself, keep his hands off the others, and if he lost a second one he could damn well amuse himself by himself— I’m sorry, Daisy. I’m trying, badly, not that there’s a good way, to explain why he took some time to get to know Rose. Because he knew he wasn’t going to just use her, but keep her.”

Daisy dipped her head. “She told me he was the only one, but I doubted her. I thought it made her feel less...less, I don’t know what. And how he’d
visit
her whenever he was in residence on the estate. Other than he, Davinia was the only person she saw between...between meetings. She told me the days were so long, that it was no one but Davinia sometimes for weeks on end, that she’d almost begun to look forward to Mailer’s visits, just to see another human being.”

“Mailer believed himself in love with your sister. But he couldn’t figure out how to get rid of Lady Caroline,” Valentine told her. “His first wife had supposedly slipped and fallen from the cliff, although many thought it either suicide or murder. Those avenues were closed to him. He considered poison, a fall on the stairs. Much as she feared the meetings, I’m sure her ladyship feared Rose more, for she had to know she was looking at her replacement. Passing his wife around to all and sundry, while keeping himself only to Rose.”