When the Marquess Met His Match (6 page)

“Does it? I wonder if Elizabeth Mayfield would agree.”

“I doubt it,” he shot back. “She’s probably still cursing me for not being a more compliant potential bridegroom. After being trapped in a compromising situation that was prearranged by her, with the assistance of her mother, and conducted—I might add—under the explicit direction of my father, I was supposed to feel obligated to marry Elizabeth. I did not feel so inclined, much to my father’s annoyance and Elizabeth’s dismay. I realize gossip painted me the villain over it and that my reputation is still in ruins because of it, but as I told you once before, I don’t give a damn what people think of me.”

“You were the victim of manipulation by your own father?”

He laughed at the skepticism in her voice. “It’s obvious you don’t know Landsdowne, or you wouldn’t be so surprised by the notion.”

He leaned forward, bringing his body as close to hers as the table between them would allow, flattening his palms on the polished mahogany surface. “And it’s equally obvious you don’t know Elizabeth. If you did, you might not have been quite so ready to believe the worst about me. You might have paused to consider
her
character, and her mother’s, too. God knows, I wish I had. I’d never intended to be alone with her at my father’s house party. But when she encountered me in the library, even though it was late at night, I didn’t see the harm in both of us looking for books to read at the same time. I was only twenty-one. And I was head over ears in love with someone else at the time, so amorous intrigues with Elizabeth never even entered my head. Call me a fool, but I had no idea she’d hurl herself into my arms just as her mother came through the door.”

Her skeptical expression shifted to one of doubt, whether as to his actions or her own, he wasn’t certain. At this point, he didn’t care.

“That,” he said as he straightened away from the table, “is the true version of the story, regardless of what gossip you might have heard to the contrary. I didn’t know I’d be made for a mug until it was too late, but as I said, I was only twenty-one. You, however, don’t have the excuse of foolish youth for your actions, madam. You could have made further inquiries into the matter, and as a result, perhaps judged me more fairly. But no, you jumped at once to the conclusion that would brand me the worst possible cad because for some reason, it’s what you want to believe about me.”

She bit her lip, her doubtful expression deepening, but after a moment, she rallied, shifting her ground. “Then what was your meaning yesterday when you referred to improper courtship?”

“I’ve no patience with the idiotic rules that govern finding a spouse. The chaperoned walks, the endless rounds of small talk where neither of us can say what we really think on any subject, dinner parties where precedent seats us at opposite ends of the table, whispered snatches of private conversation over sheets of music in the drawing room, dancing no more than twice together at balls—it’s all rot. Nothing I can learn about a woman through society’s stifling interactions will help me decide whether or not I want to marry her. Chaperones are a hindrance to two people getting to know each other, not a help.”

“I see. So you would not compromise a girl on purpose, but you would still risk her reputation to satisfy your own ideas of courtship. And if doing so happened to result in a compromising situation that forced her to marry you, that would be quite convenient for you, wouldn’t it?”

“For God’s sake, I told you, I would never—” He broke off, for he was well and truly at the end of his tether. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made him this angry. He also realized he was starting to defend himself, and he appreciated—too late—that coming here at all had been a strategic mistake.

Hadn’t a lifetime as Landsdowne’s son taught him anything? Defending, explaining, justifying . . . such things did nothing but make one vulnerable. And besides, his intentions, his notions of courtship, and his honor did not need defending. Not to her, and not to anyone.

“Think of me what you will,” he said, and picked up his hat. “Say whatever you like. I am determined to find a wife, despite all your efforts. So do your damnedest to stop me.”

“So I shall.”

“Very well, then.” He donned his hat. “But, by God, I hope you understand what this means?”

“No,” she answered, her elegant dark brows lifting in haughty inquiry. “Enlighten me. What does this mean?”

“War, Lady Featherstone.” He smiled, but as his gaze met hers, the clash of their eyes was like the clang of dueling swords. “This means war.”

Chapter 4

A
s Belinda stared into Lord Trubridge’s tawny hazel eyes, she was reminded again of a lion, one that was cornered and angry. Though there was a smile on his lips, he meant what he said about war, and she knew he would be a formidable opponent.

If his account of the Elizabeth Mayfield incident was true, and if she had indeed misunderstood his comment of yesterday, then she could not deny he had some justification for his anger. Nonetheless, he was still a fortune hunter with notions of courtship that could ruin a girl’s reputation and force her to accept him. In light of that, Belinda made the only reply her conscience would allow. “War it is, then.”

Before he could respond, Jervis entered the drawing room. “Miss Rosalie Harlow,” he announced.

At once, Belinda’s determination gave way to dismay. She turned toward the doorway, but it was too late to stop Rosalie from entering the room. “Oh, last night was such a disaster, I just had to come and tell you—oh!”

She stopped, noticing that Belinda was not alone, and as Trubridge turned toward the door, her eyes widened, and her lips parted a little. When she lifted a fluttering hand to her throat and her parted lips formed a smile, Belinda’s dismay deepened into panic.
Oh, no,
she thought,
no, no, no.

“I didn’t know that you had company,” Rosalie told her without even bothering to glance in her direction. “I’m so sorry. I hope I haven’t committed some awful breach of British etiquette.”

Belinda could not think of a reply. She could only stare, helpless, as the girl tilted her chin down, still smiling, and lifted her gaze to Trubridge’s face in a way that was openly admiring.

Belinda wanted to take her by the arm and haul her out of the room. A lamb like Rosalie in the same room with a predator like Trubridge was a disaster waiting to happen, and she cursed herself for not making that fact clear to the butler yesterday. To make matters worse, when she glanced at the marquess, his profile told her just what he was thinking.

His thick brown lashes lowered as he studied the girl, giving her the same appreciative thoroughness he’d given Belinda the day before. He bowed, and when he straightened, his mouth was curved in that devastating, deceptively boyish smile that would make any girl’s heart sing.

A fierce wave of protectiveness rose up within Belinda. Her lip curled, and only just in time was she able to catch back a most unladylike snarl.

“Not at all,” Trubridge answered the girl, taking advantage of Belinda’s silence to step into the breach. “An interruption as charming as this is always forgivable.” He turned to Belinda. “My dear Lady Featherstone, where have you been hiding this lovely creature?”

She glared at him; but, of course, he was impervious to her hostility.

“Shall you introduce me to your friend?” he asked, everything in his amused face daring her to refuse.

Insufferable man. She could not reject his request for an introduction when he was standing in her own drawing room, and both of them knew it. Left with no choice, she turned to Rosalie. “Miss Harlow, may I present the Marquess of Trubridge to you? Lord Trubridge, Miss Rosalie Harlow.”

If she hoped the heavy disapproval that laced her voice would have any effect on Rosalie, she was disappointed. In fact, it was doubtful the girl even noticed.

“Lord Trubridge?” she cried with lively surprise. “Heavens, you are not at all like I pictured you.” She turned to Belinda. “I don’t understand. I thought you said he was—”

She stopped just in time, heeding Belinda’s frantic shake of the head, and returned her attention to the man before her. “My lord,” she said, remembering her manners and returning his bow with a curtsy. “How do you do?”

Trubridge, of course, couldn’t let the moment pass unremarked. “It sounds as if Lady Featherstone has been talking about me,” he drawled. “How indiscreet of her. What has she been saying, Miss Harlow? Do tell me.”

Rosalie laughed. “I can’t. I’d be breaking a confidence.”

“Ah, but confidences are made to be broken. Isn’t that right, Lady Featherstone?”

Belinda tensed, but thankfully, he didn’t press the point. Instead, he stepped forward, moving closer to the girl.

Belinda was quick to move with him, protective, watchful, and terribly afraid. She strove to think of a way to get Trubridge out of here before he could begin working his wiles on Rosalie, though the expression on the girl’s face told her it might already be too late. Rosalie was staring up at him as if she’d just found a knight in shining armor, but Belinda knew the girl couldn’t be more wrong. If he’d ever possessed a sense of chivalry, Trubridge had lost it long ago.

“I believe I detect a trace of American in your accent, Miss Harlow,” he was saying. “Are you from New York? Or Philadelphia? Or perhaps you are one of those exotic creatures from the hinterlands of the Middle West?”

“Middle West?” Rosalie laughed at that very British turn of phrase. “I am from New York, my lord. Schenectady, to be exact. But I’ve been in France for the past year, at finishing school.”

“And how do you find London?” he asked, taking another long, appreciative glance over her person that made Belinda want to kick him.

“Quieter than I’d expected,” Rosalie answered. “I thought the season here would be more exciting.”

“Well, it has barely started,” he told her. “Things don’t really become lively until after the Royal Exhibition, and that opened yesterday. From now until August, you’ll be happy to know, things will move at a pace that’s absolutely frantic. You won’t be able to catch your breath.”

Jervis entered the drawing room before the girl could reply. “Mrs. Harlow has come in her carriage to fetch her daughter, my lady,” he announced, and to Belinda, it was as if angels had begun to sing. “She apologizes most profusely for not coming up, but she’s in a bit of a rush. She just remembered that she is supposed to be taking Rosalie to luncheon with the Dowager Countess of Esmonde, and she fears they will be late.”

“Of course,” she said at once, ignoring Rosalie’s groan of dismay. “Tell Mrs. Harlow that her daughter will be down at once.” She turned to Rosalie as the butler bowed and departed. “Time to be on your way, dearest.”

“Must I? I was hoping to have luncheon with you.”

“As Jervis just informed us, your mother had forgotten you have a prior engagement.”

“Oh, but does it matter? Mama can convey my regrets to Lady Esmonde.”

“That would be rude, Rosalie, and you do not want to be rude to Lady Esmonde.”

“Maybe not, but I think she was quite rude to me when I was there a few days ago. She barks out questions, then answers them for you. And she makes remarks about how healthy American girls look and how nice our teeth are. It’s very disconcerting. And she thinks we all live in teepees and wigwams.”

Trubridge chuckled at that, causing Rosalie to laugh as well.

Belinda, the only one not amused, sent him a withering glance as she took the girl by the elbow and began pulling her toward the door. “Enough of that,” she said, overriding the girl’s protests. “It’s nearly one o’clock, and if you linger here any longer, you’ll be late. Being late to luncheon with a countess would be unthinkable.”

“I don’t see why. We are supposed to be late to balls. Why not lunch? And speaking of balls . . .” She stopped allowing herself to be propelled out of the room and turned toward Trubridge, yanking her arm from Belinda’s grasp. “Are you attending Lady Montcrieffe’s ball tonight, my lord?”

“I am, Miss Harlow,” he said at once, causing Belinda to utter a sound of indignation, for she knew perfectly well Lady Montcrieffe would never invite a man like him to one of her balls. “I shall look forward to seeing you there. And I hope you will allow me the honor of claiming a dance with you?”

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” she said before Belinda could think of a way to intervene. “The third waltz on my program is still open.”

Belinda again reached for Rosalie’s arm, but the girl evaded the move and took a step toward Trubridge. “I’ve been saving the third waltz for someone special.”

“I am honored,” he said, taking up her hand, “that you would choose me to be your someone special.”

Belinda almost gagged, but neither of the other two seemed to notice, and she could only watch as Trubridge kissed Rosalie’s gloved hand. As he let it go, he gestured to the door with his hat. “I was just on my way out. May I walk you down and see you and your mother safely to your carriage?”

“Of course,” she answered, and took his offered arm.

“An escort is hardly necessary,” Belinda pointed out in desperation as she followed them toward the door. “The carriage is sure to be right outside.”

Again, she was ignored.

“Good day, Lady Featherstone,” Trubridge said, looking over his shoulder to give her a parting smile as he ushered Rosalie out of the drawing room.

In that moment, Belinda was shocked to discover the depths of rage that she was capable of feeling. No one, not even Featherstone, had ever caused the . . . the
eruption
of outrage she was feeling at this moment. Her palm itched—absolutely itched—to slap that satisfied smile off his face.

The two of them left the drawing room, but though Belinda was right behind them, she could only follow as far as the stairs, for she could not go all the way down without being forced to introduce Trubridge to Rosalie’s mother. An introduction would convey her approval of him as an acquaintance to the daughter, and she most certainly did not approve. She had to content herself with hovering at the top of the stairs, watching as Rosalie performed the introduction she refused to make. When he and the ladies departed, she was racing back toward the drawing room before the door had closed behind them, and as they paused on the sidewalk outside her front door, Belinda watched from the window above.

Mrs. Harlow had indicated she was in a rush to reach Lady Esmonde’s, but it was clear she seemed willing to postpone that visit for a bit. They lingered for what seemed like hours, and as she watched them through the window, as she watched Trubridge work on the girl with his charm and his smile, Belinda felt sick at heart.

Rosalie was such an innocent. If he chose, he could manipulate her into being alone with him easy as winking, subjecting her to his improper notions of courtship and leaving both of them open to scandal.

Equally awful was the possibility that Rosalie would lose her heart to him. Belinda knew how quickly girls fell in love, and Rosalie’s temperament made her particularly vulnerable to the machinations of a rake. She could become infatuated with Trubridge before Belinda even had a chance to convince her of his reprobate character. Even the one dance they were to have could be enough to captivate the girl and close her ears to anything Belinda might say. In fact, the harder Belinda tried to keep her away from Trubridge, the greater her fascination with him might become. Girls could be so contrary.

She frowned, struck by a sudden thought. Just how did he plan to attend Lord and Lady Montcrieffe’s ball? Crashing it would hardly help him regain the company of good society. She couldn’t imagine Nancy inviting him, but he’d seemed awfully sure of his ground.

She decided to pay a call on Nancy straightaway and clarify the matter. If he hadn’t yet been given an invitation, she could at least try to prevent him from finagling one at the last minute. She might not be able to openly come out against him without hardening Rosalie’s resolve, but she had to do something. The idea of her romantic, naive young friend being disillusioned, heartbroken, and chained for life to a man like Trubridge didn’t bear contemplating. Somehow, this romance had to be nipped in the bud before it could flower into disaster.

I
F IT WERE
physically possible for a human body to burn with rage, Nicholas had no doubt Belinda Featherstone would be a smoldering mass of coals by now. He was well aware of her gaze boring into his back through the window above, and it gave him a great deal of satisfaction to know that every moment he made conversation with Miss Harlow and her mother increased her ire and her anxiety.
Good
, he thought. Now she knew what he’d felt as she had insulted his character and impugned his honor.

And it wasn’t as if lingering here was a torture. Quite the contrary, for Rosalie Harlow was a pretty girl. With her honey blond hair, brown eyes, and plump cheeks, her prettiness was rather of the chocolate-box sort, and her lavish gown of pink-and-white-striped silk with its frothy white lace trimmings only served to emphasize that impression, but though she wasn’t the sort of woman he usually preferred, he could not afford to be picky, and pretty was always better than plain. Nicholas began to think this visit to Lady Featherstone hadn’t been a mistake after all.

He was happy to remain a few more moments, but only a few. A man who wanted to intrigue a woman never arrived too soon or stayed too long. After a few words of desultory conversation, he murmured something about another engagement, conveyed his regret that he could not remain in their company all afternoon, and expressed the hope he had not made them late to luncheon. The latter comment evoked exclamations of dismay from the two women and spurred them toward the luxurious brougham parked at the curb. He followed, assisted the ladies into the carriage, and closed the door behind them.