The Laird and the Wanton Widow
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Ann Lethbridge
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Chapter One
Ladies’ companions didn’t dance at balls, yet Kate Anderson’s foot insisted on keeping time to the music of a Scottish reel. London ladies and gentlemen didn’t have an ounce of the passion or fire the dance required.
Exquisite in a jonquil gown, the blond Diana Buntin turned in her seat, her blue eyes alight with laughter. “The next time a gentleman asks you to dance, I will insist you say yes.” While her tone was gentle, Kate could see her employer meant every word.
“Sorry,” Kate said, and stilled her foot.
“Where is Denton with my lemonade?” Lizzie Mcrae, Diana’s equally blond and blue-eyed niece, raised up on her toes to see past the crowds gathered at the dance floor. At a quick glance she and Miss Buntin could have been sisters, even though they were related only by marriage. They both had the same fair English beauty and sweet dispositions. Unlike Kate, whose temperament was dictated by her red hair.
“Oh no,” Lizzie said. Her face fell from happiness to misery.
“What is it?” Diana asked. “Who do you see?”
Seated against the wall in the vast Bertwick ballroom, neither she nor Kate could see much beyond the elegantly dressed members of the ton in their immediate vicinity.
“It’s the ogre,” Lizzie said. “Why is he in Town? He’ll spoil everything.”
The ogre was what Lizzie called the elderly bachelor from the adjoining Scottish estate, the man her father wanted her to marry. A surge of anger rose in Kate’s chest to see the child so upset. She longed to give Lizzie’s father a piece of her mind for proposing such a match.
“Oh dear,” Diana said with a wince. “I have a feeling this is my fault.”
At that moment, the crowds parted to reveal an impressively large gentleman with a stern expression on his fair, sun-bronzed face heading in their direction.
Kate’s heart stopped as she took in the furrowed brow above hazel eyes, the set of the square, inflexible jaw, and the crisp waves of light brown hair.
Harry?
Was she seeing things? Her heart pattered the long-forgotten rhythm of a dimly remembered song. The room seemed to fade. All she saw was him, striding toward them with loose-limbed athletic grace.
She wanted to look away, but she sat frozen, turned to stone, her parched gaze drinking in the strong, rugged features that had always reminded her of her beloved Scotland.
The years had broadened his shoulders, strengthened his features, made him look sterner than when she’d known him in Edinburgh. But even though so many years had passed, he was still the handsomest man she’d ever seen.
And now he was here. Coming directly toward them, his gaze intently fixed on Lizzie.
Harry was Lizzie’s ogre? The bubble of joy in her chest burst, her heart felt leaden.
“Your father must have sent him,” Diana exclaimed. “It really is too bad.”
Kate could think of stronger words. She lowered her regard to her gloved hands resting on the dark gray fabric of her skirts. She stilled their tremble, breathed deep to calm the rapid beat of her heart.
Harry. She’d never expected to see him again. Never wanted to, when she realized what a stupid mistake she’d made. Never ever had she even enquired about him, guessing he must have married long ago.
Apparently not.
What would he think when he saw her again? That she was much changed, no doubt. And not for the better.
Good Lord, she was mad to think he’d remember her after all this time. For one season in Edinburgh, they’d lived in each other’s pockets. Less than a season—a month. Then he’d departed for a family celebration promising to return. A few days later, a mutual friend had relayed gossip from a letter she’d received that he’d fallen for a beautiful woman visiting his parents.
She’d been so hurt.
And angry.
So stupidly angry.
“Good evening, Miss Buntin,” he was saying in that deep voice laced with the burr of the Highlands. “Lizzie.” He bowed. “I trust I find you both well?”
Diana fluttered her fan. “Very well, my lord. This is a surprise.”
“Is it?” There was an edge to his voice. Impatience. “Lord Mcrae could not come himself, so he asked me to ascertain the truth of your letters and take whatever action I deemed needful.”
Lizzie gasped. “You wrote to my father, Aunt? What on earth did you say?”
Diana shot Lizzie a warning look. “Nothing to which your father could take exception, I am sure. Lord Godridge, may I introduce you to my companion, Mrs. Anderson?”
Kate held out a hand. “My lord.”
Silence greeted her. He was staring at her. With…shock. And what? Horror? “Mrs. Anderson.” His voice sounded strained as he took her hand.
“Do you two know each other?” Lizzie asked, glancing at them in turn.
Heat fired Kate’s cheeks. “We met many years ago.” She took a deep breath. “Before I was married. It is good to see you again, Lord Godridge.”
Harry was still staring at her as if he had seen a ghost. She understood the feeling. Her skin felt as if it had shrunk and her chest had been banded in iron.
“Did you have a pleasant journey, my lord?” Diana asked in a faint voice.
He seemed to recollect himself, straightening his shoulders and turning back to Lizzie’s aunt. “It rained.”
“Did you see Father before you left, Harry?” Lizzie asked. “Is he well?”
“He is worried,” Harry said. “About you. And his gout is bad.”
The weight of that statement sent Lizzie’s shoulders up to her ears. She smiled stiffly.
Good Lord, he was making a complete mess of this. Was he always so brusque with the girl? No wonder she called him an ogre. Though he certainly wasn’t the octogenarian the young woman had led Kate to expect.
Just at that moment, Lord Denton, a poetically brooding young man with a lock of brown hair flopping on his forehead, wandered up with the glass of lemonade. Kate was surprised he’d remembered the drink. The young poet often went off in a trance. He gave Lizzie a besotted smile along with the glass. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look this evening, Miss Mcrae? Can I compare thee to a summer rose?”
Lizzie giggled. Lizzie didn’t usually giggle at Denton’s nonsense. Indeed she’d been known to give him a sharp setdown if he put her to the blush. But tonight, in the presence of the man her father had chosen, she giggled.
“Shakespeare couldn’t have said it better,” Harry muttered drily.
Didn’t he see that Lizzie was testing him? If he’d just be a little more…well, adoring, he would surely sweep Lizzie off her feet. Denton couldn’t hope to compete with a real man like Harry.
“Do you have business in Town, Lord Godridge?” Diana asked, plying her fan with enough vigor to stir the air around Kate’s cheeks.
“Yes,” Harry said, his hard gaze focusing on Diana. “I’m here to drive Lizzie home. I will call upon you in the morning to make the necessary arrangements.”
“I won’t go,” Lizzie declared.
Oh Harry, Kate thought miserably. A heavy hand on the bridle would not work with this girl, not when she had been courted, flattered and adored by every eligible male in London. If Godridge wanted Lizzie, he was going about it all wrong.
“You cannot take our goddess,” Lord Denton proclaimed. “It will be like removing the sun from the sky.”
Lizzie bestowed him with a dimpling smile of approval.
The boy flushed bright red.
Harry’s left eyebrow shot up. The corners of his lips twitched. “Then London is about to experience a chilly summer.” He turned to Lizzie. “Would you care to dance with me, Lizzie?”
She tossed her head. “All my dances are promised, I’m afraid. And we are engaged all day tomorrow.”
Kate winced.
“The following morning will be fine,” Diana said in a strangled accent.
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Ten o’clock, then, two days hence.” He hesitated, glancing at Kate as if he would like to say more, then he bowed. “I wish you all a pleasant evening.”
Kate watched him stride away, a man whose commanding presence made others give way. In the eight years since she’d seen him, he’d become a confident man, sure of his place in the world. But he looked far from happy.
“Oh dear,” Diana said. “How very awkward.”
“I won’t go,” Lizzie said. “It’s not fair. The Season has barely begun.” She glowered at Harry’s departing broad shoulders. Her expression turned thoughtful. “You are an old friend of his, Mrs. Anderson. Can you not make him see reason? He never listens to me.”
That was clear. He was like a bull let loose in Mr. Wedgwood’s factory and he was about to be hurt by flying shards of china. One thing was certain—if he didn’t walk a little more gently with Elizabeth, the next thirty years or so were going to be hell for them both.
She’d seen it with her parents.
“The sets are forming,” Lord Denton said, holding out his arm. “This is my dance.”
Lizzie sent Kate a pleading look over her shoulder as Denton led her away.
A look hard to resist.
“I am going to murder my brother-in-law,” Diana said grimly. “I wrote to tell him of his daughter’s success, and what does he do? He calls her home.” She pursed her lips. “I must say Godridge is nothing like I expected from Lizzie’s description. I really should visit my brother-in-law one of the these days.” She turned to Kate, her eyes full of curiosity. “You never mentioned you were acquainted with Godridge.”
Acquainted. What an understatement. “He was Le Clere when I knew him. I failed to make the connection.” Because she never could bear to think about Harry and what she’d done.
“He’s a fine-looking man, if rather overbearing,” Diana mused, turning to look at Lizzie.
Kate’s fingers curled into fists.
Dash it, the man reeked of loneliness. He and Lizzie would make a wonderful couple. She should be helping him, not feeling jealous.
She rose to her feet. “Can you manage without me for a moment? I need the withdrawing room.”
Her attention fixed on Lizzie on the dance floor, Diana nodded absently.
Kate squeezed her way through the crowds to the door. No parting of the Red Sea for her. A casual glance and the lofty members of the ton knew exactly how much courtesy to extend. None. Poverty-stricken widow-companions were one step above servants. One very small step.
She drew in a breath and squeezed between an elderly gentleman and a potted plant. No need for bitterness, Kate, she upbraided herself. You made your own bed.
Out in the entrance hall, the noise of the ballroom faded to manageable levels. And there, staring at a portrait on the wall while awaiting his outer raiment, stood Harry. Square jawed, broad shouldered and narrow of hip, he looked gorgeous in his evening clothes. A perfect specimen of manhood.
The breath left her lungs in a rush.
What a fool she’d been to let her temper destroy her one chance for happiness. It would be dreadful if Lizzie did the same.
Why could she not see his true worth? Perhaps because he wasn’t making the effort to engage her affections.
“Lord Godridge,” she said, her voice echoing in the cavernous hall.
He swung around. A flare of something hot lit his eyes. Anger perhaps. Quickly extinguished, replaced by polite formality, she couldn’t be sure. She almost preferred the anger to cool dispassion.
She took a deep breath and marched to his side. “Might I have a word?”
He bowed. “Perhaps you want to introduce me to your husband?” The bitter edge in his voice sliced into her heart.
“My husband died two years ago. As well as being Miss Buntin’s friend, I am also her paid companion.”
A strange expression crossed his face. “A widow.” He swallowed. “My condolences.”
“Thank you.”
The silence between them filled up with unspoken questions. And tension. Her body thrummed with the knowledge of his nearness. Her palms tingled with the desired to touch the hard angle of his jaw.
This was not such a good idea, after all.
“Did you want something of me, Kate?”
The sound of her name on his lips pulled painfully at her heart.
She forced herself to speak coolly. “Is there somewhere we could talk in private?”
Suspicion, or something like it, darkened his gaze. “I’m sure it could be arranged.”
The nearest footman, his face as stolid as boiled oats, opened the door beside him. “The drawing room is unoccupied, sir.”
Harry held out his arm with exquisite politeness. She placed her hand on his sleeve. The lightest touch she could manage without being rude and still heat seared up her arm. Her insides trembled with nerves. The ache in her chest intensified. She wanted to run. She’d only ever run once, with disastrous results.
The footman closed the door behind them.
Then he smiled. The smile she had never forgotten. Open and boyish, with a hint of devilment. The sternness of the ballroom evaporated and it was if they were young again, in the first throes of infatuation, sneaking off for a few minutes alone.
“What can I do for you?”
The words seem to contain a great deal of meaning. Her stomach tightened. Her breathing became shallow and hard to control. So traitorous, when she knew he belonged to Lizzie.
Praying her face didn’t betray her inner turmoil, she smiled calmly. “Rather, let me ask what I can do for you, Lord Godridge?”
His eyes widened. A mischievous smile curved his lips. “Now there’s something a man doesn’t hear every day.”
Oh, Lord, did he think she was propositioning him? Heat rushed to her face. “It’s about Lizzie,” she hurried to say.
His face turned to stone. “Did Lizzie send you to try to cajole me into let her stay in London?”
She took a deep, calming breath. “No.” She swallowed. “I came with advice.”
His brow lowered. “Out with it, Kate. I never knew you to be short of words.”
That was in the old days. Before her marriage. Before she’d learned to be sensible. But somewhere inside her, the old fiery, outspoken Kate still resided. And she had to be kept firmly in her place. She gave him her best kindly widow smile. “You will not engage Lizzie’s affections by treating her like a child. You need to woo her like the young woman she is.”
An eyebrow shot up. “You think…” His mouth flattened. A mouth she’d kissed. A mouth that had smiled a lot in those long-ago days.
She dragged her attention back to his eyes and tried to look calm and collected.
There was curiosity in his gaze and something else she could not quite fathom. If his face hadn’t been set in such stern, uncompromising lines, she might have suspected it was amusement.
“So you think I am going about my courtship all wrong?” he said.
She nodded. Her jaw felt tight and stiff, but she’d started down this path so she would persevere to the end. “I do. Lizzie’s been pampered and worshipped.”
“Spoiled, you mean.”
“A little, perhaps, but she is a sweet child. With the right approach, she would fall into your arms.”
He cocked his head on one side. “Her father wishes her to return home. It is at his directive I am here.”
“If you remove her without her consent, when she is just spreading her wings, just learning to wield her feminine power, she will always resent you.”
He stared at her. “Feminine power?”
“She is all the rage. She has not yet had a chance to tire of it.”
“Ah, the poet fellow.”
Was he jealous? A good sign surely? Then why would it cause her stomach to twist? “You’ve heard of young Denton, then?”
“Her aunt wrote a letter full of him. His madrigals and sonnets. His adoration you might say. And all the other popinjays hanging on her sleeve. Her aunt’s letters are full of them. Her father is terrified she’ll elope with one of the puppies.”
“And you? Do you fear she’d choose one of those young men?”
He turned away, looked up at a portrait above the fireplace. “And if I did, Mrs. Anderson? Would you have a solution?”
She stared at his broad back. What emotion did he hide? The fear another woman would run from him? “She is ripe for falling in love.” Kate recalled her own first foray into the world of the heart. Remembered the pain like a physical thing once more tying her in knots.
“Ah, love.” He turned to face her. Bleakness filled his eyes. “It’s a strong man who can lay his heart out for a woman to tread upon.”
Was he talking about Lizzie, or about someone else? Had she, Kate, broken his heart by running off after he left Edinburgh? She’d believed the worst, only to discover later it had no foundation in truth. Even after all this time, the question haunted her.
What would be the point in asking? It would only stir up old longings and past hurts.
“So you think you can help me woo Lizzie?” he asked. “Tutor me?” Something warmed his voice and his expression. Laughter?
Dash it. Was he mocking her? Reminding her of her failure to capture him all those years ago?
Her temper surged. Hot and swift. “I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to think I could help. I’ll wish you a good evening.” She headed for the door.
Harry couldn’t help but admire the sway of her hips with each short, sharp step, but his ham-fisted teasing had made her angry. She looked more like the hot-tempered girl he remembered than the drab widow he’d seen in the ballroom. He’d hurt her feelings. He’d seen it on her face. He’d always been a clumsy bastard when it came to the fairer sex. Especially Kate, it seemed.
He didn’t want her to go. The thought hit him between the eyes like a mallet and rang in his head. “Don’t leave.”
Hand on the doorknob, she paused but didn’t look back.
He reached her in a couple of strides, placed his palm on the paneling beside her head and heard her soft indrawn gasp at the same moment as he inhaled her perfume. Lavender.
Whenever he smelled lavender, he thought of her, even after all this time.
The elegant line of her neck filled his gaze. His fingertips itched with wanting to touch, to feel the silk of wisps of auburn hair at her nape, to trace the delicate flesh from beneath her ear to the curve of her shoulder.
Hell and damnation. He really was a fool when it came to this woman. She’d already proved she didn’t give a damn about him.
“Release the door, Lord Godridge,” she said in a low voice.
“Mrs. Anderson, please hear me out. I…” What the hell could he say that would make her stay? “You are right. I am not adept at wooing a woman. Poetry does not drip from my tongue.”
She turned to face him. “Not even stolen poetry?” she said, with rueful laughter in her voice.
His body warmed at the sound. It was like settling before the hearth at home. A feeling of comfort and well-being when, as he knew to his cost, Kate was as unpredictable as a cat. She’d almost destroyed him once with her witchy green eyes and flaming curls. And her mercurial temper.
The temper was still there. He’d seen it just now. But she might have changed. And he might have sprouted wings. He’d be better off telling her to go to hell. The same hell he’d been in all these years.
Or he could use the opportunity to get her out of his head for once and for all. Finish up the old business between them. It would be worth being scorched by that temper of hers, to have time in her company and put the past to rest.
“I’m thinking you are right about the girl needing a gentler hand than mine,” he said, cautiously feeling his way. “But I am as I am. I doubt even you could change me.”
“Even me?” Leaning her back against the door, she ran her gaze over him. “If you want Lizzie, you’ll change yourself.”
He was tempted to place his hands each side of that delicate face and plant a kiss on those plump lips. Instead he frowned. “I’m to become a poetry-spouting dandy, then.”
She raised an auburn eyebrow. “If you want to rout your rivals you need a different approach. They are boys, my lord. Green youths who hang on her lips, tussle with each other for her attention. Fall over themselves at every glance. She takes them for granted. Joining their throng will not help you at all.”
And what of her? Did she also have her court of admirers hanging on her every word? His stomach dipped at the thought. “What do you suggest?”
“You need to sweep her off her feet. Dazzle her. Be the romantic hero she sees in her dreams.”
“Blast it, woman, you are talking in riddles.”
She laughed outright. The well-remembered sound wrenched at his gut, yet he grinned back. Couldn’t help himself.
“By all means treat her as if she is more precious than finest glass,” she said. “But you have to capture her attention.”
Was that where he’d gone wrong all those years ago? He frowned.
She must have seen the question on his face because she waved a hand. “Perhaps a practical lesson would help. Let us say you have just walked into the ballroom and I am Lizzie. How would you greet me?”
Feeling more than a little foolish, he took the hand she offered and bowed. “Good evening, Elizabeth.”
She shook her head.
“No?” he said.
“When you take my hand, look into my eyes, see me, hold my gaze, until I see you, then kiss my hand. After which you must say something arresting about the way I look, something fresh. Make me feel beautiful by taking your time. I don’t want to feel like one of your sheep which, once counted, is no longer of importance.”
Was that all she saw? Had he indeed become naught but a country bumpkin? No. He might be a little rusty, but he knew how a woman liked to be treated. He knew how Kate liked to be treated. His blood warmed at the thought. “We will do this again.”
She nodded. “Let us make it more realistic. I will sit in a chair and you approach from the door.
They took their places.
This time he allowed himself to really look at her, at her pale skin dusted with freckles, her green eyes polite but distant as he made his approach.
Never before had she looked at him so coolly. It fired his metal, made him want to shake her out of her aplomb.
“Mrs. Anderson,” he murmured, holding her gaze. “What a pleasure to find you here this evening.”
“Good evening, Lord Godridge.” She held out one small gloved hand and he took it in his. It felt light, fragile in his grasp. “May I say how lovely you look in gray. The candles are quite undone.” He brought her hand to his lips.
A faint trace of color washed her cheeks. “How kind of you.”
“Not kind at all,” he said, aware of his blood stirring at the sight of the blush flowing up to her hairline, and the parting of her full lips. “A simple truth.” He turned her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. A brush of his lips against the most delicate lavender-perfumed skin, but intoxicating, nonetheless. He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her against his body, feel her sweet curves against his, but he knew better than to push her too far, too fast. “Will you do me the honor of the next dance?”
It delighted him to see how her chest rose and fell as if she was having trouble catching her breath. He planned to steal more than her breath. She was just too irresistible.
“I’m sorry, but all my dances are taken this evening,” she murmured softly.
Bloody hell. Once more she played fast and loose with him. He let her hand go. “Then I will call upon you in the morning, Mrs. Anderson.”
Laughing, and sounding just a little breathless, she wagged a finger at him. “No, no, my lord. You give up far too easily.”
“What do you propose? Do I hang around watching you dance with your other partners with a lovesick look on my face?”
“Watching Lizzie,” she said. “And yes, something like that.”
“I’m a man of action, Mrs. Anderson, not a mooncalf.”
She pressed a finger against her chin. Enchanting. Sensual. Did she know the effect she was having on him? That his arousal was increasing moment by moment under a thoughtful gaze that seemed to see right through to his every thought? Was she playing with him as she had toyed with him all those years ago? Well, she was about to find out he could do a bit of toying of his own. But he would not rush his fences.
“Naturally, you are not going to stand around like a mooncalf,” she said in the long-suffering manner of a governess tried to the end of her patience. “You really are not listening.”
“You don’t understand, Mrs. Anderson,” he murmured. “I much prefer the direct approach.”
“And that would be?”
He reached out and pulled her from her chair, brushed his lips across hers, gently but firmly. He felt her melt against him, and the blood rushed straight to his groin. He stroked her lips with his tongue, tasted their satiny softness. Her gasp of pleasure provided the access he sought. He deepened the kiss and let his hand wander her form, the straight back, the indentation of waist and the swell of her hip.
It wasn’t the first time he’d caressed those curves. But time and distance made the feel of her in his arms all the sweeter. He cupped her soft buttocks and drew hard against him.
She struggled.
His heart pounding, his member straining at the fabric of his breeches, he unwillingly let her go.
Twin spots of color and eyes sparkling with fury made her look magnificent. Like his Kate.
He braced for the stinging slap as he saw her hand move. Instead, she drew herself up to her full height and looked down her nose. “How dare you?”
“Is my technique not to your satisfaction?” Somehow he managed to keep his voice from revealing just how much he wanted to kiss her again. “We were practicing, were we not?”
Her eyes widened. Clearly she didn’t believe him, but what could she say that would not make her look bad. He smothered the urge to grin.
“That, sir, is a betrayal of the worst sort,” she said finally.
“Lizzie and I are not engaged, Mrs. Anderson, and, according to you, we may never be unless I learn how to woo her properly.”
“You woo with romance, not….well, not that.”
He couldn’t remember a time when he had had this much fun. Or felt quite so alive. Not since…well, a very long time. Too long. And yet… “What do you mean by romance?”
“Being her knight in shining armor.” She turned bright red. “Defeating dragons. Whisking her off to Gretna Green under the nose of a disapproving father. Whatever Lizzie finds romantic.”
Could she not tell from his kiss it wasn’t Lizzie on his mind? And would she scorn him for a fool if he said as much? She’d made him look a pretty fool once before, slipping off to England with Anderson the moment his back was turned. A whirlwind courtship they had called it. She wanted to teach him to woo a woman, but she was the only woman he’d ever wanted this badly.
He forced himself to speak quietly, instead of throwing her over his shoulder and marching back to his castle. “What is your suggestion?”
“Not to attack her like a wild beast.” She had a sharp tongue, his Kate. His. The word glowed like the lighthouse off Godridge point. But would it also wink out in the light of day.
Like the last time.
He sighed.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she said. “Lizzie has to want to go with you to Scotland of her own free will. When you see her next, secure a waltz with her at the Willinghams’ ball.”
A ball? He must have looked blank, because she shook her head. “Dash it, don’t tell me you don’t know how to waltz?”
He liked it when she twisted one of the curls peeking out from beneath her cap around her finger. In fact, he’d like to remove that cap and see the luxuriant auburn hair he remembered fall down around her shoulders. And he would, given half a chance.
“Waltzing is the key to winning a woman?” he asked, pretending misery.
“Unless you want stand on the sidelines watching her in the arms of other men it is. Hire yourself a dancing master.”
A wicked idea slipped into his mind. He despised himself for it, but didn’t hesitate. “You must teach me.”
“Me?” She looked horrified. “How could I?”
Good point, but he wasn’t done for yet. “Beauworth has a piano. Meet me at his house tomorrow afternoon.”
“Go alone to the house of a rake?”
“Wear a veil.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall and back to him, her face comically dismayed. “Oh Lord. We’ve been here more than half an hour. I have to go back.”
“I thought you wanted to help me win Lizzie,” he cajoled. Rotten bastard. But he’d enjoyed himself more in this past half hour than he had for months. Perhaps years. During this whole time alone with her he hadn’t once thought about his estate, about the disease killing his sheep. He’d felt almost carefree.
“Well, you won’t win Lizzie by making people talk about us,” she said, almost crossly. Which was interesting.
“Who would ever know?” he asked. “I certainly won’t mention it. I’ve no wish to look like an idiot. Needing a dancing lesson at my age.”
She closed her eyes, clearly battling with her conscience, or the desire he was sure he’d felt in her body when they kissed.
“Come on, Kate. You said you would help me.”
Her green eyes skewered him. Had she guessed his intentions? Was that a smile lurking a hairbreadth from curving her lips? Would she walk away? “Very well,” she said slowly. “I will meet you tomorrow at two in the afternoon. For waltzing lessons.”
He smiled, took her hand and kissed it. He gazed down into her face. “It will seem like days, rather than hours.”
She flushed and snatched her hand back with an uneasy laugh. “You are a quick study, Lord Godridge. I recommend you save your blandishments for Lizzie.”
“Just practicing, Mrs. Anderson,” he said with an innocent face. He bowed. “Until tomorrow.”
She marched off down the hall way with the impatient stride he had always found enchanting.
“I meant every word of it, Kate,” he said softly. But where would it lead? With Kate, how could he be sure?
Arriving back at his cousin’s house after spending the rest of the evening catching up with friends at White’s, Harry hummed a tune under his breath and thought of Kate.
He strolled into the drawing room to find his cousin, Garrick le Clere, Marquess of Beauworth, in his shirtsleeves, cravat discarded, sprawled on the sofa in front of a card table. With his olive skin, a bruise on his chin and raw scraped knuckles clutching a brandy glass, he looked more like a gypsy than a marquess.
A similarly attired but much more English-looking gentleman sat on the other side of the table regarding Harry with sleepy gray eyes. Fair hair hung to his shoulders and the cynical twist to his lips spoke of jaded appetites. “’Tare and hounds, Beauworth, who is this disgustingly cheerful-looking fellow arriving at this time of night.”
“Mon cher cousin,” Beauworth said, the strength of his accent saying he was well into his cups. “Godridge. Comes from Scotland, where they rise before noon and go to bed before midnight. Harry meet Dunstan.”
The Duke of Dunstan. “You were one year above me at Eton,” Harry said, shaking the other man’s hand. Another renowned rake.
The duke nodded. “Thought I recognized you.”
Harry dropped onto the sofa beside his cousin, thoughts of Kate’s luscious curves and kissable lips temporarily forgotten. “How’s the chin?”
“Beauworth touched the bruise and laughed. “Not feeling a thing, mon ami.”
Harry glanced at his half-empty glass. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Do you know what happened?” Dunstan asked lazily. “He won’t tell me. All he’ll say is the other fellow looks worse.”
“Much worse,” Harry said.
Garrick shot him a warning glance.
“He deserved it, Garrick,” Harry said. “How is the boy?”
“Dan? He’s the devil’s spawn according to my butler, who has threatened to resign if he steals one more silver spoon.”
Dunstan groaned. “Let the bastard butler go. He’s done nothing but interrupt us about this lad all evening.”
“And I’m also about to interrupt you, I’m afraid, Duke,” Harry said. “I need a private word with my cousin.”
Dunstan groaned. “I hate families.” He eyed the pile of guineas on his side of the table. “I don’t suppose you want to wager your horse, Beauworth?”
“Non,” Garrick said decisively. “I too have matters to discuss with Harry.”
“Dull dog.” Dunstan unfolded his six feet of lean frame. He shrugged into his black coat and slung his cravat around his neck. “I’ll bid you gentlemen good-day.”
Harry stood up and shook his hand.
Garrick half rose to his feet. “Don’t get up, Beauworth,” Dunstan said. “You might fall over. I’ll see myself out.” He ambled out of the door.
“Shall I see him home?” Harry asked.
Garrick shook his head. “His coachman is waiting around the corner.”
Harry sank back on the sofa and waived off Garrick’s offer of a glass of brandy.
“What will you do with the boy? Dan?” Harry asked.
“Take him to somewhere he won’t be in fear of his life from his old master.”
They’d discovered a man beating the boy senseless on the previous evening. “The lad likes horses, apparently. I’ll take him to Beauworth.”
Harry nodded. “He’s too puny to leave on the streets. You could also probably use a repairing lease in the country.”
Beauworth finished his brandy. “I’m joining the army.”
Harry couldn’t hide his surprise. “What about your responsibilities? Uncle Duncan?”
Garrick huffed out a breath. “I’m going down to Sussex to tell him my decision. I have to go, Harry. You saw what I did to that bully. But for you pulling me off, I might have killed the cochon. The army will put those talents to good use.” He glowered into the dregs in his glass. “With luck I’ll end up a dead hero instead of a murderer at the end of a rope.”
The Le Clere curse. He didn’t have to name it for Harry to know what he meant. Harry had escaped it. So far. “If you’d just keep a grip on your temper…”
Garrick shot him a look of despair mingled with humor. “Right.”
An image of lively green eyes flashed into Harry’s mind and he recalled his purpose for seeking out his cousin. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything for you, Harry.”
Harry punched his shoulder. “Hear it first. I want the house to myself tomorrow afternoon.”
Garrick’s bleary gaze sharpened. “I sense intrigue. A woman?”
“Yes. A woman.”
“She is married, non? You seek to hide from her husband.”
“No. She is not married. But she won’t like it if you are around.”
Garrick whistled softly. “I am curious, mon cher cousin.” He grinned at Harry’s glare and raised his hands. “I will be remarked by my absence. I promised to look in at Carlton House tomorrow.”
“Flying high, aren’t you?”
“Marquesses always fly high, as you will discover in due course.”
Harry frowned. “Not going to happen. A Le Clere has never yet died in battle.”
Garrick sobered before his eyes. “It would be better if this one did, mon ami.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see you later. I don’t know who this woman is, but enjoy. It seems we will make a rake of you yet.”
