A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior (4 page)

“Violet said his nasty temperament is new.”

“I never met him until yesterday, so I couldn’t speak to that. I will say that both Stephen and Violet have always seemed very fond of him.” Amelia waved at Miss Traynor across the street. “Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

Not a bit
. “Yes. Thank you. That wasn’t so painful, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t. But I thought you would want to know his favorite music, or which game bird he prefers, and whether he enjoys reading.”

Theresa chuckled. “I told you that I wasn’t smitten with him. I’m only curious because of his lack of manners.”

That wasn’t quite true. It wasn’t only his lack of manners that intrigued her. And Amelia’s tidbits had only served to whet her appetite for more information about Colonel Bartholomew James. She had no idea why, because he had been brusque and rude and antagonistic. In the past, she’d actively avoided anyone
with a questionable reputation, not wanting to be connected with such nonsense even by association. And yet she’d been thinking about Tolly James—and when she would next see him—all morning. Perhaps it was her own need to improve. One’s manners could never be too perfect.

“Are you going to tromp down the street all the way to the Thames, or should we shop?” Amelia asked.

Shaking herself, Theresa stopped. They were three shops past Gilroy’s haberdashery. “Oh, dear. My apologies. I suppose I was thinking about what I should wear to the Haramund party this evening.”

“Oh, you should wear that new green and gray silk from Madame Costanza’s dress shop. You’ll receive at least half a dozen proposals because of that dress alone.”

“It’s not the quantity of marriage offers that count, Leelee. It’s the quality.” With a laugh and a quick look about to be certain no one else had heard her comment, she towed her cousin back to Gilroy’s. “You know that I’m not waiting for a proposal, my dear. I’m waiting for
the
proposal.”

“Then we can only hope that Hercules or Achilles or perhaps Apollo are still about and seeking a wife.”

“They’re all too violent and bloodthirsty.” Theresa sent her cousin an amused scowl. “And even if they weren’t they are all a bit old for me.”

Finally Amelia joined her in laughing. “You are utterly incorrigible.”

“I’m completely corrigible, except when I’m with you. And I apolo—”

“Don’t you dare.” Her cousin’s smile faded, and Amelia put an arm across her shoulders. “It’s not poor behavior when you jest with your family and friends. And I’m glad and honored that you still jest with me. Saying something unexpected doesn’t always make it the wrong thing to say.”

Well, Amelia was in error about that. After the way Theresa had lost her temper last night, she needed to be especially careful not to do so again. No matter that the thought of another argument with Bartholomew James made her heart beat faster or not.

Bartholomew handed his invitation over to the Haramund House footman. The man didn’t bat an eye, so apparently wherever Sommerset had acquired it, the paper was legitimate.

“If you’ll wait here, Colonel,” the servant said, “the butler shall announce you in turn.”

Glancing at the short line of notables awaiting the fanfare of an announcement before they entered the ballroom, Bartholomew shook his head. “I know who I am,” he muttered, “and no one else gives a damn.” Not waiting for either a protest or an agreement, he limped through the milling crowd and slipped into the main room.

He took a seat in the first vacant chair he sighted. Only one poor soul had offered assistance to help him up the stairs, and that fellow wasn’t likely to do so again. Drawing in a stiff breath, he sent his gaze around the room. Before he could demonstrate to Miss Theresa Weller that he didn’t give a damn about either her or dancing, he needed to find her.

“Colonel James,” a round fellow greeted him, stepping out of the crowd. “Didn’t expect to find you at a soiree.”

“And why is that, Mr. Henning?” Bartholomew asked, barely sparing the man a glance.

“Well, you…because…you know.” Francis Henning backed up a step as he blustered.

“No, I don’t know. Humor me.”

“It’s…well, you’ve a bit of a limp. And you ain’t exactly been social since you came back from India. I wouldn’t even have known you was in Town if I hadn’t read about it in the newspaper.”

Finally Bartholomew eyed him. “And yet I apparently am being social.”

“I suppose.”

“Go away, Henning.”

“Oh. Very well, then.”

As Henning sped away, Tolly spied Theresa Weller—and the breath that he’d drawn to sigh, instead caught in his chest.
Good God
. Her spun gold hair curled about her temples and coiled onto the top of her head, while the gray-green of her eyes matched the colors of her gown to such perfection that the silks might have been made expressly with her in mind.

Because he saw her an instant before she saw him, he had the opportunity to watch her pretty eyes widen a little, and the tip of her tongue swipe quickly at her lower lip as their eyes met. She wasn’t quite as collected as she pretended, then.

Apparently he remained enough of a gentleman to wish to stand as she lifted her chin and approached. At the same time, stumbling to his feet wouldn’t pre
cisely strengthen his position, and so he forced himself to remain seated. “Miss Weller,” he said, nodding.

She stopped in front of him. “Colonel James. How pleasant that you came to watch me dance.”

A slow smile touched his mouth. Clearly she wouldn’t believe him if he claimed to have made an appearance for some other reason—and it would be a lie, anyway. He’d made a fair living at turning disadvantage into advantage, however, until that one, last time. “I did,” he drawled. “I shall watch you every moment. Try not to disappoint me, will you?”

Miss Weller tilted her head, examining his expression. “I think I shall save a dance for you,” she announced.

“That would be a waste of a quadrille,” he retorted. If she was attempting to injure his feelings, he’d been cut by a far sharper blade than her tongue.

“Well, if you can’t dance, then we’ll have to find something else with which to amuse ourselves.”

For a heartbeat he was tempted to tell her precisely how he could imagine the two of them amusing themselves. It would involve smooth, bare skin glowing softly in candlelight, and the sound of her moaning beneath him. His cock twitched, and Bartholomew blinked. It had been a while since that had happened.

“Cat got your tongue, Colonel?” she prompted, still gazing at him. “It’s polite to respond when someone converses with you.”

“I was just considering what you would do if I agreed to us going somewhere to amuse ourselves,” he said after a moment.

“As long as your suggestion is polite and respectful, I am at your disposal.”

“Then, Miss Weller, perhaps we should take a stroll in the garden during your first available dance.”

She glanced down at her dance card. “Ah, the second country dance.” This time she smiled. “That would be acceptable.”

F
irst 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—al
low 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.”