Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 03] (5 page)

“It would be most unbecoming in me to agree to any such thing,” Lady St. Merryn said, leaning back against her cushion. She looked at Daintry. “You will find, my dear, that once you are Viscountess Penthorpe your ways will have to change, for no gentleman will tolerate for long having his opinions challenged by a female, and you are far too likely to do that very thing. Your father has told you, and I tell you now, that to go on as you have become accustomed will soon lead to your undoing.”

Daintry grimaced, thinking again as she had so frequently thought since the day her father had commanded her to cease her foolishness and agree to marry a man she had never met, that the road ahead was fraught with peril. Certain that she was bound to say something she would regret if she remained in the room much longer, she said that she ought to send word to the stables to have horses saddled for herself and the little girls just as soon as the weather cleared. Neither Lady Ophelia nor Lady St. Merryn made any objection, and when Daintry closed the door of the morning room behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Deciding she might as well walk down to the stables herself rather than send a footman, she went to her bedchamber to collect her red-wool hooded cloak. Flinging it around her shoulders and drawing on a pair of York tan gloves, she returned to the gallery and was approaching the right wing of the graceful, divided stairway that swooped down into the massive front hall, when her father came out of his library and the hall porter swung open the heavy front door to reveal a visitor, a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman in an elegant, many-caped gray driving cloak.

His gleaming Hessian boots seemed to belie the dampness outside as he stepped across the threshold onto the black-and-white marble floor and doffed his beaver hat, revealing a ruggedly handsome face and a head of thick auburn hair.

“Upon my word,” St. Merryn exclaimed, hurrying to greet him, “it’s Penthorpe, is it not? By heaven, lad, I’d recognize you anywhere with that head of hair, though damme, it’s darkened a good bit since last I saw you. “You can’t have been more than ten at the time, so that is not to be wondered at. Come in, come in. You are Penthorpe, are you not? Confess it, man. You’ve come at last to claim my daughter, and not before time, I can tell you!”

The gentleman reached for the clasp at the top of his cloak, lifting his chin as he did so, and his gaze met Daintry’s. She saw that his eyes were sunk deep beneath dark brows, his nose was straight, and his cheekbones and square jaw were rather pronounced. So that was Penthorpe. She thought him handsome but very large. His lips had parted, revealing even white teeth, and he had seemed about to speak, but after gazing at her for a long moment, he closed his mouth. Then, visibly collecting himself, he said in a pleasant, deep voice, “Aye, sir, I’m Penthorpe.”

G
IDEON HAD NOT SO
much as paused to think before speaking, but for the moment at least, he did not regret the impulse that had overcome his good sense. Lady Daintry Tarrant was even lovelier than her portrait.

She had not moved but still stood poised with one tan-gloved hand resting lightly on the polished banister. Her scarlet cloak accented the glow in her cheeks, and her eyes were so brilliant a blue that he could see their color from where he stood. Her elfin chin had lifted when St. Merryn called him Penthorpe, and her full, red lips had parted, but he could see that she was not particularly happy to think her betrothed had arrived at last. The thought cheered him, but he was wrenched from his pleasant reverie when the footman took his hat and St. Merryn seized his hand to shake it. Feeling sudden warmth in his cheeks, Gideon hoped to God he wasn’t blushing like a damned schoolboy.

“Delighted to see you, my boy,” St. Merryn exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder as he pumped his hand up and down. “Not but what I haven’t been on the watch for you this past month. Knew you’d sell out the moment that rascal Boney was clapped up again, but I daresay there were any number of details to see to before you could get back to England, and I can’t doubt you went to Tattersall Greens before you came here to us.”

“Yes, sir,” Gideon said, thankful that that much at least was the truth. He had certainly sold out, but he had not done so as quickly as Penthorpe would have; not until he had received word of Jack’s death, and that disconcerting—not to mention tragic—news had been more than six weeks in reaching him. But he had indeed gone to Tattersall, believing Penthorpe’s uncle would desire to learn how his nephew had died. It had not occurred to him that Lord Tattersall might be wholly unaware of Penthorpe’s death, but he had not been surprised to discover that was the case, for the losses at Waterloo had been so staggering—between forty and fifty thousand men—that he knew some families would never receive official notice. They would be told only that their relatives were missing and presumed to have died, and even that much information would take months to reach them.

The thought gave him pause, but a glance at the haughty, silent beauty standing at the top of the stairs, and another at her beaming parent, steadied his resolve. He was an honorable man, but he was also a crack cavalry officer, trained to take the line of least resistance, to accept whatever challenges came his way, and to seize even the slimmest opportunity that the Fates provided. Thus, though his initial reaction had been to set the earl straight at once, one look at Lady Daintry, added to the certainty that St. Merryn would send him packing the minute he discovered he was a Deverill, made up his mind for him. It would do no harm to masquerade as Penthorpe for the short time it would take him to get to know the lady better.

Realizing that St. Merryn was demanding news of Penthorpe’s uncle, he collected his wits and gave his full attention to the earl. “He is as well as can be expected, I suppose, sir.”

“Still in the gout, is he?” St. Merryn nodded wisely. “I had a letter from him in the spring, and he complained about it then. Quacks himself, of course. Do him a world of good to get out of the house now and again and onto a good horse. Used to be a damned fine hunter, old Ollie was, but now he just sits in a chair and mutters to himself about his gout. Puts him right out of temper, too, but I daresay he was pleased to see you. Only thing I’ve ever heard him complain of in you is a tendency to procrastinate, but he can’t have complained this time, can he?”

“No, sir. Lady Tatt … that is, my aunt is well, too,” he added, wanting to change the subject and unable to resist discovering what his lordship thought of that formidable dame.

St. Merryn grimaced. “Can’t stand the woman. She’s the one that’s turned poor Ollie into a petty tyrant, what with all her nagging, and what good is she? Only the one child did she give him and too old now he’s gone to mend the matter. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a million times to take a firmer hand on the reins, for it don’t do to let a female get the upper hand. You remember that, lad,” he added, turning to glare up at his daughter. “Give ’em an inch, and they’ll take an ell.”

Stifling laughter, Gideon looked up to discover that her ladyship did not share his mirth. Her lovely mouth had hardened into a straight line, and the little chin had taken on a firmness that clearly bespoke a defiant nature. Finding himself more intrigued than ever, he smiled at her and turned back to St. Merryn, saying, “I am not so easily cowed, sir.”

“Have to say you don’t look the sort to be ruled by a petticoat,” St. Merryn said. “Come now and meet the family, lad. Daintry, don’t stand like a stock, and take off that damned cloak. Can’t imagine where you thought you were going.”

“I am going to the stables, Papa.”

“Don’t be absurd. Make your curtsy to the man you are going to marry, and let me hear no more of stables.”

“I promised Charley and Melissa I would take them riding when the rain stopped,” she said, “and I believe it has.”

“Then send a footman with your message,” he snapped, moving toward the stairway as he spoke. “You’ve not the least need to go down there yourself. Whoever heard of such a thing?”

He was working himself into a temper, but Gideon did not think Daintry seemed much disturbed. He watched her as he followed in the earl’s wake, feeling rather pleased when she stood her ground and made no effort to remove the offending cloak. Neither did she evade his own gaze, giving him back look for look until the earl reached the top step. Then, just at the moment when Gideon thought St. Merryn was about to explode, she swept a deep curtsy, still without looking away from Gideon.

“Saucy chit,” St. Merryn growled, glancing over his shoulder as though to gauge Gideon’s reaction. “Might as well warn you from the outset, Penthorpe. She’s got her head stuffed with a lot of damn-fool notions. Daresay you’ll knock them out soon enough, but you might as well know what you’re up against.”

“It certainly helps to know the opposition, sir,” Gideon murmured, watching her eyes. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Daintry.”

“Is it, sir?” She rose. “You are taller than I’d expected. I have met Lord Tattersall, and as I recall, he is rather short of stature, so I’d expected you to be much the same.”

“I hope you are not disappointed.”

Her eyes widened, giving him that sudden urge to laugh again, but before she could reply, St. Merryn snapped, “Much good it would do her if she were. Where’s your mother, girl? Must make Penthorpe known to her, you know, if she ain’t laid down on her bed or some such thing.” He grimaced at Gideon. “It’s no secret that my Letty’s worse at quacking herself than old Ollie is, and she’s got a damned cousin of hers lurking about, whose sole use seems to be to encourage her to imagine her ills. I tell you, lad, if I had to look at Ethelinda’s ugly face every day, I’d let the undertakers have me and be glad of the change.”

“Mama’s with Aunt Ophelia in the drawing room, Papa,” Daintry said evenly, but she turned so sharply to lead the way that her cloak swirled out, and then, glancing back over her shoulder, she said matter-of-factly, “You might as well be warned from the outset, Lord Penthorpe, that I have been betrothed three times before now, only to cry off each time before the wedding.”

St. Merryn caught her by the arm and swung her around, giving her a rough shake. “You’ll not cry off this time, by God, and don’t you forget it. Upon my word, girl, I’ve had enough!”

Gideon, knowing he had not the least right to interfere between man and daughter, still had to fight an instinctive urge to do so. He watched, feeling no surprise when she stiffened and the light of defiance leapt to her eyes again. What did surprise him, however, was that when she glared at her father, St. Merryn released her. Not until then did she say grimly, “I promised you I would not cry off, Papa, but as you have frequently said yourself, he has every right to know the worst of me.”

“Yes, to be sure, he has every right,” St. Merryn blustered, “but if you are hoping he’ll cry off himself, now he’s learned of your nonsense, you wrong him, girl. Penthorpe is a gentleman.”

Conscious of the fact that he was behaving in anything but a gentlemanly way, Gideon resisted an impulse to compound the matter by pretending outrage and demanding to hear the details of every broken betrothal. There was something about the girl that made him want to provoke her, to stir her passions. That there were passions to be stirred, and not far beneath the surface, was obvious to the meanest intelligence. He could see that her father had quite failed to tame her, and he had a strong itch to attempt the feat himself. That it would be a challenge was clear, but he had never been a man to run from a challenge.

They had come to a pair of double doors at the end of the gallery, and Daintry pushed them open, saying lightly as she did so, “Here is a surprise for all of you. Lord Penthorpe has arrived. You may all wish me happy, I suppose.”

St. Merryn said testily, “That is no way to introduce a gentleman to your mama. If you cannot do the thing properly, say nothing at all and I will do the honors. Come in, Penthorpe.”

Finding himself facing what seemed at first like a roomful of women, but all unknown, Gideon breathed a sigh of relief, for it had occurred to him only as he crossed the threshold that he might easily encounter someone he knew. His home was near enough Tuscombe Park that they must have several local acquaintances in common, and the utter lunacy of what he was doing struck him with incredible force.
A fine soldier you are,
he thought sourly.
Just pure dumb luck you didn’t walk straight into an ambush.

His gaze lighted on the most formidable of what proved to be only four females, a square-shaped elderly lady with gray hair pulled ruthlessly into a bun at the nape of her neck. Not only did she not smile at hearing Penthorpe’s name, but her pale blue eyes narrowed speculatively and the look she gave him was much the same one she might have employed to search out rats in her pantry. He had difficulty returning that look, and he had the odd notion that, in the brief moment before he shifted his gaze to the next lady, the first had seen straight into his soul.

The plump one hovering over the sofa clasped her hands at her bosom and exclaimed, “Oh, goodness me, a true English hero!”

St. Merryn snapped, “Don’t be a fool, Ethelinda! Pay her no heed, Penthorpe. My wife,” he added, indicating the thin, mouse-haired lady reclining on the sofa. “Letty, dear, I present your future son-in-law. Have the goodness not to have a fit of the vapors till he knows you better. I’ve no tolerance for it now.”

“Or ever,” the old lady said, adding abruptly when Gideon glanced back at her, “You say you are Penthorpe, young man?”

Totally unable to lie in the teeth of that look, he had all he could do to conceal his relief when St. Merryn snapped, “Didn’t I just say so, Ophelia? Knew the instant I clapped eyes on that red hair of his. Damned if I don’t think you’re growing deaf in your old age. That… that female is my wife’s aunt, Lady Ophelia Balterley,” he added for Gideon’s benefit.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady,” Gideon said politely before turning to the lady who had declared him a true English hero, “and yours, ma’am, as well.”