No Place for a Dame (14 page)

He had been blessed with nearly every endowment a man could hope for: good looks, a healthy body, an agile mind, and spectacular wealth. He called few men friends but those he did he trusted with his life, He was surrounded by admirers and sycophants, and he was wise enough to know the difference. The only thing he needed was an heir.

Perhaps he ought to have married Sophia.

Then he might not be thinking about Avery, who was unrefined, unsophisticated, and unmannered. She was opinionated, brilliant, uncertain, and gauche. She knew nothing about feminine wiles and yet she used them ruthlessly to her advantage, a conundrum if he’d ever encountered one. She’d no conversation, though she’d make a damned good lecturer; she had no idea how to dress, yet still managed to make his blood stir; she knew nothing of music or art.…

And she loved the stars. When she’d tipped her face to Killylea’s heavens, it had been filled with a reverence and beauty that had taken his breath away. Not only was she smart and beautiful but she was wise, a woman who knew the value of a thing—

Someone knocked on the door.

Thank God.

Chapter Thirteen

A
very pushed open the door to Giles’s library and stopped, twisting her hands together. Burke had relayed the message that Lord Strand would like a word at her earliest convenience. Not one to postpone bad news, she had come at once but now she hesitated, apparently not as brave as she liked to think herself.

Strand sat behind a beautifully crafted mahogany desk, its fluted legs curving out to end in clawed feet. Untidy stacks of papers cluttered its surface, the larger ones weighted down by ornate paperweights. A pen lay in an enameled trough alongside a crystal inkwell. He’d glanced up when she entered and quickly returned his attention to studying the top sheets of two stacks of paper set before him, his gaze moving between them, comparing whatever he read. He looked entirely preoccupied.

“Don’t stand there lurking in the hall like some uncommitted specter,” he muttered without lifting his head. “Come in. We have things to discuss.”

She’d been dreading this. Someone had reported seeing her sneaking into the house through the mews and now he meant to put an end to
their bargain. She walked in, stiff-backed, stopping in front of his desk like a schoolboy called before the headmaster.

“Well?” she said.

He looked up. “
Well?
What with all the instruction you received from any number of scholars—many of whom were gentlemen—didn’t one take it into his mind to teach you the rudiments of polite behavior? ‘Well’ is no proper way to begin a conversation.” He fell back in his chair, his brows rising challengingly.

Even when she was a girl, Giles had been able to rouse her where none of the other children could: neither the cook’s nasty boy, nor the stable lads, or the under maids, some no older than she, all of whom resented her exemption from their long hours of exhausting work. Mistress Mongrel, Blue Bottle Bluestocking, Fair-haired Folly—none of their names or taunts had been able to provoke her. She’d been too well aware of the truth of them and the unfair advantage she’d been given.

But Strand was a different matter. A tipped eyebrow, a faint smile, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. She didn’t even try to ignore it. Which is why she lifted her chin now and stared haughtily down her nose at him. “A conversation? Is that what we’re going to have?”

He looked puzzled. “What else?”

“What else, indeed?”

“For the love of all that’s sacred, take off those spectacles. I can’t see you properly.”

She snatched off the offending glasses and glowered at him. He tipped his chair back, balancing on the back two legs, folded his hands over his flat stomach, and regarded her quizzically. His cravat was twisted a little askew and his hair looked rumpled. Clearly, he’d run his hands through it many times.

Had he done so while deliberating over her? Trying to decide the best way to go about ridding himself of her?

The idea brought with it a certain satisfaction, followed by horror that she could find satisfaction in so small a thing. One rumpled one’s hair while fretting over the disposal of a favorite dog’s pups. Without warning, the hot promise of tears pressed against the backs of her eyes.

“Here, sit down,” he said, studying her intently. “You look strange. Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine.”

He got up and came to her side, caught hold of her wrist, and groped for her pulse.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, pulling her hand away.

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting her face and turning it towards the light. He really was, she thought apropos of nothing, so very handsome.

He smelled faintly of cedar and spearmint and this close she could see the starburst of lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, the cut-glass glitter of his irises framed by gunmetal gray auroras, the hard line of his jaw smudged with a nascent beard, and the deep lines scored on either side of his nose. Lines of dissipation? Or weariness? Could they be erased with a caress…?

She jerked back.

Where had that thought come from?

He released her chin and she released her breath. Thank God, he didn’t seem to notice.

“Your heart is racing and your eyes are dilated.”

Treacherous pulse. Feckless eyes
. “I forgot to eat lunch. It may have made me faint.”

“
You?
Forgot to eat?” His patent incredulity rekindled her indignation. She nearly thanked him.

“Am I to presume
that
is how one is suppose to commence ‘a polite conversation’?” she asked. “Such helpful instruction. I shall endeavor to remember it next time I am in polite company.”

His lips twitched in an unfairly attractive manner. “I see that whatever ailed you was only temporary and that you are back to your customary contentious self.”

“I am not contentious.”

“You are. Decidedly contentious.” He went back round to his chair behind the desk.

“Only with you.”

This took him by some surprise. “Is that true?”

“Mostly.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “And why is that do you suppose?”

“You provoke me.”

“I most certainly do not,” he said.

“Intentionally, I suspect.”

“Good God. You don’t really believe that? I will allow that, perhaps, at times, I do provoke you,” he said. “But
never
intentionally. Such behavior is beneath a gentleman and, for all my sins, I am still a gentleman.”

“Except when you are with me.”

An odd light banked deep within his gray eyes. Then he tore his gaze away and quaffed back the glass of port that had been near his hand. “Madame,
especially
when I am with you.”

“Have it your way,” she said, afraid she knew which way this was heading. “You’re the consummate gentleman and I am a contentious, troublesome burden and now you can tell me that having made one minor misstep you no longer feel under any obligation to aid me in my endeavor and can, with clear conscience, rid yourself of me.”

Very carefully, he set down the empty glass. “What are you talking about?”

She scowled. “Isn’t that what you meant when you said we needed to talk?”

“No.” He tipped his head, his eyes narrowing. “What misstep did you make?”

The bleak future yawning ahead of her receded like the tide racing from the shore. “No?”

“No,” he repeated. “Again: What did you do, Avery?”

She looked him dead in the eye. She wasn’t about to make it easy for him to get rid of her. “I forgot to wear my spectacles to lunch yesterday.”

For a long moment, they battled each other in a contest of stares. He clearly didn’t believe her. Her eyes dared him to make the accusation. In the end, he was too much of a gentleman to do so.

“I would never use so flimsy an excuse to rid myself of you, as you so colorfully phrase it. When we say our final farewell, I shall have the distinct satisfaction of knowing I carried out my part of our agreement honorably.” His gaze became hooded. “I trust you will be able to say the same?”

“Why, of course,” she said feigning hurt that he could think anything less.

“Then we’re of a like mind.”

“Like two peas in a pod.” Now that she knew she wasn’t about to be sent packing, she allowed herself to saunter over to the chair positioned
across the desk from him and take a seat. “What did you want to talk about?”

Giles shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. “Travers informs me that I have been unfeeling, insensitive, and boorish in regards to you.”

Her eyes flew wide. “Travers said that?”

“Yes. Amongst other things.”

“Why would he say such a thing?” she asked, completely baffled.

He opened his mouth, apparently decided better of what he’d been about to say, pressed his lips tightly together, and spoke. “Because it is true.”

She stared for a second, trying to… Ah! She had it. She smiled. “I see. You must have said something especially nasty about me in front of your servants. What did you say? Something about me being a horrible glutton? Whatever it was, I assure you, I fully understand that you would have done so only to lend credibility to my masquerade and that I take no offense.” He was regarding her strangely, like she was speaking a foreign language.

“Frankly, while Mr. Travers is a very good man, he really doesn’t seem to, well, understand what a gambit such as ours entails, does he? Obviously you can’t act towards me as if I were a woman.” She paused, frowning. “I mean, I
am
a woman. Obviously.” She gave a nervous chuckle. “Well, maybe not so obviously right at this moment.

“As I said, in my current disguise you can’t react to me like a man would a woman, can you? I mean not that you
would
even in normal circumstances, but you
could
.”

Dear heaven, why was she babbling like this
?

“I mean—”

“That’s not what Travers meant.”

She regarded him gratefully. Thank heaven he’d interrupted her. Lord knew what she might have blurted out next.

“He meant that I have marooned you in my household with no company, no conversation, and nothing to do.”

“I see.”

His brow creased. He looked troubled. “Has it been simply awful for you? Travers seems to think it has.”

“Oh. Oh, not really. No,” she equivocated. She was distinctly uncomfortable because clearly this was one of
those
conversations.
Polite
conversations, she assumed one would call it. She’d observed enough of them to be of the opinion that they revolved mostly around people asking questions to which one was not expected to reply honestly but instead in whatever manner would make the questioner feel good about himself. It seemed an exhaustingly circuitous means of communication.

To keep Giles from probing further, and because she just wasn’t all that confident in her ability to dissemble further should he do so, she got up and strolled over to the bookshelves.

“Why have you leapt from the chair and streaked over to my bookshelves?” he asked. “Are you suddenly inspired to look up a word?”

She turned her head and smiled sunnily, refusing to be baited. “No. I am just interested in what masterpieces you may have acquired. Oh. Look.
The Wayfarer of Lachamoor
.” She widened her eyes innocently. “Is this not a
romance
, Lord Strand?”

“It was a gift.”

“From a lady, no doubt. Poor thing.”

“Pray why is this hypothetical lady ‘poor’?”

“I can only imagine she gave you such a book either because she assumed you were given to romance or because she was hoping you might become so. In both cases, by your own testimony, she was bound to be disappointed. Ergo my sympathy.”

“Actually, the book belonged to Louis.”

She turned fully around, interested. “Then I’m surprised to see it here.”

He frowned. “Why is that?”

“There’s nothing else in this house from Killylea. It’s as if this house and Killyea belong to different people.”

His gaze grew shuttered. She had gone too far. Been intrusive. For a moment, she thought he would freeze her with silence but then, he surprised her yet again. “Maybe they do.”

He exhaled slowly, his expression relaxing, and gave her a rueful smile. “You never met Louis, did you? It’s too bad. I think he would have enjoyed your company.”

“I’m flattered. But do you think would
I
have enjoyed
his
?”

The question seemed to startle Giles. He didn’t look offended, simply as if such a thing would never have occurred to him. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I expect so. He was kindhearted and thoughtful and,” he added with a glint of humor, “had a decidedly romantic nature.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well,” Giles smiled. “There is the book. It wasn’t the only such title he owned. It was simply his favorite. And before you ask if the story is any good, the answer is an emphatic ‘no.’ It’s a dreadful conceit in every sense. You know the sort of thing, filled with perennially endangered damsels and perfunctory villains, noble sacrifices and hopeless, though worthy, crusades. He thought I ought to use it as a template for my life.”