“There’s a bit of gossip. Concerning you and Mad eline May.”
“Are you being disrespectful to the lady?” Luke asked through his teeth.
“Not at all. I’m merely pointing out the allure of her undeniable charms.” Fitch spread his hands in a self deprecating manner, but he looked annoyingly smug, like he’d just learned something from Luke’s reaction. “Who could blame you, Altea? I’m merely offering my congratulations at breaching the impenetrable guard of her all too proper distance. Don’t be so testy.”
Once again, he reminded himself it would be no ticed if he put his fist solidly in Fitch’s face in such a respectable establishment, so he took in a steadying breath. When Luke thought about Madeline enduring the man’s tormenting comments and threats, the urge to protect her was definitely there.
Luke stood up, folding his paper in half and tucking it under his arm. “You are misinformed,” he said with lethal emphasis. “Lady Brewer left in her own carriage, quite alone. The lady’s honor is undisputed. Now if you will excuse me, I have an appointment.”
“Of course.” Fitch inclined his head, his smile more of a faint smirk. “Thank you again for your . . .
assistance
, Altea.”
As he strode from the room, Luke pondered darkly if he should tell Madeline about the exchange. Quite obvi ously Fitch had made the connection between the missing journal—now in the hands of its rightful owner—and Luke’s supposed rescue. Maybe the earl didn’t remember clearly, and it didn’t seem he did, but he still suspected the disappearance of the journal and the attack were linked.
Damnation.
Why couldn’t it be all clean and neat? The obnoxious Fitch was no fool, which didn’t help matters. Depraved and conscienceless, yes, but a fool, apparently not.
He should definitely warn Madeline that this business wasn’t over.
And
, a small voice told him as he nodded at the footman at the door and gained the street,
you wouldn’t mind seeing the beauteous Lady Brewer again anyway
.
The meeting had seemed endless, but when Miles rose and shook the hand of Henry Goad, Esq., and exited the small but prestigious establishment, it was with a sense of inner accomplishment. The sheaf of papers in his hands represented a promising future, and he needed to concentrate on that and put out of his mind what wasn’t quite so promising.
Like, he’d discovered when he arrived at the palatial Daudet mansion, where his family had their own set of apartments, Lord Fawcett’s carriage prominently sitting out front, the gilded crest on the side of the equipage unmistakable.
The joy of the day vanished.
Fawcett’s interest in Elizabeth had been blatant enough. Miles ascended the steps and sternly reminded himself that the marquess was a decent sort and would no doubt make an admirable husband.
Small consolation there, damn all.
He had every intention of heading directly toward the private section of the house, but unfortunately, Lord Fawcett had apparently just arrived and was still in the polished splendor of the foyer, ostensibly admiring an ornate Oriental lacquer table as he was announced, his hands clasped behind his back.
Yes, the day had started well enough, but this was a definite deterioration.
“Hawthorne,” the marquess said pleasantly, turning as Miles came in, an affable smile on his face. “I always forget you live here also. How are you?”
Nice to be so unmemorable
, Miles thought wryly, but he nodded politely. “Well, thank you.”
“I’m calling for Lady Elizabeth,” Fawcett confided, as if it weren’t easily deduced. He was dressed immacu lately in a bottle green coat with an embroidered match ing waistcoat, doeskin breeches, and polished boots, the elegance of his attire striking, with lace at his cuffs and a tasteful diamond stickpin in his intricately tied cra vat. To make it worse, though he didn’t usually waste much time contemplating the looks of other men, Miles had to grudgingly acknowledge that Fawcett was hand some enough, if you favored fair haired men with white, straight teeth.
Most women, at a guess, did. Especially when the man was also titled and wealthy, and, as loathe as he was to admit it, a good sort as well.
“So I gathered.” Miles did his best to maintain a fa cade of cordiality.
“She doesn’t appear to be home, but it is Lord Altea I wish to see anyway.”
The purpose for a call on her older brother and guard ian was clear enough. Though it took some effort, Miles said, “Best of luck, then, with gaining Luke’s approval.”
“A moment, Hawthorne, if you would.”
Miles, about to walk past the other man and escape, halted with reluctance. The marquess hesitated and then asked, “Has she mentioned me? I know the two of you are quite close, and I wondered if Elizabeth had ever expressed her feelings on my courtship to you.”
It was one matter to secretly pine for a woman you couldn’t have, Miles decided, and quite another to en courage your competitor, even if said competitor had no idea he was metaphorically stepping on your toes. “She’d be unlikely to discuss her preferences in suitors with me,” he murmured, his tone deliberately blasé. “We tend to argue more than converse.”
“I do admire her spirited approach to life.”
“
Headstrong
would be more my take on it.”
His lordship laughed. “She did mention the two of you were somewhat of scapegraces when you were children. In fact, she mentions you quite often. That is why I asked if she’d ever mentioned
me
.”
She hadn’t. She hadn’t talked about any of the ardent pursuers that flocked around her at every ball and rout. Which, now that Miles thought about it, was a little curious. Or maybe not. Three sentences into a conversation and they were already quarreling with each other, so her reticence was not exactly a surprise.
Elizabeth mentioned him quite often? In the most scathing of terms, no doubt.
“I’m afraid we haven’t discussed you,” he admitted. “But as I said, that really means very little. She actually doesn’t share her personal thoughts with me.”
“If she should say something . . . I’d appreciate a good word. You and I have known each other since university, haven’t we?”
Yes, they had. Fawcett was a few years older, but it was true. In a loose sense, they were friends.
Dammit. If Miles could properly detest him, it would be easier.
Luckily, they were interrupted just as Miles opened his mouth to vow to help the blasted man.
“Lord Altea asked me to show you to his study, my lord marquess.” The butler bowed formally and allowed a grateful Miles an expeditious escape. Fawcett was led off toward Luke’s study, and Miles headed across the main reception area toward the graceful dual staircase, trying to suppress his chaotic emotions. This would not be the first real offer for Elizabeth’s hand, but he had a feeling it was the first one that might get sincere consideration. Fawcett was a very respectable candidate.
When she marries
, he reminded himself as he gained the top of the stairs and stalked down the hallway,
I’ll lose her
. It wasn’t a new revelation, but Lord Fawcett’s presence certainly made it more immediate.
With his gloves clenched tightly in his hand as he climbed the steps, Miles decided he could leave for Brussels with the shipping contracts, orchestrating an escape, should a betrothal be announced. He’d planned on sending an emissary in the name of the new company, but if he absented himself from the country for several months, he could skip the engagement party, the rounds of congratulations. . . .
Yes, that would work. It wasn’t the best time, in a business sense, for him to leave London, but certainly better than staying. . . .
“You’ve been gone long enough.”
He froze in the doorway of his bedroom, his hand still on the glass knob. The object of his thoughts stood by the window, which was open to the late-afternoon breeze. She wore a day gown in a pale yellow color, a demure lacy froth on the puffy short sleeves and around the neckline, and her glossy hair was held back simply with a white ribbon.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his traitorous mind conceptualizing the proximity of her presence and the most prominent object in the same space.
Elizabeth. My bed.
The latter, a Louis Quatorze piece, the elegant carved posts hung with simple dark green silk, the coverlet the same color, was only a few feet from where she stood. His sole contribution to the decoration of the room was a miniature of his father on the mantel; the rest of the elegant furnishings—an armoire, a writing desk, two chairs by the fireplace—were all his mother’s selection. He could actually care less about the decor, because although he considered this his home in London, it was his goal to someday purchase a country house of his own.
“I’m spying.” Elizabeth looked unfazed by his ungracious greeting. “Your window overlooks the street.” She turned to peer out the window again. “It appears Lord Fawcett has arrived.”
“Yes.” It took some effort to not grit his teeth. “I ran into him in the foyer.”
“He wishes to speak with Luke.”
“I received that impression myself.” In retrospect, Miles should have accepted the offer of a drink with Mr. Goad and avoided this excruciating situation.
Elizabeth sighed and did the unthinkable. She went over and sat on the edge of the bed—his bed—with an uncharacteristically pensive look on her face. “I hope you do not mind if I hide here until he’s gone.”
He did mind, but then again the word
hide
struck him enough he could only stare at her. The house was huge. Of all places to choose . . .
“Why would you hide, pray tell? I thought young ladies about to become engaged to an exalted marquess were all giggles and simpering smiles.”
“I’ve never simpered in my life,” she informed him, her chin coming up and a look of annoyance crossing her delicate features. “You know that. I am not in the mood to be teased, Miles.”
That
was the Elizabeth he knew.
He finally moved into the room, feeling a little foolish hovering in the doorway. “Very well. You have your flaws, but I concede I haven’t seen a simper, for which I am eternally grateful, and you haven’t giggled since you were in pigtails.” He set the sheaf of precious papers on the desk and turned around, lifting a brow. His next question was oh so carefully nonchalant. “May I ask again why you are hiding?”
“Don’t sneer at me, but the answer is simple cowardice.”
“I don’t sneer any more than you simper.” Miles propped one shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, studying her averted profile. “What are you afraid of, El?”
“After Luke rejects his offer, I am afraid Lord Fawcett will ask to see me. Knowing my brother, he will send someone for me, of course, if his lordship requests it. If they can’t find me . . .” She trailed off with a rueful smile and spread her slim hands. “So, you see, pure cowardice.”
Rejects his offer.
The phrase had a nice ring to it. Suddenly Brussels didn’t seem nearly as appealing.
“I doubt anyone would look for you in my bedroom, true,” Miles said dryly, hoping the impractical elation of his reaction didn’t show. “And you can rest easy, for Fawcett is under the impression you are out. May I ask why you are so confident Luke is rejecting his lordship’s proposal?”
“Because I don’t want to marry him, of course.” She rubbed her temple. “Don’t be a dolt, Miles. Luke asked me what he should say and I told him that I am not interested in the marquess.”
The warning was useless. He
was
a dolt, because he was delighted she wasn’t wedding the handsome, rich Lord Fawcett. It was nothing but a reprieve before she chose someone else, but he was still irrationally grateful. “I am genuinely curious as to why Fawcett doesn’t suit. He’s titled, has a respectable fortune, and I haven’t noticed his ears are green or that he has a repulsive wart on the end of his nose. He is, in short, a decent catch. Isn’t he?”
“Catching,” Elizabeth said firmly, “is for fish. And if, in your roundabout way, you are trying to say his lordship is good-looking, he is, I agree—green ears aside.”
“I doubt I’m a good judge of whether a man is appealing in looks.”
“That is so ridiculous. Women know if other women are pretty or not.”
She had a point, but he wasn’t going to argue it. He said stiffly, “I merely meant
I
wouldn’t be attracted to him.”
Now, that came out all wrong.
Hell and blast.
Elizabeth burst out in a peal of laughter. “I should hope not.”
His face reddened. She often had this effect on him. He clarified, “If I were a woman.”
If I were a woman?
Oh, Lord, even worse. Why had he said
that
? He amended quickly, “And wanting to find a wealthy, titled husband.”
She evidently found that image even more amusing.