“I . . . ah . . . that is,” Amelia stammered. What to say? There was nothing to be said that would not be crass and obvious and crude, but then, in for a penny, in for a pound. “I should consider any offer most carefully, as I believe any woman would.” That sounded fairly mild, considering. “Of course, some decisions can be made very quickly,” she added, staring at Cranleigh, the oaf.
“Then Lady Amelia is not looking for a husband?” Cranleigh asked of Sophia while staring at her. He was such an unpleasantly brutal man, quite the sailor of reputation.
“Only the right sort of husband, Lord Cranleigh,” Sophia answered smoothly. “As you, one day, will seek out the right sort of wife. If there is scandal in that, London truly has gone dull. I may be required to do something about that.”
“Move?” Cranleigh said brusquely.
Sophia laughed and, tapping his arm with her fan, said, “Leave London? No, darling Cranleigh, I would simply and completely have to stir things up a bit. Whatever occurs, London must not be allowed to fall into solemnity and respectability. How hopelessly dull that would be.”
Amelia had never before heard respectability referenced as dull, and it did explain much about Sophia Dalby and the course her life had taken. It also, like a worm burrowing into the side of a well-built ship of the line, caused the tiniest hole of speculation as to what her life would be like without the armor of respectability. Certainly she had gone about her hunt for a husband with both respectability and solemnity as armor about her. And what had it got her? Respectability and solemnity. Not a duke. Not anyone.
“But as to what questions were asked of the Duke of Calbourne,” Sophia continued on, the men held silent by her combined allure and authority, a truly remarkable and useful combination of assets, “surely that would be indiscreet to divulge. You can’t want your own interview to be bandied about, Lord Iveston. I did think you a modest, private man.”
Sophia did not give him a chance to either confirm or deny the observation. Could he have done either and retained a speck of dignity? Continuing on was actually something of a mercy. Yes, it could be thought so.
“As to what you would like Lady Amelia to ask of you,” Sophia said casually, “perhaps you have taken the concept of an interview too literally.”
The occupants of the room pressed in on them without any trace of shame. Certainly at least twelve people could hear every word spoken between them and one of them was the Marquis of Ruan. How perfectly odd. What interest could he have in any of this? Amelia had only met him last week at Hyde’s, during that scandalous dinner where Louisa had got herself ruined and engaged.
There was that pairing again, scandal and marriage. Were they ever to be tied irrevocably together? Perhaps only when Sophia Dalby was involved. Well, she was involved very deeply with Amelia, but Amelia was both certain and determined that she would not be ruined, not now. No ruination for her. Though, looking at Iveston, he did not appear to be the sort to ruin a girl, not by accident and certainly never intentionally.
Her gaze strayed to Lord Cranleigh.
He
, on the other hand, looked exactly the sort to ruin a girl by simply being introduced to her.
Sailor.
“Have I?” Iveston said, giving his full attention to Sophia—again. Really, this was not to be borne. Every time Amelia paused to think and ponder and consider what best to do next, Sophia swooped in and monopolized every man within sound of her.
“Or perhaps he has not,” Amelia said boldly. It was a very scandalous thing to suggest, and she had no idea what to say next, but all eyes were once again on her and she intended to keep it that way for as long as she could. “I don’t think it amiss for a woman to ask a simple question of a man, particularly as he appears so very eager.”
“A simple question?” Sophia said, smiling. “Of course, he should be more than willing to answer a simple question. Was your question of Lord Iveston to be simple, Lady Amelia?”
Blast and bother, now that put an even more scandalous turn to the situation. It was almost as if Sophia were challenging her, but that was ridiculous. What purpose could Sophia have to do that? There was something odd about Sophia’s brand of help.
“I shall leave Lord Iveston to determine whether my question is simple or not,” Amelia said diplomatically. “Lord Iveston, I should very much like to ask you why you appear not to find my interviewing, to use your word, of potential husbands to be
scandalous
? ”
“Perhaps
insulting
would be a better word,” Cranleigh said stiffly. Amelia ignored him.
“Lady Amelia,” Iveston said, after looking censoriously at his annoying brother, good man, “no matter what word is used, I do believe it shows a levelheaded and logical approach to marriage, which I must confess is not often on display in the women I’ve met to date. Scandalous or not, it is very practical and I do find myself ever an admirer of practicality.”
Well. That was surprising.
“Chamber pots are practical as well and one doesn’t drag them into the center of the dining table.”
No need to speculate as to who had said
that
.
“Are you comparing me to a chamber pot?” she asked, turning the full force of her gaze, indeed her full attention, upon Cranleigh.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Cranleigh said in a stiff undertone. “
I
still maintain the boundaries of decorum.”
“I think you are mistaken, Lord Cranleigh,” she replied swiftly, before Sophia could reinsert herself into the conversation. “I do believe that, in trying to manage your older brother’s life, you step beyond many boundaries.”
Cranleigh leaned close to her, his icy blue eyes as hard as shining blades. She held her breath, but did not take a step away from him, though she wanted to. Certainly she wanted to. Most definitely.
“And if I do, Lady Amelia,” he breathed in cold disdain, “who is to push me back within the bounds? You?”
There was only one answer to that. She didn’t think. She didn’t debate. She didn’t ponder.
Amelia set her palm against Lord Cranleigh’s massive chest . . . and pushed.
Thirteen
M
ISS Penelope Prestwick almost laughed out loud.
Amelia Caversham had her hand squarely in the middle of Lord Cranleigh’s chest and appeared to be trying to push him, right in front of Lord Iveston, too. It was the strangest way to acquire a duke that she’d ever seen and it was sure to fail, if one could judge by the expression on Iveston’s face, though, he did not look offended so much as amused. That
was
odd. In fact, Iveston looked, why, he almost looked as though he might actually laugh.
That was not good.
The fact that pushing Cranleigh, who was built like a monument, was sure to prove impossible had very little to do with anything, except to prove, if proof were needed, and she hoped it were, that Amelia Caversham had no idea how to comport herself around men of title and fortune. A rare fact as Amelia was the daughter of a duke of healthy fortune. Certainly, for a girl who had every advantage, Lady Amelia had no idea how to take advantage of her assets.
Penelope was sure to do better.
“Whatever can she be doing?” George asked her.
“Making a fool of herself?” Penelope replied to her brother.
“What lovely entertainment you’ve provided,” the Marquis of Penrith said at her elbow. “And I’d only expected a small orchestra. You have gone quite above the mark, Mr. Prestwick, Miss Prestwick. My compliments.”
Oh, dear.
He
had come? Penrith had been invited, of course, as everyone had been invited, but she hadn’t thought he’d come. In fact, she’d almost hoped he wouldn’t come.
The Marquis of Penrith had the most dangerous of reputations in regard to young, unmarried women. It was rumored, and of course Penelope paid as much attention to the Penrith rumors as she did to every other, which is to say she considered them carefully and then swallowed them whole, that Penrith could and did with astounding regularity seduce innocent girls into doing all sorts of scandalous things merely by suggesting that they do scandalous things. It was his voice, you see, a husky, velvety murmur of masculine amusement and vague arousal that was his weapon. Even girls who knew nothing of arousal, vague or not, understood it at once, once Penrith had got them alone.
Penelope, perhaps not as innocent as some—as she had exchanged a few
mostly
innocent caresses with a very attractive groom at her father’s estate the day she had turned twenty, because the day had seemed to call for something in terms of a rite of passage, and she had no regrets as she still was not married and a girl did like to have some small experience of men before she found herself married to one for life—knew enough about Penrith’s reputation that she took a step away from him to be nearer to her brother.
And then she looked into Penrith’s cat green eyes, let her eye travel over his tousled dark blond hair, and discreetly cast a glance up and down and up again his lithe form . . . and took a step nearer to Penrith. Her brother was at her side. What could happen?
“I’m afraid, Lord Penrith,” Penelope said a bit stiffly, which was mortifying as the worst a woman could do was appear nervous when talking to a man, “that I must redirect your compliment to Lady Amelia and Lord Cranleigh, who are acting independently and outside the bounds of propriety.”
Once the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to gobble them back in. She sounded like the worst sort of prig. Penrith would hate her instantly.
Penrith, tall and lean, looked down at her with an amused expression. Perhaps he did not hate her?
“Miss Prestwick,” he said, and a shiver worked its way over her skin, “you notice that Lady Dalby is standing not a foot away from Lady Amelia?” Without waiting for her reply, he said, “I can promise you that Lady Amelia is not acting independently. Nor is Lord Cranleigh, though he may not be aware of it.”
Illogical nonsense. Is this how Penrith and his mesmerizing voice had gained infamy? By spouting gibberish? Of course, his gibberish had sounded lovely enough until one bothered to try and make sense of his words. How did Lady Dalby figure into the events of the evening? She was infamous, true enough, but not for persuading young women to manhandle titled gentlemen.
Or was she? Penelope had heard some rather lurid rumors about Sophia’s own daughter, pearl necklaces, and a closet in Hyde House, not to mention a rigorous jaunt down Park Lane; actually, some of the rumors had been that she’d run down Park Lane, her new husband chasing after her. Penelope enjoyed a luscious rumor as much as the next person, but when they became out-and-out ridiculous fabrications, then rumors were in danger of losing all their entertainment value as a window into the private lives of the titled class. An abuse of their function, surely, and such a waste. If one couldn’t rely on the stoutness of rumor, well then, what was left?
“I should think that would annoy Lord Cranleigh,” George said mildly. George was often mild; it was what made his company so pleasant, and so rare in a brother. Most of them were simply horrid by her observation. Why, Amelia’s brother was a perfect example: Lord Hawksworth rarely went out, and when he did, he hardly spoke a word, unless it was to annoy Amelia. “Do you think he knows?”
“Knows that he’s annoyed?” Penelope said a bit too sharply, considering that Penrith was smirking down at her, his smirk more alluring than many a man’s cordial smile. The man could simply get away with nearly anything. “I should think he would.”
“I think,” Penrith said softly, his voice causing another shiver to pass over her skin, this time deeper and . . . lower, “that it is a rare event indeed when a man knows he is being managed by Sophia Dalby, and if he does know—”
“He doesn’t mind,” George finished, smiling conspiratorially at Penrith.
Good heavens. This sort of conversation served no purpose whatsoever. What could George be thinking?
“I find that,” Penelope said, trying very hard not to sound priggish, “puzzling.”
“If you’re puzzled, Pen,” George said, “just think how Cranleigh must be feeling. Look at him. He looks—”
“Deadly,” Penrith finished.
Penelope looked. He did. Cranleigh looked truly deadly and he was looking fully at Amelia Caversham. For a moment, Penelope felt almost sorry for Amelia.
But then it passed.
WHATEVER Amelia had been expecting when she laid her hand against Cranleigh’s chest, it was not that he would be hot beneath her glove, or that a jolt of fire would pass through his skin to hers, or that the look in his pale blue eyes would be so blatantly intense. So dangerous. The word clanged through her thoughts, screaming into her blood.
Dangerous.
“Are you pushing me?” Cranleigh asked, his voice nearly a hiss of derision. “I can’t feel anything.”
It was a lie. She knew it instantly for a lie. The look in his eyes, the ragged intake of his breath, which surely matched her own hoarse gasp for air, the pulsing heat of his massive chest all declared it a lie. He could feel it, feel her, and it enraged him.
And she was glad.
She forgot about Iveston, about Sophia, about Ruan, and all the rest. She only saw Cranleigh. She only wanted to beat him. To push him off. To push him and push him until he moved.
Until she could move him so far and so deeply that he would not be able to deny it. He would be moved. And he would know that she was the woman who had moved him.
She pushed.
He did not move. His eyes widened slightly, frozen and hard, immovable.
She pushed again slightly and raised her other hand to add in, to pile on, to defeat him by a single push.
His brows lowered, scowling. He was always scowling. She didn’t care if he scowled. She only wanted him to move. It was the most important thing, instantly and illogically, the most important thing. There was nothing else. Just this man and his adamant refusal to be moved by her.