“Adventure?” he suggested.
“Exactly.” She nodded eagerly. The name Defoe was vaguely familiar, but she could not for the life of her place the author with his work, and she was not about to admit to Lord Berkley that while her sister was extremely well read, Cassie’s own literary preferences were limited to the occasional frivolous novel and magazines filled with the latest in fashion and furnishings. “It’s so…so…so adventurous.”
“Indeed.” He studied her curiously. “Then you enjoyed Robinson Crusoe?”
“I could not put it down.” Relief coursed through her. How could her mind have been so muddled as to not remember Defoe wrote Robinson Crusoe? Certainly, she hadn’t actually read it, but she was fairly certain Delia had and had probably mentioned the plot at some point. Not that Cassie could remember.
“It was most enjoyable.”
“Because of the adventurous nature of…the adventure?”
His gray eyes bored into hers as if challenging her to admit she hadn’t read this particular book or any others. Perhaps if the man let go of her hand her mind would be clearer. It was highly improper and terribly forward of him even if he didn’t seem to pay it the least bit of attention. What could one expect from a man of his reputation, anyway? Still, it was remarkably pleasant to have her hand enfolded in the warmth of his. And as it obviously didn’t mean anything to him, why should it mean anything to her?
“Perhaps you like adventure far more than you’re willing to admit?”
“Adventure in literature is an entirely different matter than adventure in reality,” she said primly and made a halfhearted effort to pull her hand from his.
“Forgive me, Miss Effington.” He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly, his gaze intent upon her own. He released her hand, and she pushed away a twinge of annoyance at the odd sensation of loss.
“It was most improper of me to continue to hold your hand, but I fear I was carried away. No doubt it’s probably no more than you expected from a man of my reputation.”
She started to protest but decided against it. The man was arrogant enough without her confessing anything he might interpret as her enjoyment of his touch.
He clasped his hands behind his back and continued to search the shelves. “Do you have a favorite book, Miss Effington? Or a writer you’re especially fond of?”
“A favorite?”
She did like the gentleman who wrote those fascinating bits of gossip in Cadwallender’s Weekly World Messenger. And she did enjoy Ackermann’s Repository, although admittedly that was mostly to keep up on the latest in fashion. And she had thoroughly read Mr. Hope’s Household Furniture and Interior Decoration, even if read was an inaccurate term, as the bulk of the book consisted of drawings and depictions of furnishings and room arrangements. But favorite?
“It’s so hard to choose just one,” she said weakly.
“Indeed it is. Often I find that who I wish to read depends very much on the state of my mind or, occasionally, my heart, as difficult as that might be for you to believe.” He slanted her a quick glance.
“When in the throes of flying, I find I often turn to Christopher Marlowe’s sentiments. Are you familiar with Marlowe?”
Who? She scoffed. “Aren’t we all?”
“Indeed. I myself am exceedingly fond of The Passionate Shepherd to His Love.”
“As are we all.” She nodded sagely and wished she had spent as much time studying literature in her youth as she had avoiding it. And wished as well she could have avoided this particular conversation. No matter what she thought of Lord Berkley, she certainly didn’t want him to think poorly of her—that she was ill read or had no taste for literature, even if that was perilously close to the truth.
“I know it by heart.” He thought for a moment. “Come live with me and be my love and we will all the pleasures prove that hills and valleys, dales and fields, woods or steepy mountain yields.”
“Oh, my.” She gazed up at him, her words little more than a sigh. “That was…well…perfect.”
He laughed. “Even when recited by someone with my obvious imperfections?”
“The perfection is in the words, my lord,” she murmured. It was indeed perfect, and she would allow her tongue to be cut out before she would admit to him that it was made all the more so by the man reciting it.
She could well see how Lord Berkley had achieved his reputation with women. With his mastery of poetry and the timbre of his voice he gave a lady the overwhelming impression that these words had never before been said, that they were for her and her alone. Coupled with his mesmerizing eyes and contagious laugh, why, even she was very nearly willing to throw caution to the winds and fling herself into his arms at this very minute.
“But he wasn’t, you know.”
“Wasn’t what?”
What would he do if she did? No doubt, he would take advantage of her at once. Exploit her weakness. Sweep her into his arms. Kiss her over and over again. Carry her off to his bed. Ravish her. Steal her virtue. Ruin her life. Destroy her—
“Perfect,” Lord Berkley said matter-of-factly, his attention returning to the wall of books. “Not your sort of man at all. He was killed in a drunken brawl at a fairly young age.
“Come now, Miss Effington, you still haven’t answered my question. Who among these is your favorite?” He gestured broadly at the shelves.
She pulled a calming breath, as much to restore her cool demeanor as to vanquish a distinct and most disquieting sense of disappointment that she was not currently on the path to ruin.
“Let me think. It’s a difficult choice.” Her gaze skimmed the shelves.
If she was forced to select a favorite, it should be an author she was at least mildly aware of. She didn’t want to seem a complete idiot. Her gaze caught on a matching set of red leather volumes with Shakespeare gilded on the spine.
She favored him with her brightest smile. “Shakespeare, of course.”
“Of course.” He returned her smile, and she had the irresistible urge to reach out and touch the corner of his mouth where it quirked upward. “Which of his works do you prefer?”
She said the first thing that popped into her mind. “Twelfth Night.”
He laughed. “I should have known that a woman pretending to be a man would intrigue you. Or is it the idea of one twin masquerading as another that you like?”
“Both, I should think.” She grinned with relief.
She honestly did like Twelfth Night, the performance of it much more than the reading of it. Delia had forced her to attend a production years ago, and there had been something about the story of disguise and misunderstanding that had appealed to her.
“I fear I am not as familiar with that particular play, but…” His brow furrowed in thought. “ ‘If music be the food of love, play on.’ ”
“ ‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them,’ ” she said without thinking. Where on earth had that come from? Apparently she was somewhat better versed in Shakespeare than she had imagined. It was an extremely satisfying thought.
“Excellent.” He studied her curiously. “I must confess, Miss Effington, with every minute spent in your presence, you both amaze and confuse me.”
“Do I?”
“I don’t know what to make of you.” He shook his head. “You are at once fascinating and annoying, intriguing and infuriating.”
“Am I?” She laughed lightly as if she didn’t care. As if this wasn’t the most delightful compliment she’d ever had.
His gaze searched her face. “You are a dichotomy, Miss Effington, a contradiction in terms. You are at once concerned with propriety and perfection, yet I suspect your definition of both are very much your own. You do precisely as you wish.”
“Nonsense, my lord.” She stared up at him and realized how very close to him she stood. Propriety, by anyone’s definition, would best be served by putting a modicum of distance between them. She should at the very least step back. She didn’t move. “Not precisely.”
“Precisely. You follow the rules society lays down only when they suit you. You said you would never invade the sanctity of a gentleman’s club, and I would wager that’s due more to lack of interest than anything else.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
He was right, of course; if she had any desire whatsoever to venture into White’s or Brooks or any of the other sacred masculine retreats that lined St. James Street she would certainly find a reason to do exactly as she wanted.
“Regardless of my own wishes, I would never—”
“Miss Effington.” He stepped closer. Close enough to touch. Intensity showed in his gray eyes, but his voice was cool. “What would you do if I were to take you in my arms and kiss you at this very moment?”
“I would slap your face, my lord,” she said without hesitation, the firm note in her voice belying the way she seemed to strain ever so slightly toward him, and the immediate realization that she very much wanted him to do just that.
“I see.” He narrowed his eyes and considered her for a moment. “Well, that’s that, then.” He turned to his study of the book-lined shelves, his hands again clasped behind his back.
“What’s what, then?” She stared in annoyance and more than a little frustration. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”
“I think not,” he said coolly.
“Why not?” Not that she wanted him to kiss her, but it would have been most satisfying to crack her hand across his face.
“It would be highly improper.”
“I realize that, but—”
“Furthermore, I have never kissed a friend before. I’m not sure I’m entirely certain how to do that or,”
he shook his head somberly, “whether I would enjoy it. I should hate to be slapped for something that wasn’t especially worth it.”
She straightened her shoulders. “I can assure you, Lord Berkley, it would most certainly be worth it.”
“That remains to be seen. You said yourself people expect you to stumble into scandal because you refuse to keep your opinions to yourself, yet you’ve never actually behaved in a truly scandalous manner. Therefore I’m afraid, Miss Effington,” he shrugged, “you have no references.”
“References?” She could scarcely choke out the word. “References?”
“References,” he said firmly. “My mother has heard excellent things about your abilities when it comes to redecorating houses, yet I have heard nothing about your ability to kiss. You are sadly lacking in references. And if I am going to risk your wrath, and I suspect it could well be impressive, I should at least know precisely what to expect.”
She glared. “I’ll have you know I have been kissed before. And quite thoroughly, too.”
“Really?” He raised a brow. “Then there are men willing to provide references?”
“I should certainly hope not!” Indignation rang in her voice. Indeed she had been kissed before. Any number of times. Admittedly, she had rarely been kissed by the same man more than once, as whatever man had been so daring in the first place had either been a rake she’d had no particular use for or deadly dull, in which case he had used up all his courage on the initial overture and had not hazarded a second attempt.
“A gentleman would never speak of such a thing in regards to a lady,” she said in a haughty manner.
“No, of course not,” he murmured. “And how many brothers do you have, Miss Effington?”
“More than enough.”
“All considered gentlemen, I gather?”
“Point taken, my lord,” she snapped.
“I thought it might be.” He smiled pleasantly. “Even disregarding your lack of references, while you are small as opponents go, I have no doubt your ire would add additional strength. A slap from you might well be fatal.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Fatal?”
“Or do I give you too much credit? Very well. Not fatal then, but,” he thought for a moment, “most definitely painful.”
“Oh, you can be certain of that,” she ground out the words.
“Therefore, Miss Effington, you can rest assured you are safe from any untoward advances from me.”
He favored her with a brilliant smile.
“Excellent. I am most relieved.”
“Besides, we have already determined I am not, nor shall I ever be, your Lord Perfect, and it follows therefore that you are not my”—his brow furrowed, then he brightened—“Miss Wonderful.”
“Miss Wonderful? Miss?” She stared. “Why not Lady Wonderful? Or Princess Wonderful?”
“Alas, I am not as much of a snob as you are.”
She gasped. “I’m not a snob!”
He raised a brow. “Lord Perfect.”
“Might I remind you, you were the one who bestowed the title on him, but now that I think about it, why not? A woman’s position in life is tied to that of her husband. Why shouldn’t I prefer to marry Lord Perfect rather than Mr. Perfect?”
“Why indeed?” Lord Berkley nodded sagely. “And I imagine Lord Perfect should have a tidy fortune. A nice home in London, an estate in the country, that sort of thing?”
“Well, yes.” She frowned. “You needn’t make it sound so mercenary.”
“Did I?” His eyes widened in feigned innocence. Whether he kissed her or not, she might have to slap him anyway. He was certainly begging for it. “My apologies.”
She ignored him. “And what of Miss Wonderful? Surely you have standards for her?”
“I’m not sure if standards is the appropriate word. Far and away too harsh, but certainly there are qualities I would wish for in a wife.”
“I thought as much.” She smirked. “I suspect your Miss Wonderful is as perfect as my Lord Perfect is.”
“Not in the least. The last thing I would want to be shackled with for the rest of my life is perfection. I can’t imagine anything more boring. No, I want a woman with a few delightful flaws.” He thought for a moment. “She should be biddable but not too docile, I should like a bit of a spark in her. Intelligent but not overly bookish. A touch of independence would be nice. She should be confident without being obstinate and—”
“And she should be pretty, no doubt.”
“Pretty is always preferable to hideous. And as much as this will surprise you, it is not the most important thing on my list of qualities for,” he cleared his throat, “Miss Wonderful. But beyond all else, she should love me.”
“Well, I wish Lord Perfect to love me as well,” Cassie said quickly. “I know I haven’t mentioned it before, but I do consider love to be important. I have always wished to marry for love.”
“Yet you have never been in love, and I suspect it is because you have never allowed yourself to be.” He leaned toward her in a confidential manner. “You, Miss Effington, have never dared to plunge into the precipice.”
“I shall dare when the time is right. When…when…” She huffed in annoyance. “When I meet Lord Perfect and not until then. Whereas you, my lord, apparently plunge whenever you meet a pretty face.”
He laughed. “Plunge and plummet. Far too many times, and I confess, I am done with it. Although you have been too cautious in the past and I have not been cautious at all, at this moment, Miss Effington, it strikes me that we are more alike than different. I shall not plunge again until I can do so with Miss Wonderful by my side.”
Cassie couldn’t help but think what a shame it all was. The two of them were both looking for the right match and everything that meant, including love. It was almost a pity that she had decided they would not suit for one another.
At moments like this, she could completely ignore his reputation and believe wholeheartedly in reform. Why, if anyone could reform a rake like Lord Berkley, she could. Still, it seemed he had put any possibility of a match between the two of them aside when he had offered his friendship. And he certainly hadn’t pressed his attentions on her and kissed her when he’d had the opportunity to do so, which, for some odd reason, was still rather annoying.
“Perhaps we could help one another, Miss Effington,” he said slowly.
“Oh?”
“I know any number of gentlemen who are interested in the pursuit of marriage. One might well prove to be your Lord Perfect.”
She shook her head. “I scarcely think—”
“No, Miss Effington, it’s an excellent idea. I’ll find you Lord Perfect and you can find me,” he grinned,
“Miss Wonderful.”
“That’s absurd. I…” Why was it absurd? When it came to matters of this nature, matters of the heart, neither of them had done especially well on their own thus far. Perhaps it was time to join forces. Besides, what were friends for, if not to help each other?
She did know a great many young ladies that might well fit his criteria. Regardless of his reputation, a viscount with a respectable title and fortune was still considered something of a catch. In addition, he’d have a nicely refurbished house.
“Surely you’re not reluctant to take on such a challenge? Or better yet,” he grinned, “a wager. For oh, say
—”
“Forty pounds,” she said before she could stop herself. “I have a spare forty pounds.” She nodded thoughtfully. “I shall bet forty pounds that I can find you your Miss Wonderful.”
“And I’ll wager forty pounds that I can find you Lord Perfect.”
She studied him carefully. “How do we determine a winner?”
“Obviously you would have to agree that the gentleman I name is indeed Lord Perfect, just as I would have to agree on your choice of a Miss Wonderful.”
“Of course.”
“Therefore, I should think if we’re both successful, there is no winner of the wager—it would be a draw, although I daresay in that case we would in truth both be victorious. No, the money should not change hands unless one of us concedes defeat and gives up the quest for Miss Wonderful or Lord Perfect.” He held out his hand. “Is it agreed, then?”
“Agreed.” She nodded and took his hand.
He grinned down at her. “I can’t remember when I’ve looked forward to a competition as much as I am looking forward to this one.”
She grinned back. “I warn you, I shall not be as easily defeated as my brother was.”
“When it comes to you, Miss Effington, I am confident nothing is ever easy. I propose we begin our quest tomorrow night at Lady Puget’s ball.”
“An excellent place to begin. I daresay there should be any number of potential Miss Wonderfuls present.”
“And a possible Lord Perfect or two as well.” He laughed, then studied her in a considering manner. “I have always enjoyed playing for high stakes, although I cannot recall ever playing for stakes quite this high.”
She raised a brow. “Forty pounds?”
“Not at all. We’re playing for our futures, Miss Effington, and more than likely, our hearts.”
Six
I shouldn’t say a woman’s face and figure are of paramount importance. Indeed, a clever mind and easy manner are far more desirable. Still, I should hate to shackle myself for life to a lady I can only abide in the dark of night.