A Gentleman Says "I Do" (7 page)

The better part of valor is discretion.

—William Shakespeare

Iverson saw the dog at the same time Catalina did, and he started running. His heart hammered. Damnation, he knew she was going to try to save it.

“No, Miss Crisp, don’t!” he yelled, dropping his hat and racing toward her at breakneck speed.

But she paid no heed to him or her aunt who was repeatedly shrieking her name.

He watched as Miss Crisp grabbed the dog. It looked as if she was going to get out of the way in time, but suddenly she pitched forward and fell to her knees, clutching the dog to her chest. The horse and carriage barreled straight toward her. Fear like Iverson had never known erupted inside him and spurred him faster.

As Iverson grabbed her under the arms and shoved her forward, she flung the dog out of harm’s way. A second later, the rig careened by, but not before the big wheel caught his hip a glancing blow, spinning him around. He recoiled from the jolt and pain splintering through him.

“Are you all right?” he asked breathlessly, gently helping Miss Crisp to stand.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said, holding onto his forearms to help steady herself.

She didn’t look fine. Her face was pale, and he could tell by the tremble in her hands she knew just how close she’d come to being killed.

Ignoring his pain, Iverson looked around as her aunt came rushing up to them. He saw the Corinthian had finally brought the horse and gig to a stop a short distance away. Not saying a word to anyone, he turned and stomped over to where the young blade sat. Iverson grabbed him by the neckcloth and unceremoniously hauled him down from off of the gig.

“You reckless greenhorn! You almost killed her.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the wide-eyed young man mumbled. “I was trying my best to stop the horse. It wasn’t my fault.”

“Of course it was your fault. You’re the driver.”

“No, some little street bugger threw a rock with what looked like a slingshot and hit my horse’s flank, causing him to bolt.”

Iverson tightened his hold on the man’s clothing and yanked him up close to his face. “I don’t care what happened to the horse. You should have been able to control him. Now get yourself over to a side street, and stay off the main roads until you learn a lot more horsemanship than you have now.”

Iverson shook his hands free of the man and headed back over to where Miss Crisp and a small crowd had gathered around her. He had to force himself not to limp from the pain in his hip.

“That was an amazing feat of gallantry, Mr. Brentwood,” said Mrs. Gottfried. “I can’t thank you enough for saving Catalina.”

Iverson didn’t acknowledge Mrs. Gottfried’s praise. He had eyes only for Miss Crisp. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he asked her.

She lifted her chin and her lashes as she drew in a soft breath. Her beautiful green eyes glistened. He knew she had been as frightened as he. Suddenly, Iverson had a desperate urge to pull her into his arms and hold her until she stopped trembling. He wanted to kiss away the fear that lingered in her expression.

“I’m happy to say only my pride is damaged. I thought I had time to save the dog and get out of the way.”

He would have liked to tell her that was a damn foolish thing for her to have done, but he could see she was already admonishing herself, so he tempered his words and said, “You would have, if you hadn’t stumbled.”

She gave him a grateful smile. “So I like to tell myself. I looked around for the dog. He must have run away. I hope he’s all right.”

“Don’t worry about him. Street dogs learn early how to take care of themselves.”

“Do excuse us, Mr. Brentwood,” Mrs. Gottfried said. “I think I should get Catalina home now.”

“I agree, madam,” Iverson said, but he kept his gaze on Miss Crisp.

“Thank you, Mr. Brentwood.”

Iverson nodded once before Miss Crisp was ushered away by her aunt. His hip was hurting like hell, but suddenly he felt very good. He didn’t mind receiving Miss Crisp’s gratitude. He didn’t mind it at all.

***

Night had fallen by the time Iverson made it back to his house. His afternoon had been busy, going over monthly account books with his solicitor, and he’d just finished meeting with the gentleman who was looking for a summer home for him in the country. He was hoping to find an estate for sale somewhere close to his older brother’s home. But so far, that project was proving difficult to accomplish.

He stepped down from his carriage and winced as his weight landed on his leg. His hip would be sore for a few days, but thankfully, he’d saved Miss Crisp. And she had saved the dog. A shiver of fear shook him when he thought about how close she had come to being trampled by the horse and carriage. He didn’t know how, but he’d known the moment he saw the dog that she was going to try to save it. Maybe it was because of how kindly she’d treated her staff, speaking to them gently, helping them do their jobs. Maybe it was just that same perplexing connection he had with Matson. Sometimes he just knew what his brother was going to do and say.

He smiled to himself as he started up his stone walkway. Miss Crisp had been crowding his thoughts off and on all afternoon. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he was this attracted to a young lady. She reminded him of a sunny spring morning: warm and cool at the same time. He liked that about her. He liked a lot of things about her. No, he liked everything about her except the fact that she was Sir Phillip’s daughter.

The door opened as Iverson’s foot landed on the first step. He swallowed a groan of pain.

“Good evening, sir,” Wallace said, holding his hand out for Iverson’s hat.

Iverson smiled to himself again. How difficult would it have been yesterday for Mrs. Wardyworth to have greeted him even half as properly as Wallace? He doubted that woman even knew how to hang a coat, let alone how to take one from a guest.

“Your brother is here, sir,” his butler said, reaching for Iverson’s coat.

“Thank you, Wallace.”

“He’s been here for quite some time, too. I suggested he wait for you in the drawing room. I had a fire lit to take away the chill, and gave him a book and a drink.”

“Good,” Iverson said, taking off his gloves.

“Should I pour a glass for you?”

“No need. I’ll do it.”

“I asked Cook to set a place at the table for him just in case you asked him to stay for dinner.”

“I’m sure he’ll stay if he doesn’t have other plans.”

Wallace reached for Iverson’s gloves. “May I do anything else for you, sir?”

“No, that will be all for now,” Iverson said and turned toward the drawing room. “I’ll call if I need you.”

Matson had tried to dissuade Iverson from looking for Sir Phillip yesterday, even though he knew it was a lost cause. Iverson had to go. It was a matter of honor.

It was bad enough Sir Phillip’s parody implied that his mother betrayed his father, the story also made it seem as if the twins in the story were oblivious to the fact that they looked so much like a well-respected man in town, and of course they weren’t. Talking about it—or worse, writing about it—only kept the gossip alive. He was damn ready to put the matter to rest for good. Iverson had to stop Sir Phillip, or he feared others would follow suit. He had to find the man and let him know he meant business, and as much as he hated the thought of it, if need be, in the same way he’d let Lord Waldo know his family was not to be discussed.

Their older brother, Brent, had prepped them well for what to expect when they arrived in London, even thinking they might be outcasts in Society. But that couldn’t have been further from what happened. From the moment they’d arrived in London, the
ton
had welcomed them with open arms. They were invited to and even celebrated at party after party over the autumn and winter, but that didn’t mean people weren’t gossiping about them. They were. It was human nature. But most members of the
ton
respected their privacy and didn’t bring it up to Iverson and Matson. Not to their faces anyway. And now that the Season was only weeks away, the invitations to parties, balls, and high-stakes card games had already started stacking up on Iverson’s desk.

When Iverson walked into the drawing room, his brother was sitting in a chair by the fire, sipping what looked like a glass of port.

Matson rose quickly when he saw Iverson and said, “Damnation, Iverson, what are you thinking?”

“About what?” he said and strode over to the side table behind the settee to pour himself a glass of the port Wallace left out for him.

“Don’t play innocent with me.”

Iverson grunted a laugh and said, “In that case, I won’t.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I thought we had grown past telling each other our secrets, Brother.”

“It’s not a secret if all of London is talking about it, and I sure as hell don’t like being the last one to hear about it. Now, I can either talk some sense into you, or knock some sense into your head right now, if need be.”

“You choose,” Iverson said, completely unconcerned about his brother’s ire.

“What you are doing is not acceptable.”

Iverson had had enough of their tit for tat. “Look, Matson, I’ve had a hellish afternoon, so just get on with it and tell me what you are talking about, because I really have no idea.” Making sure he showed no signs of his injury, he walked over to Matson and, without asking, added a splash or two of port into his brother’s glass.

“I’m talking about your courting Miss Crisp.”

That brought Iverson up short. He frowned. “What are you talking about? I’m not courting Miss Crisp.”

“According to several men at the club this afternoon, you are. They all but have you already publishing the banns.”

“What the devil?” He might get a hitch in his breath every time he thought about her, but he wasn’t planning on marrying her.

“The word is that you two were out for a cozy stroll when she ran into the street to save a dog from certain death, and then you had to save them both.”

Iverson laughed ruefully. “What nonsense. We weren’t strolling, we were talking. And I didn’t save the dog, she did.” Iverson replaced the decanter on the table.

“Who saved whom is not as important at the moment as your courting Miss Crisp. I thought you were going to give Sir Phillip a black eye, like you did Lord Waldo, not go after his daughter. That’s beyond the pale, even for you.”

Matson retook his seat, and Iverson eased down into a comfortable chair to rest his hip. First, he had to put up with a servant, and then Mrs. Gottfried thinking he wanted to court Miss Crisp, and now his own brother was giving him trouble.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” Matson asked.

Iverson took a sip of his drink before saying, “I’m not courting Miss Crisp.”

“So you just happened upon her on the street and introduced yourself and then proceeded to save her life in front of more than half a dozen people.”

“That’s fairly close to what happened.”

“Don’t give me that drivel, Iverson. Yesterday you wanted to ram Sir Phillip’s teeth down his throat.”

Iverson frowned. “Did I actually say I wanted to do that?”

Matson grimaced and swirled the dark liquid in his glass. “Yes, you did.”

“And I probably meant it at the time, too, but I won’t do quite that much damage to him when I finally find him. I want only to break his fingers now.”

“What?”

Iverson grunted a laugh at the concerned look on Matson’s face. He relaxed his shoulders and said, “Don’t take me so seriously, Brother. I don’t intend to do any physical harm to the man this time. Everyone deserves a warning.”

Iverson took a sip and looked at his twin over the glass. He held the port in his mouth for a moment and let it sting his tongue and the back of his throat before swallowing. It was amazing how much he and his brother looked alike, and how much they resembled Sir Randolph.

Only recently had Iverson started wearing his hair much longer than Matson’s and pulled back in a queue. There were a few times in his life when it had pleased him to be the mirror image of his brother. Over the years, he and Matson had switched identities more than once to fool playmates, tease young ladies, or confound business associates, but those kinds of games no longer interested either of them. After almost thirty years of being a twin, Iverson needed his own identity, and never more so than when he’d come to London and discovered he not only was the spitting image of his brother, but of Sir Randolph Gibson, too.

Now, though he hated to admit it even to himself, the longer hair and queue was his way of trying to look less like his brother, and if that made him look less like Sir Randolph Gibson, even better. Matson had made subtle changes in his appearance, too. He’d grown a closely cropped, chinstrap beard less than a fourth of an inch wide. It wasn’t something he and Matson had spoken about, but since coming back to England they were developing their separate lives, developing different interests and different friends. Even when they were at White’s, Matson preferred billiards, and Iverson a game of cards.

“Tell me what happened yesterday after you left our offices,” Matson said.

“Sir Phillip wasn’t home, so I spoke with Miss Crisp.”

“Where is the devil?”

“Miss Crisp didn’t know. She said he may not even be in London right now.”

“I didn’t know the man had a daughter until this afternoon.”

“Yesterday she told me she had attended some recent parties, but she always left early.”

“Must be why we’ve missed her. It sounds as if you might have had a lengthy conversation with her, if you were talking about parties. And you did meet with her again today. Tell me about her.”

She’s stunning, lively, alluring, exciting, and delectable.

“I found her challenging to talk to,” Iverson said and took another sip of his drink.

“Challenging? That’s a rather odd thing to say. Most of the ladies I’ve met are not challenging in the least.”

“How well I know. However, Miss Crisp took one look at me and knew I was quite angry. I couldn’t get a straight answer out of her or any of her staff about her father’s whereabouts.”