All's Fair in Love and Scandal (6 page)

A wagon rumbled past, so near the horse’s tail nearly brushed her skirts as it swished from side to side. In the blink of an eye Mr. Bennet spun her around, almost lifting her off her feet as he moved between her and the traffic. She clutched at him for balance, too startled to speak. No one had done that since Arthur died. She’d got used to looking after herself and keeping everyone else, especially gentlemen, at bay. It was only this gentleman who refused to be kept at arm’s length—whom she had trouble
remembering
to keep at arm’s length.

“Sorry,” said Mr. Bennet. “Are you all right?”

Only then did she realize that his arm had gone around her waist, and his hand to her shoulder. Given the way she was still clinging to his coat, they were nearly in each other’s arms, right on the side of Oxford Street in the middle of the day. And instead of being uncomfortable at the public display or appalled at her own lack of discipline, she felt a deep throb of longing in her chest. She hadn’t felt that since Arthur’s death, either. “Yes,” she said lamely. “I’m perfectly fine.”

He didn’t release her. Nor did she release him. “It’s disgraceful how people drive in London,” he said.

“Yes.” Her heart hammered. With some effort she pried her fingers loose from his clothing. “Thank you.”

For a moment he just looked down at her, as if she’d caught him off guard; his gaze was clear and a little startled. His lips parted, but then his arms fell away and he stepped back. “Now I insist on taking you for an ice. It’s the least I can do in apology for seizing you like that.”

She felt an unaccountable blush warm her face and dropped her gaze. It landed on his boots, now heavily spattered with mud. She blinked and glanced at her skirt, not surprised to see a few splashes of the same on her hem. When she looked up, Mr. Bennet had noticed.

“My sister would be in despair if her favorite dress got so dirty,” he said with a rueful look. “I should have paid more attention to the reckless idiots racing up Oxford Street. It was my fault for leading you right to the edge of the street.”

“Your boots are much dirtier,” she pointed out.

He shrugged. “Leather cleans up better than cloth.”

“How did you know this is my favorite dress?”

His gaze drifted down, then back up until it met her own. “How could it not be? It makes your eyes glow.”

Madeline had a terrible feeling that his company was far more to blame for that. “It’s just a dress,” she murmured.

He offered his arm again. “And they’re just boots.”

They were expensive boots of fine leather. It was a small act of chivalry, the sort any number of men might have performed. But the fact remained that only Douglas Bennet had; only he persisted in the face of her cool attempts to rebuff him. Only he charmed his way through her defenses until she had to admit, to herself if not to him, that she liked his company. She liked the spark of awareness that went through her when he appeared. She liked the way he made her laugh despite all her resolve not to—in fact, she liked laughing again. It had been a long time since she’d done so as frequently and as easily as she had with him.

This time she took his arm without demur. This time she let her steps stray close to his side until his elbow brushed her waist and she could smell the vibrant scent of his soap. This time . . .

This time she let herself hope he was in earnest when he said he wanted to get to know her better.

C
HA
PTER
E
IGHT

F
or once Douglas had nothing to say.

It had seemed a fairly ordinary thing, swinging Madeline Wilde away from the wagon about to splash muck on them. His father would have done the same for his mother, and Burke would probably shield Joan as well. It was an ordinary, gentlemanly thing to do.

And now he knew exactly how she felt in his arms, and how beautiful she was when she wasn’t trying to run him off. For that moment there, when he held her close and she held tight to him, he’d had the strongest feeling of . . . awe.

If only he knew what it really meant, and how he ought to respond. As thrilling as it was to flirt with her, he did want more. Unfortunately he didn’t know how one went about pursuing
more
with a woman. His expertise was in flirting and charming, not in pursuing a more serious or lasting relationship. He didn’t even know what he wanted—more than a flirtation, more than a brief affair, but surely not anything . . . irrevocable.

Irrevocable
meant marriage, and Douglas was not a marrying man. He liked barmaids and opera dancers, the sort of women who would never expect a man of his position to marry them. He stole a sideways glance at Mrs. Wilde. No tavern wench could hold a candle to her, with her faintly accented voice and mysterious smile and golden curls he was desperate to see streaming loose around her bare shoulders. She was a widow, he argued to himself, an independent woman; she probably didn’t want anything irrevocable, either. She hadn’t even agreed to dance with him yet, for God’s sake. She knew very well he wanted her, and he could tell she found him attractive. It was only a matter of time and persistence before they ended up in bed together. He’d never been so determined to make a woman like him. Once he succeeded—once she began to crave his company the way he did hers—he would show her how attentive and devoted he could be. It would take him years to enact all the fantasies he’d had about her, and once he had her in his arms, wild and eager, he’d make damned sure she never wanted to leave.

But wait. He stopped those thoughts in alarm. If she never wanted to leave him and he never wanted to leave her, that sounded . . . permanent. Permanent was only a short leap from irrevocable.

Good God, was this what had happened to Burke? Once upon a time Burke had regarded Joan as the greatest Fury in London—or so he’d said. He’d called her trouble and said he meant to avoid her. Douglas had even felt guilty imposing on his friend by asking him to keep an eye on his sister when he and his parents had left London. And yet a month later Joan was married to Burke. There must have been something scandalous to prompt it, although Burke had weathered plenty of scandals without batting an eye, let alone getting married. No one in Douglas’s acquaintance was more daring, more immune to matrimony, more careless of propriety than Burke . . . but no one had had to march him to the church at sword point, either. Burke had been there pacing the aisle when Douglas arrived, in fact, as if he couldn’t wait for the ceremony. And after his visit to Hanover Square the other day, Douglas could tell his friend was pleased with his lot. If a hell-raiser like Burke could slip and get caught in the bonds of marriage, it could happen to anyone.

Couldn’t it?

He glanced at Mrs. Wilde again. Did she hold him at bay because she wanted marriage? People whispered about her, but mostly about her air of unattainability. Joan said the only scandal was connected to her vaguely suspect parentage. Spence had called her the courtesan’s daughter, but she had steadfastly resisted his every effort to charm her. Hell, it had taken over a week of determined effort to get her to take his arm and walk with him.

Mrs. Wilde indicated a shop she needed to visit. He held the door for her, then hung back and pretended to examine a display of quills, but the stationer’s shop was small. There was no way to avoid overhearing her order a large quantity of paper and several bottles of ink, to be delivered to her home. From the shopkeeper’s manner, Douglas sensed this was a typical order for her.

It made him think of Spence’s stupid wager. Why did she need that much paper? Not even Douglas’s mother, who seemed to have a vast network of gossipy friends all over Britain, wrote enough letters to need so much. And Mrs. Wilde didn’t order fine pressed paper, suitable for letters, but coarser sheets, the sort one wouldn’t mind throwing on the fire if the writer was displeased with her work.

“You must be planning to write a novel,” he said as they left the shop.

Her dark eyes flashed his way. “You don’t strike me as the sort to care much about novels.”

Douglas grinned. “Very true. I never was one for books.”

She smiled. “But what a world you’ve missed! Novels are the form that makes history feel familiar and real, the vehicle for science and philosophy to become human. They cannot compare to books assigned by a tutor or professor.”

“I didn’t want to take the risk, so avoided them all.” He cocked his head to see her face. She had taken his arm this time without any protest, and he liked the feel of her beside him. If he could make her laugh, he’d count this entire day a victory. “So you
are
writing a novel?”

Her mouth curved as if at some secret joke. “No.”

Curse Spence. Without that bounty, Douglas wouldn’t have noticed if she ordered enough paper to print the
London Gazette
for a year. On the other hand, if Spence hasn’t dared him to do it, he might never have made such a point of seeking her out. He decided to reserve judgment for a while longer. “Poetry?” he guessed again. “A play?”

“Neither.”

“Have you got a printing press in your sitting room?” he asked with a laugh.

She whipped around. “What?”

“You’ve bought enough paper to publish your own newspaper every week.”

She blinked, then gave a laugh of her own. Her fingers twitched on his arm. “How ridiculous!”

Douglas’s grin faded, belatedly realizing she’d been too startled. What did that mean? She couldn’t really be printing
50 Ways to Sin
herself. And yet . . . that would help explain why no one had been able to trace the pamphlets. A shadow fell across his mood. Until now he hadn’t realized how much he’d begun hoping that whole matter came to nothing. If she was Lady Constance and he helped Spence expose her, he doubted she’d take his arm and walk with him, let alone all the other things he’d like her to do.

“I probably haven’t used that much paper in my entire life,” he said, struggling to decide if he really wanted to know the answer to Spence’s charge. On one hand, he did—desperately. Lady Constance’s stories were mesmerizing, erotic and uninhibited. Just the thought of Madeline splayed on a chair, naked and aroused, sent a charge of hunger through him.

But on the other hand, he felt suddenly proprietary about the woman on his arm. He wanted to know her secrets, but what right did Spence have to know? Spence only wanted the bounty. He didn’t give a damn about what it would do to her. Unlike Douglas, who was beginning to care a great deal more than expected.

“Surely you know how to write a letter?” she asked, interrupting his increasingly alarmed thoughts. “Or perhaps the trouble lies in reading it?”

“Words on a page are easy enough,” he said. “I wish I could read you, and know your heart.”

She glanced up in surprise; her tone had been teasing, his almost wistful. “You don’t know what you ask for,” she murmured.

Douglas’s mouth twisted. “I wish I did.”

After a few steps in silence, she looked at him again. “Why? That’s far more than you wagered for.”

He put his hand over hers, still snugly tucked around his elbow. “I’m not here because of a wager.”

She faced forward. For the first time in a long time Douglas wished he had a more serious reputation. Why couldn’t he have been a smarter fellow, able to notice Madeline on his own? He couldn’t stop thinking about her now, and it had nothing to do with Spence’s suspicions or his own stung pride. He’d never known another woman like her. In fact, he hoped Spence was wrong. Not because he didn’t like to think of Madeline spinning erotic fantasies—by God, he did hope that was true—but because Spence meant to humiliate her in public. He highly doubted she would smile and brush it aside if Spence ruined her name and her livelihood . . . with Douglas’s help.

Hell. Bloody, bloody hell.

He banished the thought by taking her to Gunter’s. They sat in Berkeley Square under the maple trees and ordered muscadine ices, and Douglas tried to draw her out. This was his specialty; he knew how to pour on the charm. But there was only so much one could expect in such a short time, and all too soon she said she needed to return home. He walked her back to Brunswick Square, feeling at a loss. He was running out of time with her. “Will you go out tonight?” he asked, deciding a blunt question was better than hoping and hinting.

“Still hoping to persuade me to dance?”

He grinned. “Absolutely. But mostly hoping to see you again.”

“As soon as tonight?”

I don’t want to leave you now
, he thought, surprising even himself. “Yes.”

The direct answer seemed to surprise her, although not unpleasantly. Douglas hoped that meant she was as affected by him as he was by her. He could hardly believe how fascinated he was by everything about her—the sway of her hips, her secretive smile, the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed. It would be cruelly unfair if she felt no attraction to him at all. It would also mean he had completely lost his sense of women. Douglas usually had a finely tuned awareness of a woman’s feelings, and right now it was telling him that Madeline not only wanted him, but she was beginning to like him as well.

“Mr. Bennet,” she began.

“Douglas,” he said. “Please.”

She flinched. “Why?”

He leaned toward her. “We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“Friends.”

“Yes, friends,” he repeated firmly, to quell the doubt that edged her tone. “Friends who may take a stroll together, visit the shops together, even go riding together.”

“Riding?” Her laugh was a gasp of astonishment. “I do not keep a mount, Mr. Bennet.”

“I’ll see to that.” He felt very virtuous for not suggesting that she could ride him.
Friends
, he reminded himself, not lovers—yet. “Tomorrow morning?”

“Of course not.”

“The day after,” he countered. “Or the day after that.”

They had reached her house. She released his arm and went up the two steps, then turned around. “Are we really friends?”

“I think so.” He smiled hopefully. “I would like to be your friend.”

“And not something . . . more?”

He went up a step and leaned a little forward. “You know I would like more,” he said, gazing steadily into her eyes. “But I also want to be your friend. Someone you can feel at ease with. Someone you can confide in and turn to for help or solace. Someone whom you look forward to seeing every day.”

She smiled. “Such lovely sentiments! I see why you’re considered the most charming man in London.”

“Every word is true.”

She studied him thoughtfully, her smile lingering. “I would like to believe it.”

“Come riding with me,” Douglas said at once. “Driving, if you don’t like to ride. Or walking, if you don’t like to drive.”

After a pause, she nodded. “Perhaps.”

“Excellent.” He bowed to hide his victorious expression. He looked up in time to see her expression freeze. In an instant her face changed from soft and bright to still and wary. But her eyes weren’t on him anymore—she was looking over his shoulder, across the square. “What is it?”

She didn’t move except to jerk her eyes back toward him. From a distance she probably looked exactly the same, but up close Douglas could see the color fade from her cheeks. “Nothing. I was startled.”

“By whom?” Somehow he knew, he
knew
, what had alarmed her.

The glance she gave him was swift but probing. “A man who was near Gunter’s and in Bond Street has just strolled into the square.”

He cursed silently. “Someone’s following you?”

She hesitated. “It must be a new neighbor. I’ve seen him several times of late.” She edged backward. “Thank you for escorting me, Mr. Bennet.”

“Douglas,” he said again.

“Good day.” Behind her the maid opened the door, as if she’d been waiting, and Madeline ducked into the house. The door closed with a firm thud, and he heard the sound of the bolt being shot.

Douglas has never been known for his quiescent temper; he liked a good brawl and didn’t even require a grievous insult to wade cheerfully into one. If someone was following Madeline Wilde—and him—around town, let alone spying on her at home, Douglas would be glad to teach him a lesson.

Deliberately keeping his actions unhurried, he turned around. Under cover of adjusting his hat and checking his watch, he scanned the square. Sure enough, there was a man who seemed to be in no hurry, strolling along the adjacent street. Douglas watched and waited, and was rewarded when the fellow looked directly at him—or rather, at Madeline’s house. It was a passing glance, and the man kept walking, right around the corner and out of sight, but one glance was all Douglas needed. He knew who that chap was, and he had a very good guess why he was here.

And he was going to do something about it.