As Rich as a Rogue (13 page)

“Or they were insulted. I believe it's one way your father tests the gentlemen who come for your hand. If they don't understand how to barter, then they won't manage your dowry well. And that, I gather, would be a capital crime.”

She didn't know how to answer. She'd never thought deeply about the subtleties of the marriage contract. She had been more interested in thinking about the man than the money.

Meanwhile, he held his arm out to her again, winking as he spoke. “Never fear. I know this particular game very well.”

“And do my wishes matter to either one of you?”

He gave her a fond pat on her hand. “Of course they do. A great deal.” His expression shifted into devilry. “But that has nothing to do with the marriage contract. In that, I think your father and I shall take a great deal of joy in growling at each other like distempered dogs.” They stepped onto the walkway and began a pleasant pace toward Hyde Park. “We have that in common, you know,” he added. “Your father and I.”

“Acting like dogs?”

He chuckled. “A love of negotiation. I never realized how much fun it was until India, when my entire livelihood depended on well-struck bargains.”

She shook her head. “I dislike it intensely. I rely on knowing what an item is worth and then paying that much and no more.”

“Which works extremely well for a pair of shoes or a horse, but not so well with a wife.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the back. “If we had to measure your worth, I would be beggared paying for you.”

A pretty compliment indeed, made all the more striking because he said it with little inflection. It was a statement, not flattery, and she turned mute from the heat his words generated in her belly. Warm, liquid yearning that might even be called desire. Which pushed her into an irrational state of panic. Desire, after all, was much too wayward for her.

So she rushed her words, everything spoken without forethought. “What do you know of Lord Rossgrove? Have you ever met him? He would not be in your set, though naturally your father would know him. They're both political. And the men of money often speak together. But I'm not sure if you know anything of him, because you've been in India for a long while.”

She bit her lip, cutting off her abrupt flow of words. He arched a brow, his expression bemused. “Is Lord Rossgrove the tolerant uncle of Oscar Morgan, disinterested father to Stephen, with a prune-faced wife and a love of sugar plums?”

She blinked. In one question, he'd told her more than she'd learned in an afternoon of searching. “I-I believe so,” she stammered.

“Then I am somewhat familiar with him. Why do you ask?”

“I mean to impress him tomorrow, and I wish to know how.”

His head jerked slightly as he stared at her. “That's a fool's gambit if ever there was one.”

“Why?”

“Because he only cares about power, and as lovely as you are, you have none. You cannot gain entrance to his sanctum unless you have something he wants. And since you don't, you are doomed to fail.”

“But he has asked to speak with me. Indeed, he has commanded it.”

That got his attention. His brows drew down, and his hand tightened over hers.

“I have surprised you,” she said with a childish kind of satisfaction.

He nodded slightly, as if to acknowledge the statement. It was a small thing, clearly done without conscious thought, because his mind was likely working out the reasons for her summons. But she noted it in the way one might note a spectacularly colored coat or a beautiful song. Clearly, he felt no problem with admitting she'd beaten him in this small way. She'd surprised him. But whereas she took satisfaction in winning, he couldn't care less. She couldn't imagine Mr. Camden admitting so tiny a thing. Nor her father. She had to trick them into listening to her. For a “winner, winner,” he was decidedly casual about losing.

And while she was still absorbing the magnitude of that, he inquired about her abrupt confession. “Do you know why Lord Rossgrove would summon you?”

“I have an idea, yes.”

He waited in silence when she didn't provide the answer. He didn't begin to reason it out with guesses or silly comments. He simply ambled with his quiet attention fixed on her. It was unnerving. And in that awkward moment, she found the truth tumbling out once again.

“I believe he wishes to put Mr. Camden up for a seat in the House of Commons.”

“The one that was meant for his nephew?”

Mari nodded. The man was in London barely a day, and back in the country for less than two weeks, but he knew gossip from a month earlier.

He tilted his head. “Do you have a relationship with Mr. Camden that would bring Lord Rossgrove's attention to you?”

She nodded slowly. “I believe I do.”

“So you are engaged?” There was a dangerous edge to his voice that made her shiver. Not in fear. Everything about him was pleasant in this casual stroll on a lovely afternoon. But there was a note to his voice that made her breath catch and her nipples tighten.

Good Lord, that couldn't be true, but the sensations were undeniable. How humiliating. Even her nipples were wayward.

“Miss Powel?” he prompted while she was busy being embarrassed by her breasts.

“Oh, um, no. Not as yet. I believe Mr. Camden is waiting for Lord Rossgrove's approval before he speaks to me.”

“What man seeks another's approval before choosing a wife?”

“What man barters for his bride like a cantankerous dog?”

His lips twitched in response, and again he dipped his chin toward her. “I shall not debate my choice of bride,” he said, his voice low. “The bargaining is merely for fun.”

“Your sense of fun is distinctly lost on me.”

“Is it?” he challenged. “Truly?”

She bit her lip and shrugged. He touched her arm, stopping her forward movement as he looked hard at her face.

“Never say you cannot laugh with me. I remember the sound from six years ago. It has haunted my dreams, Miss Powel. It has lived in my heart ever since that day.”

“I laughed?” She couldn't remember it. “Out loud and at a ball?”

“It was a bold sound, filled with joy with a musical lift at the end.” Then he did it. He laughed in his deep baritone, lifting the final notes at the last moment. It was so odd a sound that other strollers stopped to stare. And then he frowned. “No, that's not it,” he muttered. Then he did it again. Loud and full, in a higher register before doing a strange trill at the end.

She laughed. She couldn't help it. He sounded so bizarre that the giggles burst from her. And then—belatedly realizing what she had done—she clapped her hand over her mouth just before the lift at the end.

“Yes!” he cried. “That's it exactly.” He pulled her hand away from her mouth. “But don't cover it up. It's the most wonderful sound ever.”

“You have had entirely too much bangla,” she said, her voice stern.

“Not me,” he said, his expression sobering. “I begin to think you have not had enough.” Then he sighed, and they began walking again. “I cannot understand why you have locked yourself away. You dress dull, you cover your mouth and never laugh, and you think of marrying a man who must get Rossgrove's approval. Has England gone mad, or is it just you Welsh?”

“Is it mad to think of my future? Is it mad to act in a way that will not incite gossip?”

He grumbled under his breath. They had come to the edge of Hyde Park, where the
ton
was out enjoying the lovely afternoon. The drive was clogged with carriages, and the pathways were awash in the color of ladies' gowns and bonnets. “Tell me you can look on that and not laugh.”

She looked where he gestured, but saw nothing untoward. It was merely the fashionable throng parading about the grass. “I see nothing to be amused—”

“The lady wearing the stuffed swan in her bonnet.”

“Oh, Baroness Burke's hat. Well, her husband accidentally shot the swan, and since she'd just paid a great deal of money to get it set up on their pond, she thought she ought to have some use out of it.”

“So she stuffed it and mounted it on her head?” He cast her a look, obviously waiting for her sense of humor to surface.

“Well, yes, I suppose that is rather silly. But no more so than Lord Norman over there, dressing all in white with blue feathers. Do you know, he trails the things behind him like breadcrumbs. Says it helps people remember where he's been.”

Lord Whitly chuckled. “It must give the chambermaids fits trying to clean up after him.”

“Oh no,” she answered. “It's his tailor who curses his name. They quickly ran out of birds with blue feathers and have gone to dying the things. For the first week there were feathers everywhere, but now he's only got a few pieces that aren't denuded. See?” She gestured to where the baron was strutting, huge blue-dyed peacock feathers bobbing up from the back of his coat. “He's very protective of them now.” As they watched, a young woman reached out to touch the things, and the baron jerked away. Though they couldn't hear what was spoken, it was clear that the lady was receiving a severe dressing-down.

“And you don't find that funny at all?”

Of course she did. But she hadn't allowed herself to laugh at it in years. Six years, to be exact. “Young, unmarried ladies aren't supposed to laugh at their elders.”

“But how can you not?” he returned. This time he pointed to a clog of carriages. Three moving one way, a fourth and two riders heading the other. And all six were caught trying to turn a corner from opposite directions. The resulting jam-up was punctuated with “By Jove!” sniffs from one overdressed dandy, and “Ridiculous imbecile!” returned by three others.

She chuckled. How could she not when the lone tiger in the dandy's curricle dropped his chin on his fist and rolled his eyes. Lord Whitly snorted.

“Dandies should not drive curricles.”

“Not unless his tiger is a bit older than ten and can control his expression.”

“What? Oh Lord, yes, that is funny. I was thinking that the entire mess happened because the dandy was adjusting the fall of the lace over his belly.”

She smiled. “Is that what happened?”

“It is.”

They sidestepped the increasing chaos. Meanwhile, off to the right was a crowd of fashionable people surrounding Lady Illston's newest victim. Miss Rose May was the poor maiden carrying Greenie's massive cage.

“Do you wish to greet them?” he asked, pointing to the grouping.

“God no,” she answered. She'd had more than enough of Greenie lately. They turned to the right, nodding to a separate clutch of people. She noted, naturally, that everyone was decidedly more friendly to him than to her. But no one outright snubbed her, which was a relief. Still, she couldn't help but tally the steadily shrinking number of women who treated her with warmth.

“What has you sighing so quietly, Miss Powel?” he asked after they had passed through the worst of the congestion.

“Was I sighing?”

“Or your bonnet has sprung a leak.”

She chuckled, and then abruptly quieted. How had this come about? She was on Lord Whitly's arm and laughing. Or at least smiling. “Miss Green will accidentally forget to invite me to her ball.”

“Who?”

“The girl dressed all in green, my lord. The one who—”

“Kept tittering like a mouse?”

“Er, yes. But I was going to say the girl with the large bonnet to de-emphasize the size of her nose.”

“Is that why I nearly poked out my eye on that huge bonnet? Because she thinks her nose is large?”

“To be fair, it is rather large.”

“It… Oh, yes. I suppose it is. But a bonnet doesn't hide that.”

“It did from you. You were too busy avoiding blindness.”

He nodded. “Very well, I'll grant you that. But why would you sigh over missing a silly girl's ball?”

“Because her mother is a grand hostess and a woman I respect. She could be a great help to me in the
ton
, and by extension, I could then be a great help to my husband.”

He took a moment to digest that. She was surprised again that he seemed to truly consider her words. She'd expected him to toss her comments aside as female machinations, which was what her father called her thinking. But instead he nodded.

“I can get you invited to the ball, if that is what you wish.”

“How? By indicating that you wish to attend? I expect that your invitation is already resting on the front table of your residence.”

“No doubt, but I shall only attend if you do.”

“Which will make her even more of an enemy. Do not snub one woman in favor of another.”

He groaned. “But I
do
favor another.”

“And if you make it a choice between myself and her, then I shall lose. She is in the more powerful position, with her mother a grand hostess. If you make an ultimatum such as that, then you will declare me her enemy.”

“But she already is, if she will not invite you to her ball.”

“And if you draw no attention to it, then it will settle out after she finds her husband and establishes her position.”

He looked at her and nodded slowly. “And you care because you are looking ahead. To what her mother can do for your husband.”

“That is how this game is played.” And now they came to the crux of what she wanted to know. “I would consider you, my lord. I would think of you as a possible husband, except you see none of this. You care for none of this. You will be an earl one day, and you have no ambition.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she saw something cross his expression that made her gasp. It was dark and powerful. Like glimpsing the heart of a thunderstorm. But then it was gone, though his words came out in a low, clipped tone. “You know nothing of my ambition.”