Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Lord Havelock's List\Saved by the Viking Warrior\The Pirate Hunter (3 page)

‘Nonsense! He can clearly see that you have good breeding. My girls may be prettier than you,' she said with blunt honesty, ‘but neither of them would know how to go on in his world.' She nodded towards the viscount, who was leading a glowing Dotty into the bottom set.

‘Well, I don't suppose I would, either,' retorted Mary. ‘It's not as if I've ever been a part of it.'

‘No, but your mother was far more genteel than I've ever been. And your father, too—I dare say he taught you how a real lady should behave.'

Mary did her best not to react to that statement, though something inside her shrivelled up into a defensive ball at the mere mention of her father.

‘Papa was...very strict with me, yes,' she admitted. Not that she would ever mention the form his strictness took, not to a living soul. Particularly not as he directed most of it firmly, and squarely, at her mother, rather than her.

‘And he certainly did have strong opinions about how a lady should behave,' she also admitted, when her aunt kept looking at her as though she expected her to say something more. And he enforced those opinions. With loud demands, interspersed with terrifyingly foreboding silences, when he was sober, fists and boots when he was not.

‘I really do not want,' she said tremulously, ‘an eligible
parti
to prefer me to either of my cousins. Especially not when they seem so taken with him.'

‘Well, that's all very well and good, but he's plainly only got eyes for you. Besides, both my girls would be far more comfortable with Mr Morgan. Not out of their reach, socially, you see, for all his wealth.'

Mary took a second look at her cousins as they skipped up and down the set. Though Dotty looked as though she was enjoying herself, Lotty was positively glowing. And had Dotty just shot Mr Morgan a coy glance over her shoulder while the viscount's back was towards her?

She frowned. How could either of them prefer that great long beanpole of a man to the dashing viscount? Not only was he much better looking but he had a more amiable expression. She'd even thought she might have detected a sense of humour lurking in the depths of those honeyed hazel eyes. When he'd caught her smiling at the way Dotty and Lotty had reacted on learning he had a title, it had been like sharing a private joke.

Only, she reminded herself tartly, to suspect him of snubbing them rather unkindly a moment later.

She was in no position to judge him. Or think her own observations could have any sway over Dotty's or Lotty's decisions. Lords were notorious for being as poor as church mice. If his pockets were to let, then he'd be looking to marry an heiress. Which ruled them both out.

Besides, they knew Mr Morgan was wealthy. Which must make him terribly tempting.

Anyway, she was not going to harbour a single uncharitable thought towards them. Not when they'd been the only ones of her extended family to make room for her in their lives. The girls could have protested when their mother told them Mary was to share their room. But they hadn't. They'd just said how beastly it must be for her to have nowhere else to go and emptied one of the drawers for her things.

Mary had tried to repay them all by making herself useful about the house. And until tonight, she'd thought she was beginning to make a permanent place for herself.

But it was not to be. Aunt Pargetter, who wasn't even really an aunt at all, but only a distant connection by marriage, might be kinder than most of the relatives she'd met so far, but it was absurd to think she would house her indefinitely.

Even so, she was not going to tamely submit to her misguided plans to marry her off. No matter how kindly meant the intention was, such a scheme wouldn't do for her.

In the morning, she would find out where the nearest employment agency was located and go and register for some kind of work. Not that she had any idea what she might do. She darted a look at Aunt Pargetter, wishing she could ask her advice. But it would be a waste of time. Aunt Pargetter, though kindness itself, was also one of those females who thought marriage was the height of any woman's ambitions and wouldn't understand her preference for work.

Well, then, she would just have to, somehow, discover where the agency was on her own. Although what excuse she could give for wishing to leave the house, she could not think. Everyone knew she had no money with which to go shopping. Besides, since she was a stranger to London, either Dotty or Lotty, or probably both, would be sent with her to make sure she didn't get lost.

She became so wrapped up in formulating one plan after another, only to discard it as unworkable, that she scarcely noticed when the dancing came to a halt and people began to make their way to the supper room. Until Viscount Havelock brushed the fronds of the potted palm to one side, smiling down at her as he offered her his hand.

‘Are you ready for a bite to eat? I must confess, all this dancing has given me quite an appetite.'

‘Oh. Um...' He wasn't out of breath, though. Her cousins were fanning their flushed faces, Mr Morgan was mopping his brow with a handkerchief, but Lord Havelock wasn't displaying the slightest sign of fatigue. He was obviously very fit.

Not that she ought to notice such things about a man.

Flustered by the turn of her thoughts, she took the viscount's hand and allowed him to place her hand on his sleeve.

It must just be that something about him reminded her of her brother's friends. Several of them had been of his class and had about them the same air of...vitality. Of vigour. And the same self-assurance that came with knowing they were born to command.

She regarded her hand, where it lay on his sleeve. The arm encased in the soft material of his evening coat felt like a plank of oak. Just like her brother's had. And those of his friends he'd sometimes brought home, who'd escorted her round the town. Not that this viscount actually worked for his living, like those lads who'd served in the navy. From what she knew of aristocrats, he probably maintained his fitness by boxing and fencing, and riding.

He was probably what her brother would have called a Corinthian. She darted a swift glance at his profile, taking in the firm set of his jaw and the healthy complexion. Yes, definitely a Corinthian. At least, he certainly didn't look as though he spent his days sleeping off the effects of the night before.

And, if he was one of the sporting set, that would explain why he wore clothing that looked comfortable, rather than fitted tightly to show off his physique. He might not be on the catch for an heiress at all.

Her cheeks flushed. She couldn't believe she was speculating about his reasons for being here. Or the body underneath his clothing. Not that she'd ever spent so much time thinking about a man's choice of clothing, either. Just because he seemed better turned out than any other man present, in some indefinable way, she had no business making so much of it.

‘I hope the crowd of people we are following
are
heading to the supper room,' he said, breaking into her thoughts.

‘I...I suppose they must be,' she replied, but only after casting about desperately for an interesting reply and coming up empty.

‘You are not a regular visitor to this house?'

She shook her head. ‘I have only been in London a few days,' she admitted. ‘I don't know anyone.'

‘Apart from the lady you are with. Your...aunt?'

Mary shook her head again. ‘I had never even met her before I turned up on her doorstep with a letter of introduction from my lawyer. And to be perfectly frank, I'm not at all sure the connection is...'

Suddenly Mary wondered why on earth she was telling this total stranger such personal information. It couldn't be simply because there was something about him that put her in mind of her brother and his fellow officers, could it? Or because he'd given her that look, earlier, that had made her feel as though he was genuinely interested?

How pathetic did that make her? One kind word, one keen look, a smile and a touch of his hand and she'd been on the verge of unburdening herself.

Good grief—she was as susceptible to a good-looking man as the cousins she'd decried as ninnies not an hour earlier. She, who'd sworn never to let a handsome face sway her judgement, had just spent a full five minutes wondering how he managed to keep so fit and speculating about the cut of his clothes,
and
what lay beneath them.

‘You don't really have any family left to speak of, is that what you were about to say?'

She couldn't recall what she'd been about to say. Nor even what the question had been. Her mind kept veering off into realms it had never strayed into before and consequently got lost there.

‘Your...aunt, or whatever she is,' he persisted, while her cheeks flooded with guilty heat, ‘said you are in mourning. Was it...for someone very close?'

Well, that dealt with the strange effects his proximity had been wreaking in her mind and body. He might as well have doused her with a bucket of cold water.

‘My mother,' she said. ‘She was all I had left.'

She might be in a crowded ballroom tonight, on the arm of the most handsome and eligible man in the room, but the truth was that she was utterly alone in the world, and destitute.

‘That's c...' He pulled himself up short and patted her hand. ‘I mean to say, dreadful. For you.'

They'd reached the doorway now and beyond she could see tables laid out with a bewildering array of dishes that looked extremely decorative, but not at all like anything she might ever have eaten before.

Since they'd both come without an invitation, space was found for them at a table squeezed into the bay of a window.

‘Don't worry,' he said when he noted her gaze darting about anxiously. ‘I shall make sure we find your aunt once we have eaten and return you to her side in complete safety.'

She was amazed he'd noticed how awkward she felt. And that he'd correctly deduced it was being separated from her aunt that had caused it. Most men couldn't see further than the end of their noses.

He must have noticed the way she'd eyed the food with trepidation, too, because he took great care, when offering her dishes, to ask if she liked the principal ingredient of each. Which deftly concealed her ignorance. For he could have explained what everything was, making her feel even more awkward, whilst puffing off his own
savoir faire
. As it was, since the other men at their table were passing dishes round, and helping the ladies to slices of this, or spoonfuls of that, nobody noticed anything untoward.

Eventually, her plate, like that of everyone else at the table, was piled high and conversation began to flow.

Except between Lord Havelock and her.

She supposed he'd gone to the length of his chivalry. She supposed he was waiting for her to make some kind of remark that would open up the kind of light, inconsequential conversations that were springing up all around them.

But for the life of her she couldn't dredge up a single topic she could imagine might be of interest to a man like him. Or the kind of man she suspected he was. She didn't really know a thing about him.

And though she was grateful to him for the way he'd behaved so far, she began to wish she was with her aunt and cousins.
They
would know how to entertain him, she was sure. They wouldn't let this awkward silence go on, and on, and on...

He cleared his throat, half turned towards her and said, ‘Do you...?' He cleared his throat again, took a sip of wine and started over. ‘That is, I wonder, do you enjoy living in town, or do you prefer the country? I suppose,' he said with a swift frown before she could answer, ‘I should have enquired where you lived before you had to come to London, shouldn't I? I don't know why I assumed you had lived in the country before.'

‘I lived in Portsmouth, actually,' she said, relieved to be able to have a question she could answer without having to rack her brains. ‘And I haven't been here long enough to know whether I prefer it, or not.'

‘But do you have any objection to living in the countryside?'

It was her turn to frown. ‘I cannot tell. I have never lived anywhere but in a town.'

Oh, what a stupid, stupid thing to say. She should have made some remark about how...bustling London was in comparison to Portsmouth, or...or how she missed the sound of the sea. Or even better, asked him about
his
preferences. That was what men liked, really, wasn't it? To talk about themselves? Instead, she'd killed the potential conversation stone dead.

They resumed eating in silence for a few more minutes before he made a second, valiant attempt to breach it. ‘Well, do you like children?'

‘Yes, I suppose in a general way,' though she couldn't imagine why he might ask that. But at least she'd learned her lesson from last time. She would offer him the chance to talk about himself. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘Oh, no reason,' he said airily, though the faint blush that tinged his cheeks told her he was growing a bit uncomfortable. ‘Just making conversation.' He reached for his wine glass and curled his fingers round the stem as though in need of something to hang on to. And then blurted, ‘What do people talk about at events like this?'

For the first time in her life, she actually felt sorry for a man. He'd come here expecting to enjoy himself and ended up saddled with the dullest, most boring female in the room. And far from betraying his exasperation with her ignorance, and her timidity, he'd done his best to put her at ease. He'd even been making an attempt to
draw her out
. And wasn't finding it easy.

‘I expect it is easier for them,' she said, indicating the other occupants of the table. ‘That is...I mean...they all know each other already, I think.'

He looked round the table and she couldn't help contrasting the animated chatter of all the other females, who were universally fluttering their eyelashes at their male companions in the attempt to charm them. Then he looked back at her and smiled.