Miss Goldsleigh's Secret (9 page)

“If any of your intrepid suitors tries something like that nonsense, you’ll let me know right away, won’t you, Miss Goldsleigh?” His tone was light and airy. Nothing concerned him other than the propriety of his responsibilities.

Olivia nodded. She felt absurdly vacant, and after the waltz ended several bars later, it was a relief when Lord Dalton released her from their pseudo-embrace and walked her back to Lady Evelyn and his sisters.

“I’ll meet you all in the entrance hall shortly,” he informed the ladies. “I need to see to something first.”

Olivia exhaled a great sigh of relief when he gave a curt nod and strode rapidly away from their group.

“Your brother does take his chaperoning very seriously, doesn’t he?”

“What do you mean?” Cassandra asked.

“He had a million questions for me about the other gentlemen I danced with.”

Penny squinted and looked askance at her brother’s retreating back. “Like what, for instance?”

“He wanted to know what compliments the other men gave me.”

“What in heaven’s name for?” Penny looked at her sister. “Has Henry ever asked you that question?”

“No,” Cassandra said, but then volunteered, “Not that I would ever tell him anyway. You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“No,” Olivia admitted. “He said he needed to know what the other men talked about so he could protect me like he does you both.”

Penelope snorted. “I’ll admit my brother is an annoyingly responsible escort, but what that usually means is he shows up and scowls whenever we’re having too much fun.”

Cassandra nodded. “Never once has he asked me how gentlemen have complimented me. How odd that is.”

“Really quite strange.” Penny grinned and leaned in. Cassandra joined them in their little huddle. “Just between us, were there any especially good ones?”

The heat of a blush spread across Olivia’s cheeks. “Only one, but it was insincere.” Was it a beauty, though. What a shame he’d meant not a single word of it.

“Oh, too bad.” Penny took one of her hands and Cassandra the other as the three of them joined the rest of the departing guests moving towards the great entrance hall. “I can live on a really good compliment for days.”

Indeed. Olivia could go for weeks on Lord Dalton’s if they were real.

Chapter Thirteen

Henry Dalton, Marquess of Cavendish, had no idea who he was.

Or rather, he had no idea who that man at the ball was. That man was possessed by some sort of randy, sex-starved demon. Henry was appalled with himself. It’s not like he was a bloody vicar or something—he wasn’t celibate for God’s sake—but he’d been acting like his friend Morewether, and that wasn’t who he was.

He stepped off the curb and crossed the street, mindful of a steaming pile of horse droppings. He’d left his family at the house, but he was nowhere near ready for sleep. Not yet. His long, purposeful strides ate up the cobblestones. He crossed the square and turned up Oxford Street.

He was going to have to apologize. Christ, he was going to have to prostrate himself in front of the girl and…

He needed a drink. And to hit someone. Inexplicably, he wanted to hit Morewether. That desire didn’t make any sense whatsoever, but why should it? Nothing else this evening had made any damned sense.

Dalton made an abrupt change in course and turned down the next avenue. With a plan in mind, he quickened his pace even more, his foul mood propelling him down the street just short of a trot.

When he arrived at his destination, a well-equipped black lacquer carriage pulled to a stop in front of the massive townhouse. Dalton watched from the walk as a footman opened the carriage door and a long-legged gentleman stepped out. The man turned and extended his hand back into the equipage. Before much more than a slim, gloved hand of the other passenger came into view, the man noticed Dalton.

“Dalton? Is that you?” Christian, Duke of Morewether, called out.

Dalton nodded and grunted. He shoved his hands in his pockets. It seemed as though everyone but him was destined to enjoy the company of a soft female body that night.

Morewether released the gloved hand, and it disappeared back inside the darkness of the vehicle. “Where is your carriage?”

“I walked.”

Even in the darkness, Dalton could see Morewether was surprised. “At this hour? Are you insane?”

“Quite possibly.” Dalton pinched the bridge of his nose.

Morewether stared at him for several seconds before he spoke to the occupant of the carriage in a low tones Dalton couldn’t make out. A decidedly feminine voice replied, sounding impatient. His friend leaned in the carriage, and Dalton imagined the kiss and promises Morewether offered up that caused the woman to respond in a husky giggle. Dalton shook his head in annoyance. Morewether shut the door, and the carriage pulled away, leaving the gentlemen alone in the street.

“I’m sorry to have ruined your plans,” Dalton said, but he didn’t mean it. He wasn’t feeling especially repentant about many of his actions this evening. He knew he should apologize to Morewether, just as he should apologize to Miss Goldsleigh, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t feel sorry. He felt frustrated, itchy.

Morewether shrugged. “The lady will be fine. She’ll wait for me—either tonight or another evening. It makes no difference.”

The man’s self-confidence and sense of entitlement irked Dalton to a monumental degree. Why did this sort of thing come so readily to men of his ilk?

“Come inside.” Morewether motioned for Dalton to join him. “Whatever your problem is, it can’t be solved shuffling about in the street in a pout.”

“Curse you, I’m not pouting.”

Morewether paused on the third step of the stoop and glanced back at Dalton with an infuriating look of complete amusement. The man was damn fortunate he didn’t laugh, or Dalton couldn’t be held responsible.

“You are pouting. And you look like you need a drink and the company of a woman. I’ve already let the woman go, so you’ll have to settle for a belt of Scotch I keep for just these occasions.” London’s most discreet butler opened the door to Morewether’s townhouse and, pouting or no, Dalton followed his friend inside.

“You know what your problem is?” Morewether asked after they’d settled into the duke’s comfortable study, whiskey glasses full, the fire warming the corners of the room.

Dalton rolled his eyes. This ought to be rich. “No telling. Let’s hear your diagnosis.”

“You’re the marrying kind,” Morewether declared and took a swig from his glass to punctuate his point.

“Go to hell.”

Morewether chuckled. “I’m not insulting you, you idiot. Some men marry and they’re good at it. You’re one of those men.”

“And some men stick it to everything in a skirt.” Morewether shrugged again. “I am what I am, Dalton. You are what you are.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m not married. I’m not even engaged since your sister ran off with Harrington.”

Morewether turned serious for a moment. “She didn’t run off, and you were the best man at the wedding.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” This time Dalton really was sorry. “I adore your sister and I always will. She married the right man.” He stared into the amber liquid at the bottom of his glass. “How do you know it’s a woman that has me flummoxed?”

Morewether took another thoughtful sip of whiskey. “Because it makes sense. I trust your investments are in order, so it’s not a money issue. Your family may plague you with all the fripperies the female sex has in their arsenal, but I’m guessing it’s a different kind of female trouble tonight.”

Dalton grunted in acknowledgment again. “I don’t think it’s a specific female.”
Who are you trying to fool?

“Well then, go solve the problem. I don’t understand what the complication is.” Morewether stretched out his long legs, kicked off his shoes, and crossed them at the ankle. Eyeing his friend relaxing in his chair, Dalton was jealous at how at ease the man was. Even having his assignation for the evening foiled, he didn’t seem remotely worked up. Dalton, on the other hand, was like a coiled spring.

“I’m not like you, Morewether.” Dalton downed the rest of his glass and relished the rasp of the liquid burning its way down to his stomach. It had a satisfyingly punishing feel that suited his dark mood. “I don’t just bed women and let it mean nothing.”

“We’ve been friends a long time, Dalton, so don’t give me that.” Morewether offered him the bottle to refill his glass. “It didn’t used to bother you.”

Dalton gave his friend a scowl. “I grew up, which is more than I can say for you.”

Morewether sighed. “I’ve grown up sufficiently for my needs. Besides, I’d like to point out I’m not the one drowning my blue balls in Scottish whiskey.”

Dalton choked on his drink. “I don’t happen to have a stable of women at my disposal like the infamous lothario, the Duke of Morewether, to solve my problem.”

“Balderdash!” Morewether threw one of his shoes at Dalton. He didn’t bother to duck, and it bounced off the arm of the chair and landed in his lap. He brushed it unceremoniously to the floor. “If you expressed one whit of interest, I could name fifteen ladies who’d gleefully shuck their drawers for you. That pretty face of yours could provide you with plenty of cache. And I’m talking real beauties—married women and widows both, who’d not cause you an iota of trouble. And if anonymity is what you want, I’ll happily call for the carriage right now and take you to The White House in Soho Square.” The duke leaned forward in his chair as if preparing to rise.

Ugh.
“I think not.”

Morewether leaned back in his chair with a smug look on his face. “That proves my point.”

Dalton snorted dismissively. “Really? What point is that?”

“That you, my friend, are the marrying kind.” When Dalton opened his mouth to protest again, Morewether raised a staying hand and continued. “All I mean is you’re not the type to go gallivanting about town. Not as a single man and not as a married one, either. That’s why I was so pleased to have you for a potential brother-in-law.”

Dalton placed the glass on a nearby table and leaned forward, leaning his forearms on his knees, and hung his head. He didn’t want any more whiskey. Where before the punishment was satisfying in an unsavory way, he knew from experience the self-pity to follow would only make him feel worse.

He also knew Morewether was right.

He wasn’t a philandering sort of man, and he’d never been able to play fast and loose with the emotions of women. He was all too familiar with the tendency of the women in his own life to profess their feelings were unattached a beau, but he’d always known they were upset when their feelings weren’t reciprocated. His women were no different from every other female in the world. On the few occasions where he’d had an understanding with a woman, feelings always got in the way, and he abhorred that mess. No matter what expectations were set at the beginning, there were always tears at the end.

“If you don’t want a relationship, then find yourself a pretty little bawdy girl. Flip up her skirts and you’ll feel much better.” Morewether toasted Dalton with that fine idea.

“Spoken like a true cad.”

Again with the shrug. “I may be a cad, but I’m not the one complaining of aching stones.”

“Don’t you ever think, ‘That woman could be my sister’?”

“No! What is wrong with you?” Morewether threw him an outraged look. “I
never
think of my sister, mother, or the damn vicar’s wife while that’s going on. Is that what your problem is? That’s twisted.”

“Stop it, you dolt. What I mean is those women are likely someone’s sister. They’re certainly someone’s daughter.”

Morewether shook his head sadly at his friend. “You are entirely too responsible for your own good. What has gotten into you tonight?”

Dalton rolled his eyes and reconsidered the glass of whiskey. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll feel better if I just get it over with.”

Morewether guffawed. “You act like you’re losing your virginity. You’re a grown man. We have needs.” The duke levered himself out of the chair and paced the room to the bellpull. “I’m calling for the carriage. Let’s go find you something pretty to play with tonight instead of yourself. I’m in the mood for a curly-haired brunette. Or maybe two.”

Dalton had to laugh at his idiot friend’s attempt to lighten his mood, although he didn’t doubt for one minute that Morewether wouldn’t lustfully toss two pretty brunettes if the opportunity arose. On the other hand, the only female on Dalton’s mind was an ethereal beauty with eyes the color of the morning sky.

Morewether hustled Dalton into the entrance hall and out the door before he changed his mind. The duke tossed his arm around Dalton’s shoulder as they walked down the steps to the street. “Think warm, soft, and plump in all the right places.”

Dalton was thinking about it, and that didn’t help. The problem was it wasn’t a nameless stranger filling his thoughts. Olivia was a petite, curvy vision of loveliness who’d be sliding into bed about now and she was in his house. His imagination ran wild at the thought of what she was wearing, or not wearing. Oh, sweet Jesus.

The cool night air managed to bring Dalton out of his head enough to notice the shadowy form across the street. He squinted into the darkness, and the shape solidified into the figure of a man. Whoever it was didn’t move once it was obvious Dalton had seen him. The man’s steady stare and immobile stance spoke of villainy. Dalton had had his drink, but he’d yet to satisfy his earlier urge to hit someone, and this fellow seemed like an invitation.

Dalton ignored the salacious talk from Morewether, shrugged his friend’s arm from his shoulders, and started across the street.

“Who are you?” Dalton demanded. “I said, who are you?” He walked the remaining four paces and stood towering over the man. He was roughly dressed and filthy, but he did have the sense to look afraid. “What are you doing in Mayfair?” Dalton took another intimidating step into the man’s space.

“Nothin’, your lordship. Just watchin’.”

“That seems unlikely,” Dalton said. “Save yourself a call to the watch and tell me what’s so bloody interesting about this house.”

“Yes,” Morewether added from somewhere close behind Dalton. “Do tell.”

The man didn’t speak, and Dalton grabbed his arm and gave him a rough shake. “I’m not in any mood, chap.”

“Leggo,” the man protested. “I wasn’t paid enough to get tossed around by a couple of uppity gents.”

Dalton’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean
paid
? Who paid you to watch this house?”

Morewether had become infinitely more interested in the conversation as he drew up beside him.

“Wasn’t the house I was paid to watch,” the rough man said. “It was you, you and the small lady, but mostly her.”

Dalton knew right away who the man referred to. Why would anyone be watching Miss Goldsleigh? He hadn’t received a report back on any of his queries about her cousin, but this was one hell of a clue.

“Who is
her
?” Morewether asked.

Dalton waved the duke off and focused his attention on the man who was squirming in his grip to get away. He gave the man another vicious shake. “Who paid you?”

“Leggo,” the man yelled. A twist and a turn and one well-aimed stomp on Dalton’s foot and the slippery man got loose. Dalton gave chase, Morewether close behind, but after a block in the black night, the man disappeared in the shadows. Dalton was too worried about Miss Goldsleigh and the thug’s cryptic explanation to pursue him blindly through the alleyways when accomplices could be anywhere.

“I have to get home,” Dalton panted.

“Take the carriage and go.” Morewether gestured back at the house where the carriage was pulling up. “I’ll call the watch and keep up the search.”

Dalton was already halfway to the carriage.