Simply Scandalous (32 page)

"She might," Juliet agreed. "Would that not be desirable? Do not imagine we'd be offended at Wayborn
Hall if you were to find the company at Silvercombe
more to your liking."

"Pretty shabby I would look, riding over at this
hour in all my dirt and hanging out for an invitation to dine," he said, rubbing his head. His head
felt vulnerable and itchy now that it bore nothing
but stubble, and he found himself rubbing it almost
continuously. "I may be an ill-mannered brute, but
I think I am better than that."

"As you please," she said coldly. His anxiety to
please Serena Calverstock annoyed her like nothing
else, even though apparently, his love for the lady was
encouraging him to look and behave more and more
like the gentleman. The Swale she knew had never
given a second thought to being an ill-mannered
brute. Rather, he reveled in it. She was not entirely
sure she liked the new Swale. His pleasantries grated
on her ears all the way back to the house.

She would have gone straight up to her room to
change, but he stopped her in the hall. "Before we
part, Miss Wayborn, would you be kind enough to provide me with some paper? I would like to send my sister
a note since I won't be visiting her until tomorrow."

Certain that he really meant to write to Lady Serena,
Juliet was too irritated to be gracious, though of
course, such a civil request could not be denied. She
brought him to the morning room where her aunt
kept an escritoire well stocked with writing supplies.
He watched, amused, as his hostess, with every appearance of ill humor, sat down in her green habit and
began to rule lines onto a sheet of hot-pressed paper
with a little silver pencil.

"My dear Miss Wayborn," he murmured, chuckling,
"I am well able to line my own paper. I have been
doing it since I was a boy. It is excessively kind of you;
I thank you for it with all my heart, but I wish you
would not go to such trouble for my sake."

Cheeks flaming, Juliet immediately sprang up
from her seat. It must look as though she were eager
to perform any little service for him, however menial,
and this was decidedly not the case! "It is only force
of habit," she explained quickly, anxious to remove
the impression of obsequiousness that she had unwittingly created. "I always line my brothers' paper for them. They never do it for themselves. Benedict can't
and Cary won't."

"I see," he said, his green eyes twinkling. "My own
sister claims to love me, but she has never given me
such a practical proof of it as this."

"I will leave you to write your letters, sir," she said
coolly. "But don't forget that dinner is at half-past six.
If you're not punctual, don't think I'll keep the others
waiting! There's nothing worse than cold soup."

With a haughty toss of her head, she swept from
the room.

The family customarily gathered before dinner in
a small lounge across from the dining room. Juliet was
the first to come down, and she immediately set
about tidying up the little room. Her brothers and her
aunt were constantly taking books from the library,
leaving them scattered around the lounge, and never
putting them back. And as it seemed unfair to tax the
servants with replacing books that they probably
could not read to their proper places, the task almost
always fell to her. When Swale joined her a few minutes later, looking surprisingly elegant in his formal
evening dress, she was carrying a stack of books over
to a side table. He stopped in the doorway and looked
in, rubbing his head self-consciously, and to her annoyance, he did not offer his assistance. She did not
want his help, of course, but she would have enjoyed
telling him so.

He said merely, "More books, I see."

She plunked them down on the table, snatched the
top one, and sat down with it.

"Your brothers will very likely be late," he said. "We are all three of us sharing the same valet, and I
got him first."

He was looking as well as she supposed it was possible for him to look. His neckcloth was spotless, and
his coat had been thoroughly ironed. She doubted he
would ever be polished enough for Lady Serena, but
she was obliged to admit he was quite elegant enough
for herself. His figure was not fashionably slender, but
he was very tall, and Nature had given him a deep
chest, broad shoulders, and good legs. While his
physique was nowhere near as pleasing as that of her
cousin Horatio, or indeed, her brother Cary, there was
a vigor about Swale, an appetite and a restless energy,
that she liked. But for some reason, he was repressing it and acting like a milksop. Such unexceptional
behavior might win him the fair Serena, but why was
he acting the courtly tulip with her? They were not
even friends.

"My aunt will be late as well," she told him. "She's
having her hair crimped over her ears. Could take
hours."

He merely looked at her for a moment, and she
wondered if he were evaluating her appearance as she
had already evaluated his. It was a disconcerting
thought, and she braced herself for the comment she
expected him to make. Compliment or insult, it was
likely to be embarrassing. She was the first to admit
that her appearance had suffered greatly from the departure of Mademoiselle Ruppert.

She was wearing one of her new London gowns, a
white silk with a pale green gauze. About as daring as
she dared, it left her neck and arms bare, while clinging provocatively to her tall, proud figure. She had declined Huddle's expertise in crimping and had
dressed her hair herself, pulling it back from her face in a simple twist, with one long curl draped
across her breast. She was wearing her mother's pearldrop earrings and no other ornament.

"You seem to have a goodish number of china bits
in there," he observed, turning his attention from her
to the room. "Shall we risk it? Or, do I remain in the
hall where I can't hurt anything?"

She shrugged, unaccountably annoyed not to be
likened again to his favorite dog. "I only wish we had
better things for your lordship to knock aboutperhaps our ornaments are not up to your standard?"
She pointed out two tall Sevres vases that graced the
mantelpiece. "You would not be ashamed to break
those, I think," she said civilly.

"No, indeed," he said, grinning at her. It really was
a charming, boyish grin, she noted, and quite wasted
on her. Boyish charm could not affect her. "Eminently breakable. Expensive?"

"Ten thousand pounds for the pair, but I daresay
you have Sevres bowling pins at Auckland."

"At a mere ten thousand pounds a pair, why not?"

She frowned at him, tired of the jest though she herself had initiated it. "Ten thousand pounds is all I have
in the world, you know!" she said sharply.

"Is it?" he said, blinking at her in surprise. 'Well, I
daresay when you marry, Sir Benedict will make you
a handsome settlement. My father gave my sister fifty
or sixty thousand."

Juliet's anger deepened. "That is well for your
sister, my lord. But when I say all I have in the world
is ten thousand pounds, I mean it. That is my dowry,
and I wouldn't take a penny more from my brother."

"That is a pity," he said, rubbing his head. "I think
women need more inducement to marry than a mere
ten thousand pounds-we men are such beasts. If I were a woman, I wouldn't marry for a penny less than
fifty thousand guineas."

She regarded him in astonishment. "If you were a
woman! "

"Marriage is all well and good for a man," he went
on, "but what's in it for her? I don't see."

"Companionship," she answered slowly. "A partner in life, and a home of one's own. And ... and children, of course." Unbidden, her imagination painted
a picture of about half a dozen ugly, red-haired children sporting on a green lawn with a number of
long-haired setters. Instantly repressed, of course,
but impossible to forget.

"I don't blame you for refusing to marry me in Hertfordshire," he said presently. "If I were you, I wouldn't
take me for a hundred thousand pounds."

"You make it sound as though you asked for my
hand and I refused," she protested.

His brows were drawn together in a straight line as
he looked at her. "If I had asked you, would you have
refused me then?"

She stared back at him, almost appalled by the
turn the conversation had taken. He was certainly not
speaking to her like a man whose heart was engaged
elsewhere. "Certainly, I would have refused you," she
said. "Why should I have to marry you simply because I hurt my leg? Fortunately, my guardian cares
more for my happiness than my reputation."

He grimaced. "Perhaps Sir Benedict was thinking
more of himself than of you."

"What do you mean?" she said, offended by any criticism of her brother.

"It's no secret he doesn't want me for a brother,"
Swale replied. "But he don't consider how difficult it
will be for you to marry anyone else. Perhaps he's con tent to keep you here forever to rule his paper for
him. "

"If he doesn't want you for a brother," she snapped
back, "I'm sure I don't blame him!"

"Fair enough," he said with a faint smile. After
that, he prowled around the small room, looking at
things, and they were unable to make conversation,
though he kept a half-mocking, half-respectful distance from the Sevres vases. Finally, he stopped at a
small picture hung on the wall. It showed an Elizabethan house of red brick with dozens of gables and
mullioned windows. "I like this picture," he said. "I like
all the colors and the way things in the background
are fuzzy."

Juliet could not resist leaving her chair to stand next
to him. "My mother always said that was the worst picture in the house," she informed him. "She painted
it when she was a girl."

`Well, I like it," he said stubbornly. "It's Tanglewood,
isn't it?"

"Yes," she said, surprised that he should recognize
it.

"I thought so. I'm sorry I didn't have the chance
to see the house, except in passing."

"You'll like Silvercombe better," said Juliet. "Tanglewood is really a glorified farmhouse, you know. In
fact, the main hall was once a cow byre, or so the story
goes. You wouldn't find anything worth breaking
there."

"Do you know," he said suddenly, "it seems to me
that your ten thousand pounds, taken in proportion to Sir Benedict's estate, is quite as handsome
as my sister's dowry, in proportion to the Duchy
of Auckland."

"I've always thought it handsome," Juliet agreed. "If I had fifty or sixty thousand pounds like your sister,
I should be a mark for fortune hunters. I don't mean
to imply that your brother-in-law is a fortune hunter,"
she added quickly.

"Oh, he's not," said Swale good-naturedly. "Maria
was the despair of all fortune hunters. Very early,
she fixed upon a Major of Brigade in the Derbyshire,
a younger son, if you please, and to everyone's amazement, my father declined to put a stop to it."

"Astonishing," Juliet murmured.

'Well, the war was on then, and women are bound
to find soldiers dashing in times of war," said Swale
with a shrug. "Soldiers and sailors. I expect your
cousin Captain Cary has quite a following amongst the
debutantes in London."

"Any admiration that comes his way is entirely justified," said Juliet. "He is every inch the gentleman,
and a hero besides."

"And he spouts poetry from his blowhole like a
giant whale," said Swale grumpily. "He is indeed a
paragon. Rich too, if you like new minted money."

"What he was born without, he managed to acquire by virtue of his talents," Juliet said coldly. "I am
excessively proud of my cousin Horatio."

"He seems to return your admiration," said Swale.
"I half expected to find him here, lodged in your
bosom. Tell me, what sinister forces have conspired
to take him away from you? Has the war started up
again?"

"He has gone to Hertfordshire for a few days."

"But you expect him to return soon?"

"Yes," she answered, puzzled by his overweening interest in Horatio.

"He's very jealous of your honor," Swale observed. "You remember he threatened to shoot me-and all
I was guilty of was touching your foot!"

Juliet was silent for a moment as she wondered
whether she ought to remind his lordship that he was
guilty of worse than touching her foot. Could he
really have forgotten kissing her in the private parlor
of the Tudor Rose? While perhaps not pleasant, it was
surely unforgettable! In the end, she decided against
mentioning that disgraceful incident. Let him think
that she too had forgotten it.

"Yes, if Horatio has a fault," she said pertly, "it must
be a quick, fiery temper!"

Swale laughed out loud. "Why, that's what I like best
about the fellow! I've a bit of a temper myself, you
see.

"It seems to have disappeared, along with your
fiery hair, like the strength of Samson," she observed
wryly. "Pickering is to be congratulated. He has turned
you into a gentleman."