That Scandalous Summer (17 page)

He stuck the rose into his lapel as giggles rose from the other two women—the secretary and Mrs. Hull. Their presence should not disappoint him.
Friends
did not require tête-à-têtes. Although . . . surely even country doctors’ calls were not usually received so informally.

Elizabeth swept out a hand to direct him to an overstuffed armchair, then nodded inquiringly toward the tea tray beside her. He shook his head as he sat.

“I hope you don’t mind my receiving you here,” she said. “As you can see”—she gestured toward the mass of paper roses clustering at her feet—“I’m rather boxed in.”

“It requires pruning shears,” said Miss Mather. She wielded a needle and appeared to be waging a battle against her embroidery hoop. Her needlepoint was . . . aggressive.

“I say.” This from Mrs. Hull, who tapped pen against paper as she looked him over. There was a sly cast to
her smile—or perhaps that was only a trick of her face, which was narrow and distinctly foxlike. He braced for another comment on how they might know each other. Instead she said, “Perhaps Mr. Grey might help us with our rules.”

“Ah, yes—a gentleman’s perspective,” said Elizabeth.

“Might not be of much use,” muttered Miss Mather. “I thought we specifically excluded all gentlemen from the guest list.”

“Guest list?” He sounded stilted, and no bloody wonder. His chair was covered in pink damask. The carpet was lavender. Somebody wore too much perfume. Two china cabinets flanked him, each filled with small figurines of animals and peasants. If he moved too quickly, he was going to break something. Or sneeze. “Are you planning a party?”

Elizabeth laid down the sheet of paper she’d been folding. “Goodness, had I not told you? Yes, a house party in the old-fashioned style, a full week of fun.”

To which he apparently was not invited.

He bit his cheek. Of course he was not invited. One did not ask the nobility to hobnob with an ordinary doctor. “How pleasant for you.”

“Pleasant is not our aim,” Mrs. Hull said eagerly. “Liza has planned the most cunning entertainments. Oh, and the guests! You would recognize their names, I vow it. Lord Weston, Lord Hollister, the Viscount Sanburne—some of the most famous families in the country!”

Brilliant. He’d known Sanburne at Eton, and Weston was an old friend. Hollister he hadn’t met, but the man had done business favors for his brother, who in turn had supported Hollister’s quiet—and ultimately successful—campaign
to be ennobled. “A week, you say?” That was a long time to slink about in the shadows, hiding his face.

“Perhaps longer,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps we’ll all sail off to Paris together! One never knows with my friends. They make very good company—or,” she added with a mirthful look at Mrs. Hull, “shall I say the very
worst
!”

All three women exploded into laughter. Either they’d been tippling at luncheon or there was some very good joke to which Michael was not privy.

He put on a game smile. “So, a party. With rules, no less.”

“Oh, yes, the rules!” Mrs. Hull leaned forward, eyes bright. “Shall I read you what we have so far? And you may suggest amendments or additions, as the spirit moves you.”

“Oh, the poor man,” said Miss Mather. “Will you really subject him to this?”

The poor man?
He was not quite sure he liked that title.

“He won’t mind,” Elizabeth said casually. “He’s a very good sport.”

Now he wanted to frown. No bevy of women had ever treated a duke’s brother with such merry informality—rather as though he were not a man at all, but an oversized toy.

“Rule the first, then,” said Mrs. Hull. “Charm is required.”

“Our good doctor would pass that rule,” said Elizabeth with a smile for him.

“Yes, that’s a fine one to start—the bar must stay very low at first,” Mather said as she once again skewered the cloth.

That was not the only thing she’d just skewered. How
good to know he passed the very lowest bar. Michael cleared his throat. “To what do these rules pertain?”

But nobody seemed to hear him. “Rule the second,” Mrs. Hull continued. “Words must be matched
at all times
to actions.”

Elizabeth nodded. “That’s the most important one. I rather think that should be the tenth rule, in fact—the final hurdle to be leapt.”

“I disagree. I think it a dangerously general principle, myself.” Miss Mather bit off her thread as though beheading a very small enemy. “What if the gentleman threatens to shake you like a rag doll? Or tells you that he will always love his dog better than any lady? Should you really demand that his words match his actions? The poor dog!”

Mrs. Hull made a violent choking sound and slammed down her teacup.

“Good lord, Mather,” said Elizabeth. “I think you’ve killed her.”

Mrs. Hull frantically waved her hand. “Only you—” She held up a finger, coughing, her face quite red. “Only
you
would worry over such a thing! His dog,
really
!”

“But she does have a point,” Elizabeth said. “Add a colon, then, with this notation to follow: we speak of romantic propositions, specifically. If he pledges his heart, he must also pledge his name and his bank accounts. Do you follow?”

Good God. “These are rules for
suitors
?” he asked.

All three women turned to stare at him.

“Did you imagine they were rules for livestock?” Miss Mather inquired.

“Suitors,”
said Mrs. Hull. “What a delightfully quaint word!”

“He’s northern,” said Elizabeth—as though that explained anything.

“What would you rather call them?” he asked, aware, and not caring, that his tone had grown less genial. Probably he was living out a good many men’s dreams, being invited into a boudoir to eavesdrop on feminine stratagems. But had they looped a bow around his neck and patted him on the head, he could not have felt more like a lap dog.

“I would call them likely prospects,” suggested Mrs. Hull.

“Men of good character,” said Miss Mather.

“Lovers,” said Elizabeth.

The single word provoked shocked coos from the other women. Her smile widening, Elizabeth looked from them to him—hoping, he supposed, to reap his scandalized reaction as well.

He met her eyes and held them. “I do admire a woman of frankness.”

Her smile faltered.

“Though if your lover is guided by a rulebook, I would suggest you aim higher.” His glance dropped to her mouth.

Her face flooded with color. She looked down into her lap, plucking at a half-folded flower.

Yes,
he thought.
Don’t forget how well you liked my lips once
.

“Perhaps”—she paused to clear her throat—“perhaps we’d best discuss other things while Mr. Grey is here. We should not like to bore him.”

“Oh, I’m far from bored.” He rose, causing Miss Mather and Mrs. Hull to blink up at him, startled. Elizabeth missed his movement, her attention still on her hands.

He walked past her, deliberately brushing against her skirts as he reached for the teapot.

“Oh, let one of us,” Mrs. Hull said, but it was Elizabeth who sat nearest—and when she looked up at him, she made no move to help.

“Would you like to hear my rules?” he asked softly—too softly for the others to hear.

Her lips parted. She stared at him, and he stared back. What other choice did he have? Her eyes were the most extraordinary sight he’d ever beheld. In every light, they seemed a slightly different color. Just now they were a vivid green, the precise shade of her gown.

This friendship business was not going to work.

“Or perhaps I should first hear your rules,” he said. Lifting his voice, he continued, “Go on, Mrs. Hull. What else do you have?”

Elizabeth glanced beyond him, toward her friends, who had gone silent.

“I find ‘lover’ a very distasteful word,” Mather said after a moment. “But I agree, perhaps ‘men of good character’ is too clumsy. Or exclusive,” she added in a mutter.

“Why not ‘eligible bachelor’?” Mrs. Hull chirruped. “Liza invited several of them, you know!”

He fumbled the teacup. Elizabeth reached out to catch it. For a brief, burning moment her fingers brushed his.

Not since he’d been thirteen had such an innocent touch knocked the breath out of him. Everything in him tightened in response.

Lovely. Just what he needed: the beginnings of an erection in this music box of a room, with three women looking on. Through his teeth, he said, “I’ve got it.”

Elizabeth sat back again. He felt her attention lingering on him as he poured the tea. He was tempted to deliberately splash some on his skin. A burn would distract him, all right.

“Now, there’s a rare sight,” Miss Mather commented.

Good God.
Surely she didn’t mean—

“One rarely sees a man pouring tea,” she went on, and he exhaled and set the pot carefully back in its place.

“Too true,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps one of the rules should address a man’s usefulness.” Her voice brightened, becoming brisker; she was recovering her composure. “Isn’t it lovely when a man can be of use?”

Michael smiled to himself as he returned to his seat. “There’s a fine ideal,” he said. “Cheers to that.” He took a sip of the tea. “Very fine oolong.”

“What nonsense,” said Mrs. Hull. “Mr. Grey might pour his own tea, but the gentlemen to whom these rules apply are
not
of a class accustomed to doing for itself.”

Mrs. Hull grew more annoying by the minute. “Really?” Michael asked her. “Do you find the men of the upper class such a sorry lot that they lack the aim to land tea in a cup?”

“It isn’t that they lack the
aim,
sir. It’s a very different life, you know, among our sort. Men simply do not pour tea for themselves. Indeed, I think men rarely
drink
tea, save when in female company.”

He almost choked on his mouthful. “Indeed,” he said. “Liquor for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, is it? And water, is that also reserved for mixed company?”

Mrs. Hull gave him an indulgent smile. “You would be amazed,” she said. “You’ve no idea how a man can indulge himself, given the time and means to do so.”

Dear God. He began to wonder if one reason so many marriages failed to thrive was a generalized female ignorance that men, too, belonged to the human race. “Then I do have a rule to suggest, Mrs. Hull. Any man of worth must pour your tea when you request it.”

Mrs. Hull laughed—a high, tinkling sound which she belatedly muffled with her palm. “Mr. Grey! I think you misunderstand the purpose of these rules.”

“I quite like the suggestion,” said Miss Mather. “A fine test of chivalry.”

“Now, now,” said Elizabeth. “At least demand that he add the cream and sugar, too.”

Mrs. Hull tsked. “Well and good for a man who
works
for his living, as Mr. Grey does. But what Elizabeth and I require are men of
breeding
. Of refined tastes and standards! Not someone versed in how to be a
menial
.”

A brief, uncomfortable pause opened, in which Mrs. Hull’s remark echoed, becoming an unmistakable insult to him.

Then Elizabeth recovered her smile—bright, very bright as she directed it first toward him, then to the other women. “Have I told you how marvelously Mr. Grey managed with Mrs. Broward? What a fortunate day for Bosbrea when he decided to settle here!”

Murmurs of agreement from Miss Mather and Mrs. Hull—but nothing capable of reinvigorating the conversation.

He took pity on them, and rose. “I must take my leave.”

Elizabeth stood, too. “I’ll walk you out.”

Her transparent relief did not improve his temper. Once in the hallway, he said, “It’s no matter. I can make my way from here.”

“But I feel—” She sighed, linking her hands together
at her waist. “I feel as though we’ve insulted you. That was not at all Jane’s intention, I promise. A silly remark, spoken without thinking—”

“No, not at all.” Now that he was out of that cloistered little closet, it struck him how absurd this was: not only his masquerade, but also this farcical moment in which she apologized to a duke’s son for accidentally reminding him of his low station.

“I’ve never been ashamed to work for my living,” he said. Indeed, for the first time in his life, he actually
was
working for his living. And as a result, for the first time, he felt . . . entirely certain of his own capabilities.

Here was something to
thank
his brother for. The thought lightened his heart. He offered her a real smile. “Truly,” he said. “I took no offense.”

Her hand rose, then hesitated, her fingers curling as they fell back to her side. Telling moment, that: a silent acknowledgment that there could be no simple touches between them. “You must let me make it up to you anyway,” she said. “Will you come to dinner on Tuesday night? To meet my friends?”

“All the eligible bachelors, you mean?” Weston among them. Weston was highly eligible by any measure. Damn his eyes.

She hesitated, a small frown on her brow. “I—well, yes. I suppose some of them would count as such.”

“Will you tell them of the rules you’ve made for them?”
Stop,
he commanded himself.
You are not in competition for her.
“Hand out the list at the door, perhaps?”

Her frown deepened. “The rules are for ladies,” she said. “Reckless ladies who might be too quick to give away their hearts.”

“As you were,” he said. “With this cad whom you’ve yet to name.”

A queer look crossed her face. She stepped away from him. “You don’t know him,” she said. “What difference would it make to know his name?”

What difference? His patience snapped. He would show her what difference it made.

He stepped forward too quickly for her to respond. Seizing her by the waist, he lifted her into the wall and laid his mouth on hers.