The Dangerous Lord (11 page)

“I think perhaps you should stay at Jordan's for the rest of your visit.”

His gaze on her narrowed.

Turning to pace the floor at the end of the table, she went on quickly, “I've already spoken to Emily, and she has agreed. The baby isn't giving them any trouble, so she said they'd be delighted to have you. Of course, you may join us here for the other activities we're planning, but at night—”

“At night, you don't want the cock sleeping in the henhouse,” he bit out.

She colored. “I suppose that's one way to put it.”

Under other circumstances, he might have been insulted. But Sara was merely behaving as Felicity had intended. He couldn't blame Sara for being taken in. Felicity could play righteous indignation very convincingly, and Sara was just the sort to believe in a martyred heroine.

Well, Felicity's martyrdom would come at a price, whether she knew it or not. Though he preferred to stay at Jordan's anyway, he didn't intend to let Felicity think for even one moment that she'd won.

An idea had sprung into his mind that was sure to work on the imagination-plagued Felicity. “All right, I'll move my things to Jordan's.” He continued toward the door, then paused to cast Sara a cool smile. “Oh, and do pass on a message to Miss Taylor for me, will you?”

Sara regarded him warily. “What?”

“Tell her that even John Pilkington has his price.”

“John Pilkington? Who is he? What on earth—”

“Just tell her. She'll know what it means.” Then, whistling to himself, he sauntered from the room.

E
ven John Pilkington has his price
.

With a frown, Felicity slapped
The Mysteries of Udolpho
down on her lap. Drat it, why must Ian's insidious threats about Pilkington plague her even while she read a novel? At home with the boys underfoot, she seldom got to indulge her love of reading. Now she'd been given a few hours to herself, and
he
had to intrude.

A chill hung in the air of the Worthings' card room, made all the more harsh by the lack of a fire. Felicity tugged her heavy wool shawl more closely about the simple day dress she'd kept on instead of dressing for dinner. Sara had told her no one ever used this room, which is why she'd come here while the others were dining. She'd excused herself from attending the meal by telling Sara she was too embarrassed to face Lord St. Clair. The Black
mores had arrived, and Ian was with them for the first time in three days.

But the truth was, she was a coward. The prospect of eating dinner across from a man determined to ruin her life—and invade even her thoughts—was unendurable. He would surely see how his parting words to Sara worried her. And how could she keep from blurting out some revealing statement?

Worse, how in creation could she keep from remembering those kisses he'd given her? No,
stolen
from her. He'd stolen more than kisses—he'd stolen a long-ago dream of experiencing a man's passion. Now that she'd seen how easily men could feign it, she could never trust a man's kisses again. So dining with Ian tonight was unthinkable.

Besides, she had another perfectly good reason for avoiding him. The man was clearly bent on revenge. Why else make that statement to Sara? And why else accompany the Blackmores to dinner at Worthing Manor tonight? He'd been noticeably absent when the Blackmores had come for luncheon the day after his conversation with Sara. Then he'd gone off to London on business the next day, prompting her to congratulate herself on being rid of him.

But he was back, and now she was worried. Why had he gone to London in the midst of a country visit with close friends? What business could be so compelling? And why had he returned?

She could guess some of the answers. It could concern her column. She'd sent it in an express to Mr. Pilkington Monday, so it had undoubtedly appeared in the
Gazette
while Ian was in town. If so, he must have seen it.

Unless he'd prevented it from being published at all. She turned his words over again in her head. She could only assume he'd intended to bribe Mr. Pilkington into either censoring her words or refusing to publish them. The question was, what would Mr. Pilkington say to such a despicable offer?

Surely he wouldn't cut her off. Why, Mr. Pilkington always professed she was his best correspondent.

Then again…
even John Pilkington has his price
.

She lifted her eyes to the heavens. “Can't you give me a hint?” she muttered at God. “Ian must have some plan in mind. Lord knows—I mean,
You
know—Ian has enough money to make Mr. Pilkington salivate. I hardly think my literary prowess would sway the publisher if St. Clair bombards him with gold.”

“To whom are you speaking?” asked a familiar female voice from the doorway, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

The countess entered the room with the rest of the party behind her—Sara's husband Gideon, both of the Blackmores, and worst of all, Ian. Only the Drydens were absent, and they'd probably already retired for the evening.

Felicity sprang to her feet, her book sliding off her lap and onto the floor with a thud. “I wasn't speaking to anyone!” Heat flooded her face. Oh, to be caught acting like a ninny in front of this crowd, especially
him
! How much had they heard? How much had
he
heard? “I-I mean, I have this bad habit of talking to…to myself sometimes when I'm distracted.”

“Are we distracting you, Miss Taylor?” Ian asked as he sauntered past Sara. With a quick motion, he picked Felicity's book up off the floor. When she reached for it, he ignored her outstretched hand and tucked the volume under his arm. “We didn't mean to do so.” Amusement laced his voice. No doubt he'd guessed precisely why she'd not been at dinner.

Guessed, and was pleased about it. Indeed, he looked abominably self-assured and handsome, with his tail coat of cobalt saxony fitting those broad shoulders to perfection, his pantaloon trousers of fine kerseymere hugging thighs too muscular for a nobleman, and his cravat tied simply, as if he had more important things to do than wait for a valet
to engineer a complicated knot. Next to him and his finely dressed friends, she looked like the drabbest creature in the realm in her muslin day dress and old woolen shawl.

“We're so pleased to see you up and about,” Ian continued. “We thought you were ill. A headache. That's what Sara told us.”

“Yes, Miss Taylor had a most monstrous headache,” Sara hastened to say. “You should have seen her earlier. She nearly fainted while we were out walking.” Sara's apologetic glance at Felicity held a wealth of meaning.
I'm sorry I didn't know you were here. I'm sorry I had to invent a headache to explain your absence at dinner
.

It touched Felicity, increasing her already enormous guilt over misleading the countess about what had happened the night of the ball. Felicity hadn't meant to mislead her. When Sara and Lady Brumley had caught her at the writing table in her room penning her angry column, she'd tried to get rid of them.

But it had been fruitless. Felicity should have known that the kindly countess wouldn't let her tears go unremarked. And when in a burst of angry feeling, Felicity had said that Ian had done more than kiss her, Sara's inordinate indignation had made Felicity realize how her words had been interpreted. But she hadn't dared explain, not in front of Lady Brumley.

Still, she hadn't expected Sara to banish Ian from the house for it. Apparently Felicity had underestimated the countess's fierce sense of protectiveness toward all unmarried women. After several discussions about reform and the community the Worthings were building on a remote island, Felicity knew the woman better, and now she understood precisely how Sara must have regarded Felicity's claims about Ian. Which only tripled her guilt. And her reluctance to admit the truth to the woman.

Well, at least she could support the countess's story now. “I did have a headache. But after I slept a while, it abated,
so I wandered downstairs to find a book to read and discovered this lovely little card room.”

Emily, the other countess present, glanced at the barren fireplace, where servants now layered cords of wood with kindling. “You shouldn't have sat here without a fire. You might catch a chill to add to that headache.”

Belatedly remembering that Emily had a penchant for physic, Felicity murmured, “I didn't want to trouble the servants. And I don't take chill easily.”

“All the same,” Sara said firmly, “we don't wish to disturb your solitary pleasure. We'll understand if you'd like to retire with your book now—”

“Retire?” Ian interrupted in a crisp tone. “We've finally gained her company, and you're banishing her to bed? That's inhospitable of you, Sara.” He didn't seem to notice Sara's look of reproach. “Besides, I'm sure your guest won't object to spending a few minutes with us. Will you, Miss Taylor?”

Felicity met his gaze, her heart thumping faster at the challenge glowing in his devil's eyes. He wanted her to stay, which should send her bolting from the room faster than a hare startled by a wolf. Because if she stayed, he would pounce.

Yet if she fled, he'd run her to ground another way. At least here she had Sara on her side. “I'd love to stay, Lord St. Clair, especially now that I'm feeling better. Besides, you've taken my book prisoner, so I can't very well leave, can I?”

“Ah, yes, your book.” Ian held it at arms' length and read the spine. “
The Mysteries of Udolpho
by Ann Radcliffe. A novel—how interesting.” He smiled coolly at Felicity. “I must say I'm not surprised to discover that you like
fiction
.”

Felicity crossed her arms over her chest. “Of course I like fiction. What else would I read when my head pains me? Dry works of science or business?”

Ian shrugged. “At least they contain facts and the truth. These novels are some person's invention, and how can reading false tales help anyone?”

The man simply wouldn't relent. Felicity snatched the book from him, heedless of his laughing gaze. “Fiction
is
truth, no matter what you say. Where do you think novelists get their material? From real life, not from some scientist's speculations about what life might be. Novels can better prepare us for life's difficulties than ancient history. Indeed, I encourage my brothers to read them whenever possible. They often provide a truer vision of society than all the supposed facts printed in other books.”

“Or in newspapers?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

As his gaze locked with hers, full of meaning, full of threat, her fervor drained out of her. This was it—his next assault. She waited for it with her heart pounding.

He turned to where Jordan and his wife were finding seats around the card tables. “Speaking of newspapers, Jordan, I brought a number back from London for you. I have an interesting article to show you.”

Felicity's knees went weak. Her column—it had to be. But if he'd seen it, why would he want his friends to read it?

Thankfully, Emily said, “I thought we were going to play cards. That
is
why you suggested we go to the card room, isn't it?”

Ian had suggested it? Oh, of course. Her heart plummeted as she noted the servants who scurried about lighting candles and making the room comfortable. The party's move to the card room had been no sudden impulse. He'd planned this “accidental” encounter, the devil. He must have discovered her whereabouts from a servant during dinner. So this truly was it: their next battle. And she wasn't ready.

“Well, isn't it, Ian?” Emily repeated. “I do so want to play whist. I seldom get the chance.”

Jordan laughed. “You see what happens when you ex
pose a country girl to some fun? She can hardly get enough of it.”

With a cross look, Emily retorted, “You know that's not the only reason. There's never enough people here in the country to play, since Gideon dislikes the game so.”

“Confoundedly stupid game,” Gideon muttered. He sat in a wing chair near the fire warming his hands.

“Unfortunately, Emily, we now have too many people to play,” Ian said. “We wouldn't want to leave Miss Taylor out of the game.”

“Oh, don't trouble yourselves over
that
,” Felicity hurriedly said. “I'll simply continue reading. You four go on with your game, by all means.”

“Impossible,” Ian remarked. “We'll be noisy, and that'll restore your headache.”

Glaring at him, Felicity gritted out, “Then perhaps I
should
retire.”

“No, I insist that we cancel our plans. I won't be responsible for depriving everyone of your company, especially when you're returning to London tomorrow. Besides, I think you, too, will find the newspaper interesting.”

His amused gaze met Felicity's baleful one, and she wanted to strangle him. What was he planning, drat him?

The others didn't seem annoyed by his insistence on dictating their entertainment. Emily even graciously conceded it would be unfair to leave Miss Taylor out of the game. Nor did anyone protest when he sent a servant off to fetch his newspapers.

After the servant had gone, he took a seat on a spindly chair, dwarfing it with his large frame. When he leaned back, legs splayed and thumbs tucked into his waistcoat pockets, he wore the smug air of a man who always got his way. “Now we can all join you in reading, Miss Taylor. I brought copies of
Ackermann's Repository
for you females.” The smile he fixed on her was as insidious as coal
dust in a chimney. “And for Jordan, I brought the
Gazette
. He's a great admirer of Lord X's column.”

She swallowed. This made no sense. Why would Ian want his friends to read her column about him? Was it simply his obnoxious way of leading up to exposing her?

She forced a note of contempt into her voice. “Isn't Lord X that man who writes the gossip?” She strolled nonchalantly to the opposite side of the room and perched herself on a silk-upholstered settee. “Lord St. Clair, I can't believe you criticized my preference for fiction when you read a rumormonger like Lord X.”

“Ian doesn't read him; he hates the fellow,” Jordan interjected. “But I admit to admiring the writer myself. His biting comments are a tonic to all the hypocrisy among our peers. Lord X is quite a wit, even if he does take a poke at Ian occasionally.”

Ian's gaze was riveted on her. “Yes, he's a wit. At other people's expense.”

A slow churn began in her stomach. Why the devil wouldn't he get it over with? If he wanted to expose her…

“That's not true,” Emily remarked. “The man's judicious in his wit. He only sharpens it on the pompous, cruel, and unthinking. Only last week he defended young women who ignore their parents' greed to elope with the men they love.”

The young countess's unexpected defense lifted Felicity's spirits.