The Perfect Mistress (6 page)

He stared in disbelief. “But it is a great deal of money. And you need money.”

“Indeed it is and indeed I do but I must think of tomorrow as well as today.” She shook her head. “If the book sells as well as I have been told it has the potential to do, it shall provide income for years.”

“Be reasonable, Lady Winterset,” he said in a stern manner. “Do not let misplaced sentiment cloud your judgment.”

“This has nothing to do with sentiment,” she said sharply. “I am being extremely practical. What you’re offering, in spite of its generosity, is finite. It will not last forever.”

He continued as if she hadn’t said a word. “I do not know a great deal about the business of publishing but I do know the success or failure of a venture is always a gamble. What I am offering you is a certainty. As for the future, you are, well, a very beautiful woman. Surely you will remarry someday and no doubt soon. Then you will not have to worry about money.”

She gritted her teeth. “As much as I do appreciate what was no doubt a compliment buried somewhere in your words, I have no intention of marrying anyone for financial stability. And, as I have no prospects at the present time, my marrying again is as much a gamble as the success of
The Perfect Mistress
.”

He frowned. “The what?”

“
The Perfect Mistress
. That is the title Lady Middle-bury gave to her memoirs.”

“Oh, that is indeed”—he fairly spat the word—“per-fect.”

“Little in this world is perfect, my lord. My great-grandmother certainly was not. I am not. Even you are not perfect.” Julia rose to her feet. “As much as I do understand your concerns I cannot allow them to prevent me from doing what I think is best with what is essentially my legacy.”

He stood, his lips pressed into a hard line. “This is a poor decision on your part, Lady Winterset.”

She shrugged. “It is neither my first nor do I suspect my last.”

He cast a disgusted look at her lamp. “And that is the ugliest lamp I have ever seen.”

She rested her hands on her desk, leaned forward slightly, and lowered her voice. “Your cravat … is crooked.”

His hand shot to his neck to check the item in question.

She smiled sweetly and straightened. “My apologies, I was mistaken. It was the angle, no doubt.”

His jaw tightened. “No doubt.”

“Good day, my lord.”

“I warn you, Lady Winterset, I do not give up easily.”

“Lord Mountdale, you were candid with me. I should like to be honest with you as well.”

“I prefer honesty.”

She nodded. “Most people do.” She chose her words with care. “For much of my life, I have done exactly what was expected of me. My behavior has been eminently proper. I avoided even the suggestion of scandal and I did as I was told. I have reached a point in my life when necessity dictates that is no longer of importance.”

He stared at her with a hint of disdain. “It must run in the family then.”

She shook her head. “What?”

“A complete disregard for proper behavior, the courting of scandal and moral lassitude.” He glared. “You are exactly like your great-grandmother.”

It was all she could do to keep from vaulting over the desk to pummel him into insensibility. Not that she could truly have bested him or that she had any abilities in that regard whatsoever, indeed, she had never even slapped a man’s face. At this moment however, she suspected she could at the very least inflict noticeable damage on that too handsome, too smug face.

“And you, my lord, are a self-righteous, condescending, arrogant ass. As for my being like my great-grandmother.”—she forced a cordial smile—“I certainly hope so.” She pulled her gaze from his, sat down, and shuffled the papers on the desktop as if there was a great deal that needed her immediate attention and he was no longer of interest. “Good day, my lord. Daniels will see you out.”

She sensed him staring at her although she refused to look up. “This is not over, Lady Winterset. I do not give up this easily.”

“I never imagined you would,” she said coolly, still refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. “Good day.”

He hesitated for another moment then she heard him stalk to the door, open it, and snap it closed sharply behind him.

She released a relieved breath and sank back in her chair.

Dear Lord. She rubbed her hand over her forehead. What an irritating, sanctimonious beast the man was. She might well have given his offer serious consideration had he not been so … so … well, the man made her want to resort to violence. She was not, nor had she ever been, a violent person. Why, she scarcely ever raised her voice. But with the Earl of Mountdale she wanted nothing so much as to wrap her fingers around his neck and squeeze the very life out of him.

As for being exactly like Hermione, she did indeed hope she was. Oh, not when it came to her amorous escapades, but her great-grandmother had a strength and a spirit of independence Julia was coming to admire more and more. She had lived her life precisely as she pleased with no apologies and few regrets. One could do far worse than to emulate those qualities.

The earl’s offer was tempting and she hoped she had not been foolish to turn it down. Still, she had no doubt she would hear from him again. He was not a man to accept no for an answer.

She was rather proud of herself for not losing her temper. She could only pray that when next she met his lordship she again would have the strength to restrain from surrendering to physical violence.

Although, she blew a long breath, she had never before met a man whose face deserved to be slapped as much as his did. And never met a man to whom she wished to do just that.

Until now.

As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, he was wrong.

Harrison strode to his carriage, ordered his driver to return home in an even more curt tone than usual, climbed in, and tried to regain a semblance of calm. No, he was completely wrong about Lady Winterset. She was not at all as annoying as Veronica. Veronica was a sheer delight in comparison. Lady Winterset was by far the most annoying woman whose path it had ever been his misfortune to cross.

Not that she wasn’t lovely. Only a blind man would fail to notice Lady Winterset’s beauty. Her eyes were the shade of flawless emeralds and flashed with green fire when she was angered as she obviously had been more than once during their discussion. Her hair was fair, the color usually found on paintings of Renaissance angels, with an unruly curl. Even as he had spoken with her he watched several tendrils escape her admittedly proper coiffure to drift around her face, like the whisper of a halo. The thought had occurred to him, briefly and immediately discarded, when he had watched that pale gold strand caress the peach blush of her cheek, what a perfect match she might have made in those days when she was concerned with propriety and the avoidance of scandal. Not for him, of course. At least not now. She was entirely too intelligent and independent although she did have an admirable sense of familial loyalty, even if misplaced.

He blew a long breath. He had not handled that at all well. Veronica had told him that Lady Winterset was in dire financial straits and he had assumed that meant she would succumb to his generous offer. As lovely as she was, he had noticed a tension in the set of her shoulders as if they bore the weight of the world, a paleness that bespoke of a lack of sleep, and a few fine lines of worry creasing her brow. But he hadn’t taken into account what else Veronica had told him about Lady Winterset’s nature. No, he should have handled that better.

Now, he was obviously going to have to begin anew. She was clever but she was still only a woman and he was certainly smarter. And as stubborn as she may be, he was not about to give up. He would acquire those memoirs and prevent his family from becoming embroiled in scandal. His mother had taught him scandal was to be avoided at all costs. She had spent most of her life trying to keep his father’s indiscretions quiet. He had always thought that was part of what had hastened her death. Still, he could never bring himself to blame his father. Neither his father nor his mother had been happy in their marriage. When he was younger and had been enamored of foolish notions like love he had wondered if they had ever felt that particular emotion toward one another. And if they had, when had it vanished? Well, he was certainly not going to predicate his marriage on love. If it existed at all, it was far too fragile and fleeting to last a lifetime. Charles, of course, had felt differently and had on occasion talked to his younger brother about the joy love with Veronica had brought him.

As much as he regretted the very idea, he would now need his sister-in-law’s help. Veronica had scoffed when he had mentioned his powers of persuasion and charm and, admittedly, he had employed little persuasion and even less charm, but with very little effort he certainly could. And if Lady Winterset liked him, surely she would be more agreeable to selling him the manuscript. How difficult could it possibly be to get the woman to like him? He simply had to spend some time with her, socially perhaps.

And that he would put in Veronica’s capable hands. He’d pay a call on her at once. She couldn’t possibly refuse to help. She was a member of his family after all, no matter how tenuous the bond. Besides, it would be in her friend’s best interest as well as his, especially if he increased his offer. He smiled with satisfaction. One way or another, Lady Hermione’s memoirs would be his.

Even if he had to rely on the help of one annoying woman to best another.

“You want me to do what?” Veronica stared at him in that way she had, as if the level of his intelligence was far too low to justify his existence.

“I thought about it all the way here and it’s a brilliant idea.” Harrison paced the width of Veronica’s parlor, his mind occupied with the details of what he now thought of as
The Plan
.

“It doesn’t sound especially brilliant to me.”

“That’s because you don’t see it the way I do.”

“As much as I am eternally grateful for that, let me see if I understand any of this.” She paused to pull her thoughts together. “You want me to have a soiree—”

“Nothing elaborate. Simply a dinner.”

“
Simply
a dinner?” She sighed. “Very well then. A dinner so that you may use your powers of persuasion and your considerable charm on Julia to convince her to sell you her great-grandmother’s memoirs so that you may destroy them.”

“Exactly.” He grinned.

“The obvious flaws in this plan are too many to mention.” She shook her head. “Why a dinner? Why not a small gathering of some sort?”

“A dinner allows me to be seated next to her. Besides, I have impeccable manners.”

“Yes, that will sway her.” She scoffed. “I know when I am interested in a gentleman, the correct usage of the proper fork is always a considering factor.”

He ignored the note of sarcasm. “If I am next to her at the table she cannot escape and will be forced to speak to me. I am prepared to raise my offer, by the way. I am considering some sort of trust or annuity that will pay her annually but right now she will not give any offer from me due consideration.”

“Not surprising as you acted like an ill-mannered boor.”

“I did not … well …” He paused. “Ill-mannered boor” did seem to describe his behavior with a disquieting accuracy. “I insulted her lamp.”

“Goodness, Harrison, don’t you know anything about women?”

“I know a great deal about women,” he said in a lofty manner.

“Then you would know insulting a woman’s style of décor is not unlike telling her her waist is a bit thick or saying yes when she has asked if her bustle makes her bottom look large.”

“I didn’t see her bottom,” he muttered although admittedly, the rest of her figure was exceptional. She was shorter than he by nearly a head with a form nicely curved and lushly rounded in all the appropriate places. He mentally shook his head to clear the intriguing image.

She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “As for this dinner, how many guests would you like?”

“I don’t know, thirty perhaps.”

“You want me to have a dinner for thirty people?” Disbelief sounded in her voice.

He glanced at her. “Too many?”

She sighed. “I suggest we make up the guest list before deciding on a number. As I understand your somewhat garbled initial explanation, you wish me to invite—”

“I don’t care who you invite for the most part but I do wish to have some of the literary set present.”

“Why?”

“So that the conversation may be casually directed toward the uncertainty of publishing.” By God, this was brilliant.

“I see,” she said slowly. “You wish Julia to understand Lady Middlebury’s memoirs might not ultimately prove as lucrative as your offer.”

“Precisely. If you could invite a few authors perhaps.”

She raised a brow. “Would you like some poets as well? Perhaps an artist or two? Maybe a violinist?”

“Don’t be absurd. Why would we need artists or violinists?” He paused in midstep and glared at her. “You are not taking this at all seriously.”

“It’s not like hiring servants, you know. I can’t simply send a note to an employment service requesting an upstairs author and a scullery poet. For goodness’ sakes, Harrison, where do you propose I find such people?”

“I assumed you knew some. You are a well-known hostess after all.”

“Well yes, there is that,” she said grudgingly, somewhat mollified. “I suppose I have met, on occasion, an author or two, at someone else’s affair …” She paused.

“You’ve thought of something.”

“Perhaps.” She sighed. “Lady Tennwright has a literary salon every other month or so. She knows everyone who has ever so much as picked up a pen. She insists on inviting me and usually I manage to avoid attending. I find her extremely pretentious. If I make any overtures to her whatsoever she will assume we are the best of friends. Still, I suppose I could ask her if she could—”

“Provide you with names? Excellent.” He beamed at her.

She stared. “Whatever is wrong with you?”

“Nothing at all.” He drew his brows together. “What do you mean?”