Wicked Becomes You (7 page)

She gaped at him. “You can’t really believe that,” she said. “If you do, then you’ve been away from civilization for far too long.”

“Civilization,” he said dryly. “Half the guests in that church this morning were using the opportunity to pray that land prices will rise so they can sell their forty thousand acres and pay off their debts before creditors seize their town houses and ruin their season.
That
is your civilization. As venal as any other.”

Belinda tipped her chin mutinously but did not reply.

“Oh, and let me tell you,” he added helpfully. “Land prices are not going to rise. Not that much. Not anytime soon.”

The silence extended. It seemed to him a minor miracle. Finally, his sisters were listening to sense.

He decided to take advantage of it, for the occasion came only once in a blue moon. “And from now on, instead of standing by while she stumbles into an engagement with the first rotten bounder who bothers to smile at her, I suggest that you take an
active
hand in the business. Find a man who will make a proper husband for her—or at least manage to stick it out at the altar.”

Belinda huffed. “Oh, Alex.”

Of course there was an objection. “Let’s have it.”

“What do you propose? That we pick a man and instruct her to love him?”

He snorted. “Love? Have you not—”

“Paris!” Elma gasped.

“No,” Caroline said, “the viscount will be certain to pass through. The Dover-bound train, you know—”

“Guernsey, then?”

“Guernsey,” Belinda echoed.

“Yes, it’s perfect! What do you think? Sunshine, fresh air, and absolutely nobody of note!”

He fell back in his chair. This was useless. What they
should
be discussing was how Gwen always managed to pick the worst of a very large lot. First Trent, now this one. For poor taste in husbands, her judgment rivaled Anne Boleyn’s.

Then again—he shook his head as Caroline countered Guernsey with Cornwall, and the debate of various hidey-holes picked up steam again—perhaps he had it wrong, and the reason Gwen kept picking duds was because her counsel came from this lot. He would swallow knives for his sisters’ sakes, but if his life or even his lunch depended on it, he would not turn to them for advice.
Love
, Bel said. Gwen’s aim had nothing to do with love. She wanted status, a title, and so long as everyone around her encouraged her to disguise that ambition and play the nearsighted romantic, her search for golden princes would unerringly turn up toads.

Damn it. He’d promised Richard to look after her. But he’d resisted taking a direct hand in this courtship. His failure had led to the fracas today.

Black humor settled over him. Did he have time for this nonsense? No. But how hard could it be to find a tenable husband? Surely there was
one
unmarried, titled idiot who did not have a violent temper, or syphilis, or a consuming thirst for drink, or a destructive appetite for cards, or, for that matter, any perversions either illegal or extraordinary.

Almost, Alex could picture this paragon: balding, perhaps, with a pronounced belly accrued during afternoons sitting on his arse in the Lords and evenings relaxing at his club, drinking port and dining on steak while raging with his cronies at the gall of upstart foreigners. Irascible to abstract foes, yes, but also indubitably good-humored with friends, chivalrous with women, fond of his dogs, given to bad jokes that rhymed, and—above all—loyal through and through to those with the good taste to admire him. And Gwen would admire him. If she’d managed to admire Trent, she could manage it with anybody.

All right, so he’d draw up a list of candidates. Hire a man to research them. That should take two, three weeks at most; these MP types were never discreet. He’d dispatch the list to his sisters, instruct them to set Gwen in front of these men, and drop mention of her assets and marital intent. A month more until someone proposed? Yes, just about.

If he got on with it, they could have her engaged within eight weeks. He’d be halfway around the world by the time the next wedding day came. Would send a cable by way of congratulations. Perhaps he wouldn’t even remember the date, and someone, his secretary, would have to remind him when the event was drawing near.
Yes
. That sounded like an excellent plan.

What he needed, he thought, was a copy of Debrett’s Peerage. And a very strong cup of coffee.

He came to his feet. “If you will excuse me, ladies.”

The sight arrested him. It seemed historic. He could probably sell tickets to it. Proper Gwen Maudsley, carrying a letter in her mouth for convenience’s sake.

In fact, now that she’d embraced creativity, he could think of several other uses he might suggest for her lips.

It was a hot, predictable thought, irritating and useless, and, above all,
bewildering
. With so many willing, complex women in the world, he had little respect for men who fixated on girlishness. Innocence was, by definition, an absence of experience—character—knowledge. To
desire
that absence seemed rather deviant. Certainly it reflected a terrible laziness, or else the same failure of imagination that drove Gerry to patronize artists who challenged none of his preconceptions about the world.

Come to think of it, pity that Gerry was already married. He needed so badly to be admired, and Gwen, of all women, was determined to be nothing but agreeable. A more boring goal, Alex could not imagine.

It said nothing good of him that he found himself watching her all the same. She paused mid-step, lifting her shoulder to catch the edge of the letter, readjusting her toothy grip.

He glanced up again and discovered that she had paused to torque her shoulder toward her mouth and was using this shoulder as leverage to readjust her toothy grip on the letter.

How long since he’d seen her so close? Last autumn, he thought—in the garden at Heaton Dale. The breeze had carried away her shawl, and the late afternoon light, falling through the oak leaves, had strewn a delicate filigree of gold across her smooth, pale shoulders—

Well, yes, she’d always been pale, hadn’t she? Many girls were, nothing special there. Her current pallor probably owed to shock.

Since she’d had a difficult morning, he stepped backward into the hall, out of sight, to wait until she’d exited. No doubt the realization that someone had witnessed her indecorum would serve her the death blow.

A panicked squeak reached his ears. He leaned back into the lobby in time to spot her bobbling. She caught her balance, barely, but that valise was almost too large for her to see over. Another round of toothy acrobatics, and she was going to fall on her head before she made it to the landing.

Muttering a curse beneath his breath, he approached the staircase. “May I help?”

“Oh!” The valise plummeted to her feet. The envelope pursued a more leisurely descent, floating down to the first step, glancing off its edge, then sliding down several more. It was addressed, but he could not make out the name.

“Alex!” Her eyes rose from the envelope, which was nearer now to him than her; as she gave him a very wide smile, he had the curious impression that she meant to distract him from this knowledge. “How do you do this afternoon? So glad to see you back in town!”

This good cheer seemed a bit unlikely, even from her. “I’m tolerably well,” he answered slowly. Her eyes looked a bit bloodshot. Someone needed to rub the color back into her cheeks, but not him. Some titled xenophobe would do it. He cleared his throat. “And how are you?”

She set a slipper atop the valise and lifted her chin. The posture put him in mind of explorers staking their sovereign’s flag in new ground. “I’m splendid,” she declared.

A smile pulled at his mouth. Really, somebody needed to cast a trophy for her.
In Recognition of Her Tireless Dedication to Utterly Groundless Good Cheer
. “I’m impressed,” he said. “I expected you’d have a headache at least.”

Her auburn brows knitted. “Oh.” Only now did she appear to recall a cause for distress. “Well, not
splendid
, I suppose. Of course not. How silly would that be! But I am better, thank you. I slept a good deal. Sleep is restorative!” Her words came more and more quickly. “And how good of you to call. I do appreciate your concern. I’m much better. And your sisters, of course.” Her lashes fluttered. “Ah—their concern, I mean. I appreciate it. I hope they’re well?”

Beyond the price of a ticket. For Gwen Maudsley to bungle such a basic social courtesy seemed no less likely to him than the failure of a prima ballerina to lift her leg above her waist. But she’d bungled it, all right. She’d butchered it. “They’re quite well,” he replied, straight-faced by an effort. Because it suddenly seemed wise to ask, he added, “What’s in the luggage?”

“Oh, the—the valise? Just some . . .” She brushed a hand over her brow. Her chignon was slumping toward imminent collapse. Another first. He had never seen her hair in any state other than viciously domesticated. “Sweaters,” she said brightly. She gave a light, atrociously fake laugh. “Sweaters for Lady Milton’s orphanage. She asked me to deliver them today.”

He held his tongue, hoping that a brief silence might highlight for her the patent absurdity of that claim. But her expression did not waver; she regarded him quite earnestly. Or was it defiantly? No, he could not square that sentiment with what he knew of her. “Deliver them,” he repeated. “Today.”

“Yes, today.”

He gave her a disbelieving smile. “Before or after your wedding? Did she specify?”

“I know, I should have dispatched a footman with them, but . . .” She gave a helpless shrug. “The orphans, you know.”

“No,” he said. “Don’t know any, unless you and I count.”

“Orphaned
children.
” Then, apparently reading into his expression a sympathy he did not feel—for he doubted that these particular orphans existed—she added, “I know, it’s quite horrible, isn’t it? I’ve been knitting sweaters for all those poor tots. Every single one.”

“How virtuous,” he said dryly.

She did not appear to have heard him. “And now they’re finished, finally, so I thought to drop them by and have the joy of watching the sweaters be . . . donned.” From behind her ear, a red tress sprang to freedom, tickling her chin.

Portentous, that lock of hair. He found himself riveted by it. Its message seemed clear: he was witnessing the total collapse, mental and physical, of London’s golden girl. If it sent all her hair tumbling, he would not even oppose it.

He released the image on a long breath. Now she was making
his
brain misfire. If she collapsed, he’d have a much harder time finding a man willing to marry her. Lunatics lacked cachet.

Her hand rose to tuck the curl away. “Terribly tragic,” she said absently. “Little boys and girls, with no . . .” She glanced toward her valise and frowned.

“Sweaters,” he said helpfully. Generally she was a much better liar than this, persuasively complimenting any number of people for virtues they did not possess. Were it otherwise, she would never have been so popular with her set.

“Sweaters, yes!” With another bright smile for him, and a covert glance for the letter, she bent to retrieve the valise. Judging by how easily she lifted it, it might even contain children’s sweaters. In which case, he was going to conclude that she’d lost her mind.

As she straightened, the smile flickered briefly, then strengthened again. “But how kind of you to drop by,” she said. “After that dreadful scene, no less. I hope you weren’t too discomfited. I expect we will see each other before you go abroad again?”

That was a very clumsy attempt at dismissal. Yielding to alarm, he took two steps up the stairs. Her pupils looked to be normal, so she hadn’t been administered a sedative. “Did you take a knock to the head today?”

She blinked. “No, of course not. Why do you ask?”

He tipped his head. “Would you call this behavior typical of you, then?”

She shifted her weight, clearly uncomfortable with the question. “Everyone is in the drawing room, you know.” Her eyes stole again to the letter, which now sat by his foot.

“Yes, I just came from there. Won’t you join us?” Certainly he couldn’t let her run off in this . . . state. Whatever it was. He supposed it did not speak well of him that he found it rather fascinating. Gwen Maudsley, come undone. He’d always had a fascination with how things came apart—clocks, telephones, the whatnot. But until now, he’d drawn the line at the dismantling of people. “Surely the orphans can wait an hour?”

She opened her mouth. He lifted a brow. She sighed and took a quick peek beyond him, then said in a lowered voice, “I will speak frankly, then. I don’t wish to attend the campaign session.”

“Campaign session.” He was beginning to feel like a parrot.

“Yes, you know, the Campaign to Save Gwen from Eternal Humiliation,
again
.” She produced a wry smile. This one proved less stable than her cheerful mien; it slipped quickly away. “But you mustn’t let me keep you from it. I expect you will be quite useful to them. They already used up their best ideas the last time.”

She descended a step. He laid a hand on either banister, blocking her path. “And what of your attendance? Should you not be rather interested in the outcome?”

She eyed his hands. “Not really. I have decided my path.”

“Oh? How intriguing. Where does it lead?”

She gave him a blank look. “To the orphanage.”

Right. He bent down to pick up the letter. A gasp came from above him. “That’s mine!” she cried.

“I’ll just hand it up—”

A large, soft weight smacked into his head, throwing him off his balance. He staggered sideways, letter in hand; missed a step, cursed, and took a great leap clear of the stairs.

Safely on his feet, he straightened and looked up. She stood wide-eyed, her hands cupped over her mouth, her brown eyes huge. The valise now lay several steps below her, having split open to disgorge a great mess of . . . yarn.

His brain balked. “You didn’t—did you
throw
that at me?” No. It was inconceivable.

About as inconceivable as a valise that fell horizontally.

Her hands dropped to fist at her waist. “I want my letter!”

He laughed in astonishment. “You
did
throw it. Why, Miss Maudsley. You naughty girl.”

“It slipped!”

“The law of gravity disagrees with you.”

She sniffed. “Do not bring science into this.”

“Right, very bad of me,” he said. “I always forget to leave it at the door with my hat. All right, then, tell me this: did you forget to actually
knit
the sweaters?” He nodded toward the valise. “Or were you planning to have the orphans do it for you?”

“Never,” she said heatedly. Another red lock collapsed, this one unfurling all the way to her waist. “I will
buy
sweaters for those orphans.”

“Of course,” he murmured. Her hair was such an unusual color. The shade of a fine pinot noir, he thought, when struck by the sun.

“I will buy a hundred sweaters,” she said. “A thousand! But I shan’t knit them, and I shan’t pretend I did!”

In fact, she’d pretended it only a minute ago, but now did not seem the opportune time to remind her. “Right,” he said. “Well done. And why should you?”

The question was rhetorical, but she took it seriously. “Lady Milton and Lady Anne want me to do it. They’re both hypocrites, you know. They care nothing for those orphans. Lady Milton isn’t even joining the excursion—why go to Ramsgate when one can holiday in Nice!” She crossed her arms and rolled her shoulders, as though to physically shed such thoughts of duplicity. “Hypocrites,” she repeated. “
I
care for the orphans.”

Oh ho, a quarrel. No doubt it involved a great lot of silk-clad women with diamonds in their ears, arguing about who cared more for poor little Oliver—pausing only to allow the footman to refresh their champagne. “Naturally, you care.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe me? Perhaps I’ll open my own orphanage. And I will feed them something more than gruel, you may count on it!”

The shrill note in her voice dimmed his amusement. All right, the lack of tears and screams had thrown him off, but clearly she was hysterical. On consideration, it seemed typical that Gwen would permit herself to exhibit only the mildest, most pleasant symptoms of the malady. “Beef every night,” he agreed. “Why not? You’ve certainly got the funds for it.”

A line appeared between her brows. “Don’t humor me.”

“Did I ever?” The idea surprised him. “If so, it was only by accident. No need to pile on to that effort.”

She hesitated, then gave him a smile. “That’s true. You’ve never gone out of your way to be nice.”

He smiled back at her; for all that she was babbling nonsense, hysteria looked charming on her. “Open the orphanage,” he said. “You can do anything you like. Your options were not limited by today’s events.”

“Oh?” She came marching down the steps, hand extended. “Then I will ask you to return my property.”

He glanced at the envelope.
The Right Honble. The Viscount Pennington
. “Oh, good God. What—”

She lunged for it, and he caught her wrist. Her pulse thrummed like the drum in some wild jungle dance. Hot skin, soft beneath his thumb. “That’s
mine
,” she said. He hadn’t imagined her brown eyes could be put to a glare, but they looked nothing doe-like to him now. She gave a futile yank against his grip. “Let go of me!”