Regency Surrender: Scandal And Deception. Marguerite Kaye

his brows rose and he jerked his head back. ‘I assure you, causing you any distress was most unintentional.’

      Then his lips twitched, and she wanted to throw a book at him. The man was insufferable.

      ‘You are laughing at me,’ she said through her teeth. ‘I believe I have spent too much time here today. I bid you good day—Your Grace.’

      As she stormed out of the bookshop she wished she could restrict her engagements to those he would never consider attending.

      * * *

      Julian’s encounter with Miss Vandenberg left him perplexed. No one had ever schooled him in proper behaviour before. No one would ever have dared. And yet this American had thought it necessary to inform him that he was rude.

      He should have been insulted by the way she’d spoken to him, but she had been so certain in her conviction, so passionate about the way she deserved to be treated, he had not been able to fault her.

      He was a man of strong convictions as well. When he had entered the shop it hadn’t occurred to him that he would leave finding Miss Vandenberg even more desirable than he already had.

      By the next day he was still reliving their discussion and anticipating when he would speak to her again.

      Deciding to visit the woman who was indirectly responsible for their encounter, Julian sought out his grandmother when he returned home from his committee meeting. Upon entering her private sitting room, he found her resting in a bergère chair, with a book in her hand.

      ‘Come in Julian,’ she said, waving him closer. ‘You truly have spoiled me.’

      He walked across the gold and white Aubusson rug and sat down next to her. ‘I see you are enjoying your book.’

      ‘You were slippery, presenting me with that volume yesterday. The arrival of this copy was quite unexpected.’

      ‘This copy?’ he replied, perplexed.

      ‘Yes—the one you had Mr Vandenberg inscribe.’

      Julian gestured to the copy of A Traveler’s Tale that she held in her hands. ‘May I...?’

      His grandmother placed a black ribbon between the pages and handed the book to him. ‘It is a lovely inscription.’

      He eyed his grandmother through his lashes and turned to the title page. He was speechless. Obviously Miss Vandenberg must have arranged this—but why?

      When she had stormed out on him yesterday Julian had not known if he should go after her. No one had ever walked out on him before. What had possessed her to have her father inscribe a book for his grandmother?

      ‘I did not do this,’ he admitted, handing back the book.

      ‘Of course you did. I have told no one else I misplaced my copy.’

      ‘I believe Mr Vandenberg’s daughter arranged this.’

      ‘His daughter? How would she know?’

      ‘I mentioned it to her yesterday, when we spoke at Hatchards.’

      ‘How very delightful of her. You have never said that you are acquainted with the family.’

      ‘I am only acquainted with the daughter.’

      His grandmother arched her brow. That was not a good sign. ‘Just the daughter? How unusual for you. How did you make her acquaintance?’

      ‘A mutual friend,’ replied Julian, picking a speck of lint off the sleeve of his navy tailcoat.

      ‘I see. And is the lady in question married?’

      ‘She is not.’

      ‘And how long have the two of you been acquainted?’

      ‘Not long.’

      Her eyes narrowed, causing Julian to shift restlessly in his seat.

      ‘Tell me about this girl.’

      ‘She is not a girl.’

      ‘How old is she?’

      ‘I do not know. I thought it wasn’t polite to enquire.’

      His grandmother chuckled. ‘When the lady in question is my age, it absolutely is not. But for a younger one I do not think it at all beyond the pale.’

      ‘And a lady of your age would be how old, exactly?’

      ‘You impertinent man—we are discussing your friend, not me.’

      ‘And why exactly are we discussing Miss Vandenberg?’

      ‘She had her father send me this lovely book. I am curious as to what kind of girl would do such a thoughtful thing. You say she did this completely without your influence?’

      ‘I doubt the lady could be influenced into doing anything at my bidding,’ he muttered.

      ‘Nonsense—you are Lyonsdale.’

      ‘At the moment that fact does not seem to be to my advantage with her.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Miss Vandenberg is a little cross with me at the moment, due to my title.’ He knew it was absurd, and saying it out loud made it appear more so.

      ‘I do not understand. Does she not realise the significance of your station?’

      ‘She does. However, I do not believe she cares.’

      ‘Because she is an American?’

      ‘Because she is Miss Vandenberg. In truth, I find at times that she baffles me with her logic.’ And his reaction to her mere presence baffled him more.

      His grandmother tilted her head and he realised he’d said too much. Miss Vandenberg wasn’t a woman he was courting, or even a woman he should be thinking of courting. And yet he’d told his grandmother more about her than he had about any other woman.

      Knowing that she was annoyingly perceptive, he knew he needed to place distance between them before she started asking a litany of questions. He pushed himself off the chair and walked to the window overlooking Grosvenor Square.

      ‘Would you take me to Almack’s tonight?’ she called to him.

      Dear God, he should have just left the room. The last place he ever wanted to go was Almack’s. He might as well place a notice in the Morning Chronicle, stating that he was shopping for a wife.

      ‘Why in the world would you want me to do that?’ he asked, trying to think of an excuse as to why he could not take her. ‘You’ve been going there for years without me.’

      ‘Yes, and it is about time you used those vouchers of yours. Each year you pay for them, and each year you never use them.’

      He wasn’t giving in. Her reasoning wasn’t good enough.

      She rubbed her knees and sighed. ‘If I don’t move these bones they may stiffen permanently.’

      Crossing his arms, he arched a sceptical brow. If the woman hadn’t been born into the aristocracy, she might have made a fine living on the stage.

      ‘I do not have many years left,’ she continued. ‘Is it so wrong for me to wish to spend time with my grandson? I rarely see you any more, with all the time you are spending with Lord Kenyon’s committee and other Parliamentary affairs.’

      She blinked a few times, and Julian wasn’t certain if he saw tears in her eyes.

      Should he remind her that they saw each other most mornings over the breakfast table? He searched the frescoed ceiling for an answer, but the cherubs just laughed down at him. He allowed her to live with him in London during the Season because he cared about her, and knew they probably didn’t have many more years left together. Perhaps it was time he hired her a companion and rented her a townhouse.

      Letting