Regency Vows. Kasey Michaels

“if her father weren’t such an amiable man I would not have her in my house, mark my words, regardless of Croston’s good opinion, which is highly suspect in any case under the circumstances given that he is clearly besotted.”

      * * *

      “EXAGGERATING MOORISH BARBARISM is a bloody poor way to further your cause,” a clearly-not-besotted Captain Warre growled into Katherine’s ear four visits later after she told an open-mouthed Lady Someone-or-other that she’d witnessed no less than a dozen beheadings during her first year in captivity.

      Katherine stepped into the blessed freedom of the waiting carriage. “This is intolerable.” And they saw her not as the countess of Dunscore, but looked at her the way they might gape at some freakish oddity.

      “Be that as it may, you will learn to tolerate it or even my most heartfelt endorsement won’t help you.”

      “Heartfelt endorsement!” she hissed. “Was that when you told the odious Lord Bashford that I was anxious for domesticity, or when you told Lord Quinn that my ‘accomplishments’ may not be traditional but nonetheless should not be overlooked?”

      “Your gratitude leaves me speechless.”

      “As did Lady Moore’s suggestion that I should set up shop in Covent Garden.”

      “She was talking about the theater,” Captain Warre said.

      “Oh, indeed. That was precisely what she meant.”

      “For God’s sake, I’ve called you my savior so many times it’s beginning to sound blasphemous.”

      “Croston!” A man unfolded himself from a hack that pulled up behind Captain Warre’s carriage. She recognized him instantly from Lord Deal’s musicale: tall and broad-shouldered, perhaps a little over thirty, with irreverently black hair that today was tied back au naturel without even a trace of powder. It was the Duke of Winston, shimmering in a dark yellow coat embroidered with black-and-green vines and trimmed at the seams with silver braid.

      “How selfish Croston is,” he said with a grin, “keeping London’s most fascinating new resident all to himself.”

      A subtle quirk at the corner of his mouth made it clear he assumed the world was a fruit ripe for his picking. Eyes the color of dark coffee lingered just long enough on her breasts to let her know those, in particular, were fruits he would enjoy picking at the first opportunity.

      The look in his eyes suggested an especially lurid method of securing Dunscore. She tasted bile but arched a brow at him, anyway. “Perhaps it is I who is selfish,” she suggested.

      There was a flash of white teeth. “I sincerely hope not.” He reached for her hand and kissed it, apparently indifferent to the hard glint in Captain Warre’s eyes.

      “I should be careful of this one, Winston,” Captain Warre said in an amiable tone that she recognized was completely false. “That is, if you prefer your anatomy intact.”

      Winston barked a laugh. “I do. But you shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Croston. Most rumors have no foundation in fact.”

      “Anytime you’d care to test your swordsmanship with the lovely captain, I would be an eager spectator,” Captain Warre told him.

      “A unique temptation, but my code of ethics would never allow it.” It wasn’t difficult to imagine what his code of ethics would allow, and no doubt many ladies had gladly become test subjects for a wide variety of his skills. “Perhaps, Lady Dunscore, we might strengthen our acquaintance in a more traditional manner one day soon. Tell me, do you share your father’s penchant for racing? I’ve recently acquired a magnificent pair that could use some exercise.”

      “I’m afraid my taste for adventure is limited to the sea, Your Grace.”

      “Then I shall look forward to showing you my yacht.”

      “Do not count on it,” Captain Warre growled, and shoved her into the carriage.

       CHAPTER NINETEEN

      Dear Sirs,

      Observed Lady Dunscore during morning visits. Cat-o’-nine-tails apparently left behind; ladies escaped unscathed. No Englishman pressed into service.

      Yours, etc.,

      Croston

      “HOLY GOD, CROSTON, are you out of your mind?”

      “She’s an intelligent woman.” In a quiet corner of White’s, James kept his voice practically inaudible as he made his pitch to Hollyroot.

      “Forgive me, but that kind of intelligence is a quality I could do without. Old Dunscore was sporting good fun, though. Such a shame.”

      Old Dunscore was a libertine, and everyone knew it. “I think you’ll find that Lady Dunscore has any number of qualities that would make her well suited as a wife,” he said and hoped Hollyroot wouldn’t press him for details.

      “Seems more suited to someone like Ingraham, if you ask me.”

      “Ingraham.” If Ingraham so much as imagined himself marrying her, James would kill him. “Listen here. Lady Dunscore is an agreeable woman.” In a certain sense. “Practical. Well-meaning. She needs someone decent. Sensible.” Someone like Hollyroot, with a harmless demeanor and an estate that could use an infusion of resources. It was the most efficient way. That bill would have almost no chance of advancing if she married.

      It was the logical answer.

      A few swallows of liquor sat cold in his gut, along with the full implications of what he was suggesting if this conversation was successful. Hollyroot touching her. Bedding her.

      James gripped his glass so hard he felt a twinge in his thumb.

      “Suppose I ought to be flattered,” Hollyroot said, “but this is a devil of a thing to spring on a fellow.” He knocked back a swallow of bourbon and set his glass down, leaning heavily on one forearm propped on the table. “I mean, there’s no denying her beauty—”

      “She’s got more than mere beauty.”

      “Indeed,” Hollyroot agreed grimly. “Rumor has it she’s got a child.”

      Every muscle tensed. “Anne is a sweet girl. Would make an excellent daughter.”

      “Daughter!” Hollyroot shook his head. “All due respect, Croston, but I think the sea’s gone to your head.”

      Christ. “Very well. Forget I said a word about it. And if you breathe a word of this conversation to anyone...”

      “Wouldn’t dream of it. Holy God. Do you think I’d want anyone to suspect, to even imagine— Holy God. I admire the hell out of you, Croston, but you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

      * * *

      “HOLD STILL IF you please, my lady.” A painful tug had Katherine second-guessing her decision to appropriate Clarissa Holliswell’s lady’s maid. The girl had developed methods of torture more suited to a medieval dungeon. But piece by piece, Katherine’s hair was shaping into a deceptively simple coiffure that involved numerous rolls and braids woven through with copper ribbon.

      “A man like that wants his balls removed,” Katherine said derisively over her shoulder to Phil, who sat by the window in Katherine’s dressing room, reading aloud from the papers.

      “I should have warned you about the duke.”

      “With so many men who require warning off, it’s little wonder you overlooked it.”

      Another tug forced Katherine to face the looking glass. “My lady!”

      “‘Adventures in the Mediterranean’?” Phil read aloud. “Insulting. I prefer to think of us as having been engaged in business.”