It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers, #2)

by Lisa Kleypas

“A pretty facade isn’t enough to make up for the flaws in her character.” “Which are?” Marcus made a faint scoffing sound, as if Miss Bowman’s faults were too obvious to require enumeration. “She’s manipulative.” “So are you, dear,” Livia murmured. He ignored that. “She’s domineering.” “As are you.” “She’s arrogant.” “Also you,” Livia said brightly. Marcus glowered at her. “I thought we were discussing Miss Bowman’s faults, not mine.” “But you seem to have so much in common,” Livia protested, rather too innocently.

“Was she terribly ravishing in her underclothes?” Livia asked craftily. “Yes,” Marcus said without thinking, and then scowled. “I mean, no. That is, I didn’t look at her long enough to make an assessment of her charms. If she has any.” Livia bit the inside of her lower lip to keep from laughing. “Come, Marcus . . . you are a healthy man of thirty-five—and you didn’t take one tiny peep at Miss Bowman standing there in her drawers?” “I don’t peep, Livia. I either take a good look at something, or I don’t. Peeping is for children or deviants.”

once he had passed judgment on someone, he rarely changed his opinion.

“What was the wish?” Lillian demanded. “You never told me.” Daisy regarded her with a quizzical smile. “Isn’t it obvious, dear? I wished that Annabelle would marry someone who truly loved her.”

Daisy closed her eyes tightly and wrapped her fingers around the metal shard. “I’m wishing very hard,” she whispered. “Are you, Lillian?” “Yes,” Lillian murmured, though she wasn’t precisely hoping for Lord Westcliff to find true love. Her wish was more along the lines of, I hope that Lord Westcliff will meet a woman who will bring him to his knees.

“Spread your feet wider,” Westcliff said, “and distribute your weight evenly. Good. Now bring your hands closer to your body. Since the bat is a few inches too long for you, you’ll have to choke up on it—” “I like holding it at the base.” “It’s too long for you,” he insisted, “which is why you pull your swing just before you hit the ball—” “I like a long bat,” Lillian argued, even as he adjusted her hands on the willow handle. “The longer the better, as a matter of fact.”

She pushed at him a little, her sharp whisper at his ear. “What is the matter with you?” Marcus shook his head helplessly. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, even as he knew what he was about to do. “My God. Sorry—” His mouth clamped over hers, and he began to kiss her as if his life depended on it.

“St. Vincent, if a man has time to bed a woman more than once a week, he clearly doesn’t have enough to do. There are any number of responsibilities that should keep you sufficiently occupied in lieu of . . .” Marcus paused, considering the exact phrase he wanted. “Sexual congress.”

“Hunt, you may as well render your opinion. How often should a man make love to a woman? Is more than once a week a case for unpardonable gluttony?” Hunt threw Marcus a vaguely apologetic glance. “Much as I hesitate to agree with St. Vincent . . .” Marcus scowled as he insisted, “It is a well-known fact that sexual over-indulgence is bad for the health, just as with excessive eating and drinking—” “You’ve just described my perfect evening, Westcliff,” St. Vincent

“Good God, Westcliff . . .” Hunt murmured, a curious smile on his face, “haven’t you ever been in love?” “Of course. Obviously I have found that some women are preferable to others in terms of disposition and physical appearance—” “No, no, no . . . I’m not referring to finding someone who is ‘preferable.’ I mean completely being absorbed by a woman who fills you with desperation, longing, ecstasy . . .” Marcus threw him a disparaging glance. “I haven’t time for that nonsense.” Hunt annoyed him by laughing. “Then love won’t be a factor in the decision of whom you’re going to marry?” “Absolutely not. Marriage is too important an issue to be decided by mercurial emotions.” “Perhaps you’re right,” Hunt agreed easily. A bit too easily, as if he didn’t really believe what he was saying. “A man like you should choose a wife in a logical manner. I will be interested in seeing how you accomplish it.”

“I was right, wasn’t I?” she asked huskily, unable to look at him. “It was a mistake for us to dance.” Westcliff waited so long to reply that she thought he might not. “Yes,” he finally said, the single syllable roughened with some unidentifiable emotion.

“Well . . .” St. Vincent walked slowly with her to the crowd of dancers. “I’m a wicked man who can, on occasion, be just a bit nice. And I’ve been searching for a nice girl who can, on occasion, be just a bit wicked.”

St. Vincent wasn’t behaving at all like the seducers that populated the silver-fork novels Daisy was so fond of. Those villainous characters, with their heavy mustaches and lecherous gazes, were prone to lie about their evil intentions until the revealing moment when they assaulted the virginal heroine and forced themselves upon her. St. Vincent, by contrast, seemed positively determined to warn her away from himself, and she could not quite picture him bestirring himself enough to force a girl to do anything against her will.

“My lord,” she asked softly, “have you ever wanted someone you couldn’t have?” “Not yet. But one can always hope.” She responded with a puzzled smile. “You hope to fall in love someday with someone you can’t have? Why?” “It would be an interesting experience.” “So would falling off a cliff,” she said sardonically. “But I think one would rather learn about it from secondhand knowledge.” Laughing, St. Vincent levered himself off the table and turned to face her. “Perhaps you’re right. We had better return you to the manor, my clever little friend, before your absence becomes too obvious.”

“Are you angry because I started making love to you, or because I didn’t finish?” Lillian licked her dry lips. “I’m angry, you bloody big hypocrite, because you can’t make up your mind about what to do with me.”

“I hope the earl is not equally as stubborn as you,” Daisy commented. “He isn’t,” Lillian assured her. “Although he thinks he is.”