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“Everyone knows high-spirited termagants are the only sorts of ladies I fancy.”
You’re making me as nervous as a cat with all of your fussing.
Jane Trumble was, as Bessie had said, no great beauty. She was, however, both kind and clever, and when she talked, as she was doing now, her face lit up with such cheerful animation, it was impossible for anyone to think her plain.
She disliked him intensely. And yet, in six months, she would have to consent to be his wife. Mrs. Margaret Burton-Smythe. Then, he would not only have rights over her fortune, he’d have rights over her body as well.
Maggie leaned back in her seat. As a girl, she’d been energized by arguments. Fueled by raised voices and heated words. Now such things only served to exhaust her. “What a colossal waste of time.”
“Margaret, no one knows the viscount well enough to judge his character. He’s been on the continent for ages. For all you know, he’s a rake and a libertine. A vile seducer. To go to his house alone—and at night, too—you’re practically offering yourself to him on a silver platter!”
Lord St. Clare was a dangerously handsome man who, at first glance, put Maggie in mind of Byron’s Corsair. He had well-formed features characterized by a strong, chiseled jaw, lean cheeks, and firmly molded lips that were inclined to curl into a sneer. His thick golden hair looked as if it had been tousled by a cold north wind. And his skin appeared to have been bronzed by the sun of some exotic land.
Good lord, how could she ever have thought this man was Nicholas Seaton? He couldn’t be, could he? It was impossible. He was too big. Too strong. Too old. Too highborn. Too…everything. And yet…St. Clare’s eyes were the same unique shade of stormy gray as Nicholas Seaton’s, and they held within their depths that peculiar mix of humor, bitterness, and anguish that Nicholas’s had had all those years ago at Beasley Park. And he smelled like Nicholas, too. Not the expensive shaving soap—Nicholas had never had anything half so fine—but the fragrance of horses and leather and that other scent that
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“I told you when we left Florence that the time had come to do your duty. There’s to be no more mucking about, my boy. You’ll find yourself a wife and get yourself an heir. It’s what you owe to the title. It’s what you owe to me.”
Had she heard something about him, perhaps? That he was a rake? An adventurer? He was immeasurably cheered by the thought.
St. Clare failed to suppress a smile. By God, he liked her show of temper. It was a refreshing change from the frailty she’d exhibited when she’d called on him in Grosvenor Square.
My bullet went exactly where I meant it to go. The place where it would hurt him the most.” She gave him a skeptical look. “His shoulder?” “His pride. You know as well as I do that had I allowed him to emerge unscathed it would only have emboldened him. Your Mr. Burton-Smythe needed to be taught a lesson. He needed to be humiliated. I hope he’ll be a much better person now.” Miss Honeywell bristled. “He’s not my Mr. Burton-Smythe.” “I’m very happy to hear it.” “And if you think anything could make him a better person, then you’re very much mistaken.”
“For the last three days, I’ve assumed you were making sport of me.” St. Clare’s brows snapped together. “I wasn’t. Nor would I ever.” “You say that, but—” “Miss Honeywell, if you don’t stop fidgeting with your gloves and look at me, I shall be compelled to take your hand and hold it in mine.” Her eyes shot to his. “You wouldn’t dare.” St. Clare was gratified to see the return of her temper. “Try me.”
“The Honeybee,” he said. “What?” St. Clare asked, distracted. “That’s what Margaret Honeywell was called during her come out.” Mattingly chuckled. “Not at first, mind. When she first arrived, all the gents were calling her the Pocket Venus. You never saw a girl so beautiful. And with such a figure! She drew quite a court around her, too. Then the first chap got stung. And then the second.” Mattingly reflected on this with evident appreciation. “Used to deliver some of the sharpest set-downs you ever heard. Rather indecorous as well. Galloping her horse in Hyde Park. Firing a pistol during a
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Mattingly chuckled again. “Now you… Well, I should have known you’d take an interest. Miss Honeywell fits the pattern card.” “What pattern card?” “Miss Honeywell is your type is what I mean.”
St. Clare was silent for a moment. When he finally responded, his words were quiet ones, inaudible to his friend and quickly lost in the noise of the crowded theater. “Miss Honeywell is the pattern card.”
Perhaps he means to make you one of his flirts? You needn’t look put out by the idea. There are worse ways to spend the season than being chased after by a golden-haired viscount, you know.
Jane’s own smile became rueful. “Besides, it’s a dreadfully depressing story. Lord Mattingly was a dark and dashing Corinthian, and I was then much as I am now. Too tall, too plain, with nothing to recommend me but my brains. And you know how gentlemen feel about ladies with brains.”
His arms tightened reflexively around her. “Margaret—” “Maggie,” she whispered. St. Clare’s breath caught as if he had received a blow. “Maggie,” he repeated. And having said her name, he bent his head and captured her mouth in a kiss so fierce and full of longing that Maggie’s knees weakened beneath her.
