Chapter 8

The dinner party had been an excellent idea. A room full of happy couples created the illusion that this was not an event invented solely to find Quinton a wife. It was, of course. His two remaining ladies were in attendance with their mothers and fathers. Andromeda and Tristan had been invited. As had Lady Noble’s friends and their husbands. Out of the guests, Quinton, his two remaining options—Miss Bradford and Lady Susan—Lottie, Mr. Pepperidge, and Lady Noble herself remained unwed. Lady Noble, it could be assumed, intended to remain unwed. Perhaps not. One never knew.

Lottie had not intended to invite Mr. Pepperidge, but something written in Samuel’s Guide had shoved the idea into her head. Comparison is useful, it had said, and competition good.

She’d not known exactly how to interpret that. Was she supposed to put Quinton in competition with another man? Or was she supposed to compare herself to other women? The idea of forcing Quinton to compare her to others and find others lacking did not sit well with Lottie. She didn’t want to put other women to shame, to point out their flaws, and present herself as superior. She too had flaws. Many. She’d much rather hold them up, help them shine. Ladies were a little like the events Lottie loved planning. They could appear unremarkable unless you knew how to make them shine.

Better to have an abundance of wonderful and memorable events to attend. And better to have an abundance of wonderful and memorable ladies at those events. No need for comparison. Competition.

Let the men compete if they wished to. So, she’d invited Pepperidge. Lady Noble had welcomed the last-minute addition to the dinner table, happy to help Lottie in her pursuit of a husband. Only she could have no clue which man Lottie truly wanted. She did feel a bit… guilty, bringing Pepperidge here under false pretenses. Perhaps she should give him one last chance, one last moment to pry her from Quinton’s thorny clutches. Yes, she’d be open to that. A final test. Quinton? Or any other man on God’s green earth.

The assembled guests sat perfectly organized around the long table in the Noble townhouse dining room. Lottie had spent hours thinking of how she would arrange the guests around this table, and so far, her plans had proved perfection. She’d given Lady Noble pride of place at the head of the table so that her son could sit along its extensive edge, a lady on either side of him. And Lottie right in front of him. To Lottie’s right sat Pepperidge, and on her left sat Tristan, beside him Andromeda. Lottie could not claim anything but a superficial acquaintance with the other guests, and while she had purposely placed them around that table according to interest and personality, she let them all now fade into the general din and merriment of the conversation.

A hand brushed her thigh.

She clenched her muscles so she wouldn’t jump and turned to Mr. Pepperidge, the only possible perpetrator of the offending touch. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

He rolled his wine glass between his fingers. “I am. I assume I owe the invitation to you.” He lowered his head. “Many thanks, my lady.”

“‘Tis nothing.” She sipped her wine. “I am good friends of the family. Lady Noble is like a mother to me.”

“You lost your own?”

Everyone knew that. Why must he bring it up? She snapped her glass onto the table and took up her fork, stabbing the perfectly cooked asparagus. “Yes.”

“A tragedy for such a young, vulnerable girl.”

She gritted her teeth. “Yes.”

“Mr. Pepperidge.” Quinton’s voice sounded cold from across the table. “Do you fence?”

Mr. Pepperidge tilted his head to one side. “No, I do not. Why do you ask?”

“You’d make an excellent sparring partner. Your abdomen’s the perfect height to meet the end of my rapier.” His face was both cold and calm.

“Lord Noble,” Lottie chided. “Please reserve conversations of masculine violence for purely masculine venues.” Miss Bradford nearly quivered beside Quinton. She’d not taken but a few bites of any plate set before her, and she seemed particularly compelled by the liquid ruby glitter of her wine glass.

Quinton leaned back in his chair, his gaze heavy on Lottie. “Perhaps Mr. Pepperidge should reserve unwanted conversations for more appropriate times as well.”

“What’s he mean?” Pepperidge glowered.

Lottie tried to breathe through a heart swelling too big for her chest. Had Quinton been protecting her from conversation that might pain her?

Surely not.

Mr. Pepperidge’s hand brushed Lottie’s thigh again. Her gaze flew to that touching point, then back to Quinton, whose previously impassive face had become a scowling knot. His gaze whipped lower. If he could burn a hole through the table, his stare would land right on the spot where Pepperidge’s hand had brushed her thigh. She swallowed. He couldn’t know. Other than the brief roll of her eyes in that direction, she’d given no clue as to what unexpected naughtiness happened beneath the table.

Unwanted naughtiness. Hadn’t she desired this sort of physical flirtation? Yes. She’d specifically tried to find the boldest suitor, the one who would kiss her, touch her, tease her. And now that she had, the man’s touch shivered dread down her spine.

Because that naughty hand did not belong to the man she wanted. A lesson learned: Pleasure, enjoyment, relied rather heavily on the man giving it. Not just any man would do.

She cleared her throat. “Mr. Pepperidge. What do you do to pass the hours of the day?”

“Walk. Constantly. From one end of London to the other.”

“Walk?” Quinton huffed. “All day long? You’ve nothing else to occupy your time?”

“After my father bought land, I stopped working at the bank. I’ve not much to occupy my time these days.” He grinned. A silly smile that would have been contagious had his palm not landed flat against her thigh. And squeezed.

She yelped, hid the sound with a serviette pressed tight against her lips. Pepperidge squeezed again, and she hid her flinch as best she could.

Quinton’s fist hit the top of the table, sending a ripple of clinking china, silver, and glass down its length. The chatter stopped, all heads turned, and Miss Bradford trembled, shrank into herself. Poor girl.

“Miss Bradford?” Lottie said in her gentlest tone, “do you like to walk?”

Slowly, the chatter around the room returned, and even more slowly, the young lady across from Lottie lifted her head.

“I… I do indeed.” She cast a glance at her mother sitting farther down the table on the same side as Lottie. “It is a refreshing change from sitting indoors. And every day provides a new scene to observe.”

“Has Lord Noble accompanied you through Hyde Park yet?”

The girl’s lashes fluttered, and she peeked quickly at Quinton before settling into an intense study of her plate. “No.” So soft, that single word, almost silent.

“Speak up, Mary!” the girl’s mother called out. “No one can hear you.”

Miss Bradford’s trembling doubled. She might shake holes in the floor beneath her chair legs. Lottie grew tired of it. Tired, rather, of all the arrows soaring toward the girl that put terror in her expression.

“I think you have a lovely voice,” Lottie said. “I heard you perfectly.”

The girl’s head swung up sharply, and in her eyes—gratitude.

“Don’t you think so, my lord?” Lottie asked Quinton. She had not planned to help him court this wallflower, but helping the wallflower… well, yes. Lottie rather needed to do that.

“Yes, quite lovely,” Quinton said.

“And you, Mr. Pepperidge.” Lottie sipped from her glass. “Don’t you think our Miss Bradford has the voice of a songbird?”

“I cannot argue with you, Lady Charlotte.” He laughed, a sound rather like a donkey’s bray. “But I’m afraid I must add that no woman’s voice compares to your own.” His hand, still on her thigh, snaked to her knee, cupped it. Did Pepperidge have no understanding of proper location? Did she wish to sip a taste of the benefits of marriage? Yes! But did she wish to do so at a dinner table with a score of other guests? No!

She needed to swat that cursed hand away, but how could she without bringing notice to it? She glanced at Quinton, whose gaze had returned to the table, or rather the spot beneath it he could not see. How did he know? Surely, he did not.

Very slowly, moving only the muscles below her elbow, she pried Mr. Pepperidge’s hand off her leg and flung it away.

He teetered, his eyes widening. His chair teetered, too, popping up onto its two side legs. The angle of the tilting chair threw him shoulder first into Miss Bradford’s mother’s lap on his other side. Mrs. Bradford cried out, shoved him away, and his chair tipped up in the opposite direction, throwing his other shoulder first with a cry into Lottie’s lap.

Lottie shrieked and shoved him away. Or she would have. But the man had become a tangle of vines, chin and arms clinging to her like thorns. She pulled and pried, but still he clung as the chaos rose around him. Chairs screeching, men yelling, women gasping.

“Get off me, you dolt.” Lottie smacked the top of his head with her soup spoon.

And then he released her. Because he could not grasp her while flying through the air, yanked out of her lap and away from the table. She gasped, thankful for the freedom to breathe fully without her breasts brushing against the man’s face. But then she turned, quick as a leaf on the wind to discover her savior.

Behind her, his face a red mask of rage, Quinton held Pepperidge upright. Through gritted teeth, he said, “You’ve clearly had too much to drink, Pepperidge. Walk it off.” He whipped him around and shoved him toward the doorway. “Since you enjoy that activity so much.”

Pepperidge dug his heels into the floor. “Wait, no. I’ve only had a glass or—”

“Two or three,” Quinton provided for him. “I think I’ve counted four.”

A lie, that. Pepperidge had not even finished the one glass before him. But Lottie was glad to see him go, so she folded her hands in her lap and folded her knowledge on her tongue, swallowed it, and watched with everyone else as Quinton manhandled Pepperidge out of the room.

In silence, they all returned to their dinners. Almost. Every gaze seemed to have become riveted on Lady Noble. Who sat like a frightened deer at the head of the table, eyes wide and unblinking, hands hovering just above the dishes.

Oh dear.

Lottie laughed, and the curious gazes of the dinner party guests bounced her way. Excellent. A quick peek at Lady Noble revealed she’d relaxed a bit.

“My!” Lottie cried. “What an amusing bit of dramatics. There’s your entertainment for the evening!”

Everyone laughed, the awkwardness draining away, the clink of cutlery and chuckles replacing it.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Bradford,” Lottie said as she sat. “Lord Noble, as you see, is handling the situation. I’m sure Lady Noble is—”

“Mortified,” Quinton’s mother said from down the table. But she managed a chuckle, then sipped her wine. “Do accept my apologies.”

“Younger sons.” Lottie lifted a shoulder, dropped it. “They are amusing, but one can never quite decide if they are good company or not. Will you have another glass of wine, Mrs. Bradford?” She offered her most polished smile, the one with a bit of warmth beneath it.

And though Mrs. Bradford sniffed, she relaxed. Her shoulders said goodbye to her ears, and the grooves above her brows disappeared. “Yes, thank you. I found the entire scene rather amusing.”

Lottie mirrored the lady’s small smile, then peeked down the table at Lady Noble.

“Thank you,” that lady mouthed, lifting her glass to Lottie before placing it at her lips.

Lottie nodded and tried to relax. Impossible. She’d almost ruined Lady Noble’s evening by inviting Pepperidge. And where had Quinton gone to? And why was Miss Bradford attempting to sink beneath the table?

“Miss Bradford?” Lottie wished she could reach a hand across the table, squeeze her shoulder as she did for her sisters when they felt lost or alone. Lady Susan on the other side of the empty chair across from Lottie seemed hardly to have noticed the ruckus. Miss Bradford shivered, her face pale. “Miss Bradford, would you like another glass of wine?”

“No, she wouldn’t,” the girl’s mother said.

Lottie nodded, pretended she’d comply. And then, with the most minute gesture, more of an eyebrow raise than anything else, she motioned for the footman to fill Quinton’s glass. He did, and once his body blocked the view of the older woman down the table, Lottie whispered, “Her too,” and nodded at Miss Bradford.

Miss Bradford looked up as the footman filled her glass. “Thank you.” A whisper. Then she looked up at Lottie. “Thank you.” After she’d taken a rather indelicate gulp of the wine, she seemed to relax a bit, her shoulders lowering away from her neck and her jaw loosening.

“Are you well?” Lottie asked. “Would you like to escape into the garden for a bit?”

Miss Bradford shook her head. “My mother would not like that. I’m to stay near Lord Noble as much as I can.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Only”—she flicked a glance at her mother, then at the door through which Quinton and Pepperidge had disappeared—“he’s rather intimidating.”

Lottie laughed. “I can see how some would think that. But did you know…” She leaned over the table. “He likes kittens.”

“Does he?” Miss Bradford perked up.

Lottie nodded. “And flowers. And”—she allowed herself a small smile—“butterflies. He’s a big protective bear is what he is.”

“He’s a… well… he has a reputation.” She glanced at her mother, lowered her voice. “With women.”

“Yes, he’s a scoundrel.”

“And that does not terrify you?”

“Not in the least. It does you?”

Miss Bradford nodded. “I’d rather have a fellow like Pepperidge. I like walking, too.”

“Pepperidge might be a scoundrel, too. Under the table. So to speak.”

“I suppose all men are… are beasts.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They are slaves to their baser impulses. And we must become the means through which they give into those impulses.” The poor dear lost every bit of blood in her face at once.

Lottie poured more wine down her throat than she should have. It burned, and she welcomed it. The very next ball where Cora performed a reading of one of her naughty poems, Lottie would find Miss Bradford and lead her into the light. This girl needed more guidance than her mother seemed capable of offering. She needed to know the desires of the body weren’t bad and that pleasure was not the exclusive domain of men.

“Careful, Merriweather. You’ll snap the glass in two.” Quinton sat in the chair across from her, a thick eyebrow raised.

“How is Mr. Pepperidge?” she asked.

“Do you care?”

“Naturally.”

“He’s outside, and he’s not coming back in.”

Lottie tipped her glass to Miss Bradford. “See there, Lord Noble has eradicated the threat. You are safe now.”

Quinton’s brows pulled into a scowl. “Were you scared, Miss… Miss Bradford?” Her name on his lips possessed the tenor of a question, and not for her emotional state. A slight hesitation hovered over Miss Bradford, as if his tongue had not known what syllables to shape.

“A little,” Miss Bradford admitted. “I am fine now.” She took another long pull of her wine.

Quinton looked to Lottie with an expression that begged for explanation, and she offered him a silent one with an arched brow and pursed lips. An expression she hoped he interpreted as she’s scared of you, you dolt.

He must have understood because he slumped into his chair, his expression softer than usual. “Miss Bradford, is there anything I can do to set you at ease?”

She shook her head, sending her curls into a chaotic bounce.

And Quinton… Quinton smiled. Not a smirk, not a sneer, not a reluctant grin. He gave the girl a true smile, and when she caught sight of it, her shaking stopped and something in her expression shifted.

Lottie knew that feeling, that lovely moment well, when you looked at a smiling man and knew you’d never forget the sight.

She’d set out to make him jealous this evening. And she’d visited that green squirming illness on herself instead. The rest of the meal held no flavor as far as her tongue was concerned.

Comparison is necessary and competition good.

Ridiculous. She’d merely proven what she’d already known—Pepperidge could not hold a candle to Quinton, and Quinton did not give a fig for her. Humiliating. And the dinner guests she’d particularly invited had made a scene, been forcibly removed. But—she glanced at Quinton—how had he known what crimes the man’s hand committed beneath the table? How had he guessed? She pushed the asparagus around her plate, then clenched her hands in her lap. Better that than accidentally fall into any more embarrassing predicaments.

She couldn’t give up, though. Competition had not proven the way past Quinton’s defenses, but Samuel’s Guide offered more advice. What else had he advised? Be direct. Seek out unusual locations for a meeting but make them appear entirely unplanned? Act possessive? She almost snorted but covered the impulse with a healthy swallow of wine. How could she act possessive when she did not possess the man one bit?

Not anymore, at least. There had been a time, during childhood and those dusk-colored days just after, before adult concerns had dawned blinding on their worlds, when she’d felt as if they’d belonged to one another. Spirits wandering the woods, friendly antagonists and fierce protectors.

Perhaps she’d owned him then.

A clearing of a voice down the table preceded the scratch of chair legs across the floor. Lady Noble stood. “I had hoped men and women might retire to the drawing room together this evening. Continue conversation there with a bit of brandy. Or madeira.”

Those around the table agreed, and following Lady Noble’s lead, they filed out of the dining room.

In the hallway, Andromeda sidled up to her. “What in heaven’s name happened in there?”

“Pepperidge proved a bit too improper.” Lottie spoke just below a whisper, leaning toward her sister.

“The man cannot handle his drink.”

“He was not drunk.”

“And still, he…”

Lottie nodded. “His handprint might be branded on my leg.”

Andromeda inhaled sharply.

“Shall I mangle him a bit for you?” Tristan cracked his knuckles. He walked directly behind Andromeda and seemed to see with narrowed eyes exactly what he’d do to Pepperidge if Lottie gave permission. “No one would even blink if I did, my being a bastard and all. Bad behavior is practically expected of me.”

“You’re a gem of a gentleman, Tristan, but no. Kind of you to offer, though.” They passed the hallway that led to the front door, and Lottie stopped. “Do you think he’s gone? Or is he sitting outside moping?”

“He’d better be gone, or I’ll mangle him.”

Lottie jumped, and her spine sent sparks of awareness everywhere from fingers and toes to locations not mentionable in polite company. Locations she shouldn’t be feeling in polite company. But then Quinton had never been polite, so perhaps he did not count.

She stared up at him as the rest of the party streamed into the drawing room behind Lady Noble. But for Annie and Tristan, they were alone. She looked to her sister for help. Do not leave me, her gaze pleaded. But her sister dragged her husband into the room dancing with candlelight and conversation, as if to say with not-sorry eyes that Lottie must fight her own battles.

Yes. Lottie could do that. Would do that.

She poked her finger into Quinton’s chest. And almost broke the bone. Rock hard muscle met her gloved fingertip, bending the digit back on itself. She squeaked and shook her hand.

Then wagged it in his face. “Why did you do that to poor Mr. Pepperidge?”

“Poor Mr. Pepperidge? The man taking advantage of you beneath the table?” He crossed his arms over his chest, straining wool and linen as well as Lottie’s ability to concentrate on anything other than muscle. Flexing. What would that bulging bicep feel like beneath her fingertips?

“How’d you know?” she asked, her voice a bit listless, breathless, her attention still riveted on a single muscular point.

“Because I saw his bloody arm moving toward you. And I saw you flinching and scooting farther away from him. I’m no genius, but I recognize an unwanted touch when I see one, especially when so poorly concealed.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen them often enough.”

“I don’t touch women when they don’t want it.” His voice a low growl, the candlelight dancing in his eyes a glow of feral danger.

She swallowed. “I… know. I should not have insinuated otherwise.”

“Why’d you invite that man?”

“Pepperidge? He’s courting me. Was courting me.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Two down. One to go.”

He didn’t know about Erstwhile. She had no suitors now. If she could not win over Quinton, she’d have no one. Nothing. She’d have to start all over again, and her blood ran so sluggish through her tired veins… How could she?

“Are you sure of your suitor?”

“Are you sure of the ladies you’re courting?”

He snorted. “Of course.”

“You’ve terrified the one and bored the other.”

“Terrified? Which one?”

“Miss Bradford.”

His cheeks bloomed red. “The one sitting on my right?”

Her jaw dropped, and she had to pop it back into place with her own fingers. “Quinton Chance, do you not know their names?”

He said nothing, stared into the darkness at the end of the hall with a hand cuffed around the back of his neck between the curls of hair at his nape and the starched white glow of his cravat.

“You don’t. You cad. Miss Bradford, the sweet young woman seated to your right, is scared of you, poor dear. And Lady Susan, who sat on your left, looked more at the mutton than at you. I don’t blame her. It possesses considerably more appeal. The mutton likely knew her name. Is that why you call me Merriweather? Because you cannot remember what else to call me?”

“Don’t worry, Merriweather, I know exactly who you are.”

Who he thought she was—likely no one Lottie cared to be. Shrewish and demanding and foolish.

“Why is Miss Bradford scared of me?” His deep voice sounded small with his face tilted down and away from her.

She ducked her head to peer into it. Tight jaw, whisky eyes darkened, skin drained of blood. She’d upset him, pained him. She sighed and took pity.

“It’s likely, Chance, because you’re so horribly handsome. Some ladies are intimidated by all that”—she waggled her fingers at his face—“masculine beauty.”

The hard line of his lips softened. “But not you, Merriweather.”

She straightened. “Certainly not.”

He straightened, too. “Very well. How do I make her unafraid?”

She wanted to run her fingers down the buttons of his waistcoat, pick at his cravat folds until they were perfect, and brush a rogue curl behind his ear.

She clasped her hands together behind her back. “Make her laugh. Make a funny face like we used to do in the mirrors because your nanny said our faces would stick that way. Show her you are but a silly man.”

He made a face, pulling the tip of his nose all the way up with a finger and puffing his cheeks out.

She laughed, a true sound that felt like champagne bubbles on her lips. Then she pulled a face right back at him, pulling her lips apart by hooking a finger inside each corner and sticking her tongue out.

He hid a rich, rough laugh with his palms, pretending to scrub his face as he swallowed the sound, and sent a quick glance through the open door of the drawing room. “Thank you. Why are you helping me?” When his gaze swung back around to her, it felt like a hammer to the chest.

She could not look away. She did not want to. She’d told him how to put a lady he was courting at ease, and she’d put him at ease. But she felt riled, wild. Because she did not want to send him into that room to court the pretty Miss Bradford. He was hers. That silly little exchange proved it, did it not? How he looked at her with something like desperate hunger… that proved it too.

Perhaps he didn’t have to be foxed to want her.

And perhaps she did not have to be pitiful. She’d not been able to make him jealous, but she could do two things the Guide had advised—be direct, be possessive.

He shook his head and stepped to the side, his intent clear, his wish to escape to the safety of the drawing room settled into his steps. One long stride around her, toward his destination.

She caught his arm, stopped him, popped up on toe, and whispered in his ear, “You do not intimidate me. I do not help you for your sake, but for theirs. No woman deserves to be forgotten so easily.”

He gave a curt nod, tugged his arm, but she did not release him. He could have broken her hold. A mere snap of superior muscle would do it. But he didn’t, letting her hand linger in that slight embrace.

“I may as well let you know,” she said, feeling the foolish words boil up inside her, knowing she shouldn’t, knowing she would. “I don’t want you to marry either of those women. But you mustn’t hurt them, either.”

“Why shouldn’t I marry them?” His voice sounded ragged and raw.

“Because…” The Guide said to be direct. She must follow its guidance, so she swallowed her fear. “I want you to belong to me.”

His body tightened beneath her touch, every muscle, it seemed, shocked full of electricity. One breath could bring her chest against his, her arms around his neck. Still, she held on only to his arm, his bicep bulging.

“You do not intimidate me,” she whispered again, “because I know you. Better than they do. And because I know you better, you are mine. Just a warning.” She knew him well enough to understand the slight parting of his lips as confusion and the tightening of his jaw… fear. She released his arm, but he did not step away. For several breaths, their chests rose and fell at the same time and to the same rhythm, in sync as they’d not been for almost a decade.

And then—a feather touch on the back of her hand, the whisper of his knuckles brushing across hers. The slightest touch. Almost not one. Yet that feather touch burned her, and his gaze dropped to her lips. Her heart waited for the kiss, beating faster at its imminent arrival. He descended a bit lower, and the backs of his knuckles trailed up her forearm, flirted with the skin right above her long, silk glove, flirted with skin where all her nerve endings had become Vauxhall fireworks. She held her breath, ready. After six years, nigh well desperate for—

He straightened, stepped away from her, and left her alone in the hallway.

Damn him. He was hers, and she wanted more than a knuckle graze and an almost kiss. And she tired of being neglected. If the man she angled for could not be felled with stratagems, she’d have to plot a much more direct plan of battle.