A Reckless Bargain Part 2

Kit's smiled turned brittle. "Quite so. I speak French and Italian tolerably well, although my German is only adequate. During my years in India I learned to speak fluent Hindi, along with a smattering of Bengali and a bit of Persian."

Lady Elizabeth appeared taken aback. "I . . . see. And your other accomplishments? Do you embroider or paint watercolors?"

"I have always wondered why society insists on measuring a lady by her accomplishments. If playing and singing and painting insipid watercolors are the sum of our potential, then we are dull creatures, indeed."

"I must protest, Mrs. Mallory," said the d.u.c.h.ess airily. "Such refined skills are what separate genteel ladies from women of the lower cla.s.ses."

"One might also claim that the ability to read serves the same purpose." Kit gestured to her book.

"Oho-a palpable hit. Good for you, child," cackled the dowager.

Kit smiled. The lady was indeed picking her battles.

The duke scowled.

The marquess cleared his throat, and Kit would swear that he was trying to hide a grin of amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Do you mean to tell us that you would prefer to be a bluestocking, rather than a proper lady?" Lady Elizabeth twittered.

"I do not understand why the two need be mutually exclusive," Kit responded. "And I have never considered myself as anything but proper."

Her Grace made a dismissive gesture. "I fail to see what use a lady has for the scholarly skills you espouse, Mrs. Mallory."

"Just as I fail to see why intelligence is deemed of lesser value than musical skill. Why may a woman be considered clever or witty, but no more than that? G.o.d, in His infinite wisdom, gave us each certain talents. Some of us were meant to play the piano, just as others were meant to study poetry and philosophy."

The d.u.c.h.ess rose from the divan, her mouth pinched. "Well, if you ask me, all of that sounds rather . . . revolutionary. I declare, Mrs. Mallory, next you'll be telling us that you sympathize with the French! Come, Lizzie. I wish to play, and I will need you to turn the pages for me."

The two women crossed the room to the Broadwood grand, then sat down together on the bench in front of the keyboard and put their heads together in conversation. Pointedly ignoring Kit, the duke turned to the dowager with a question about her plans for the upcoming Season. And the marquess. . . . The marquess detached himself from the mantel, crossed the Aubusson carpet, and sat down on the chair next to Kit.

He leaned toward her, his eyes on the book in her hands. Kit detected a faint hint of his cologne, musk with a trace of citrus, mingled with cheroot smoke and the smell of warm skin. George had always applied Imperial water with a rather heavy hand, claiming that it drove away the mosquitoes, and as a result the scent had never much appealed to her. The marquess's particular combination, however, was completely and utterly masculine. She swallowed hard.

"And which one are you studying now, ma'am-poetry or philosophy?" he inquired.

"Ah . . . poetry, sir," she replied when she found her voice. "By Mr. Hartley Coleridge."

"Coleridge? I do not believe I have heard his work. Would you consent to read some to me?"

His eyes were the color of chocolate, rich and dark. Strange, but never before had she found dark eyes so attractive.

"I would not think you a lover of poetry, my lord," she said, surrept.i.tiously rubbing one damp palm against her skirts.

"You would be surprised at the things I find appealing," he murmured.

His devilish grin made Kit's heart give a strange, sideways leap. She glanced toward the pianoforte; the d.u.c.h.ess had just launched into a spirited rendition of Mozart's "Rondo Alla Turca."

"I do not think it would be polite to ignore Her Grace's performance," she replied a trifle breathlessly.

A pained expression crossed the marquess's face. "I have always thought Caroline's technique to be somewhat . . . ah . . . energetic. She doesn't play the pianoforte so much as bang on it."

Kit bit her lip to stifle a sudden surge of laughter. "I am certain she would not appreciate your rather candid criticism, my lord."

He chuckled. "Then we shall have to keep it a secret, shan't we?"

That throaty laugh sent a s.h.i.+ver of pleasure down Kit's spine. She tried to ignore it. "I have never been one for secrets, sir."

"Oh, you are a cruel creature, Mrs. Mallory. I will be undone, and Caro will have my head!"

"I doubt that very much, for I will not be the one to tell her."

Lord Bainbridge raised a speculative eyebrow. "Will you give me your word on that?"

The corners of her mouth twitched. "You sound as though you do not trust me, Lord Bainbridge."

He extended a hand. "Here-let us shake on the matter. You agree to keep my secrets, and I shall keep yours. Oh, come now, ma'am. My reputation with my cousin is in jeopardy. I must know that you will keep my confidence."

She stared at his hand, at the broad palm and long fingers. "But I have no secrets, sir."

"No secrets?" He gazed back in mock disbelief. "Remarkable. Well, if you ever do, I promise that I shall keep them as close as a miser keeps his purse."

The teasing twinkle in his dark eyes proved too much; she smiled and took his hand. "Done."

His fingers closed over hers. The sensation of his warm, calloused skin around hers robbed her of breath. Effervescent fire raced through her veins. Her skin tingled. G.o.d in heaven-what was the matter with her?

The marquess held her hand for several heartbeats and showed no sign of wanting to release it. Then he turned her hand over, and his thumb caressed her palm.

Kit pulled her hand away. "You are too forward, sir."

"I am, aren't I?" Again, the roguish smile. "I have been told that it is one of my most endearing qualities."

Kit's smile dwindled as her conscience p.r.i.c.ked her. The marquess was flirting with her, and making a concentrated effort to do so. Oh, the banter between them seemed natural enough, but he a.s.sumed a familiarity with her that set off warning bells in her head.

"Not to me, my lord," she reproached him. "If this is some sort of lark . . ."

Bainbridge smothered a sigh. This might be more difficult than he had antic.i.p.ated. She was a cautious creature; his overt physical lures had not produced the results for which he'd hoped. This was the first widow he'd ever encountered who had not been eager for his touch. Time to adjust his strategy.

"Forgive me," he said with all the contrition at his command. "I did not mean to offend you. If I agree to behave myself, would you still consent to read aloud?"

"Behave yourself?" she asked archly. "Pray excuse my blunt speech, my lord, but I am beginning to doubt if you are interested in poetry at all."

Careful.

He shrugged and spread his hands. "Ah. . . . You have found me out, Mrs. Mallory. I do have an ulterior motive."

Her green eyes narrowed. "And what would that be?"

Bainbridge shot a quick glance in the duke's direction. "My family, unfortunately, possesses much of the arrogance that often accompanies great rank," he murmured. "Truth be told, I think Wexcombe was born looking down that patrician nose of his."

She ducked her head, but not before Bainbridge spied her grin of amus.e.m.e.nt. "He is a duke, after all. I suppose he is ent.i.tled to a certain amount of pride."

"Ent.i.tled or not, I am rather ashamed of the way they have treated you this evening. I simply hoped to put you at ease and prove that not all of us have forgotten how to be civil."

"Oh," she replied, her fingers laced in her lap. Clearly, she had not expected him to say that. "And why have you taken this upon yourself, my lord? You do not share their estimate of my character?"

"The duke may be my cousin," he said with a lopsided grin, "but he does not make up my mind for me. My Great-Aunt Josephine-the dowager d.u.c.h.ess-obviously holds you in great regard."

"Thank you." The tense set of her shoulders eased. "Might I ask you one other question?"

"As long as it does not involve poetry or philosophy," he chuckled, "for I was an indifferent student at best."

This time she responded to his jest with a genuine smile. "No, it involves neither. I merely wished to know you why you were staring at me."

"Was I staring?" he asked, feigning innocence. He had not put her off her guard, after all. Blast.

"You were," she countered. "And I cannot imagine why."

"Can you not?" Bainbridge willed her to meet his gaze, but she did not oblige him. He had to content himself with the study of her profile. "Surely you realize that you are a very attractive woman, Mrs. Mallory."

She blushed a vivid pink, and he spied the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat, in the soft hollow barely visible above the collar of her dark blue gown. He had told her the truth; she was attractive, in a very out-of-the-ordinary sort of way, and would be even more so if she wore more flattering colors.

No English rose, this woman. Her thick hair, sc.r.a.ped into a ruthlessly tight bun at the back of her head, gleamed a rich tawny gold in the candlelight. A few cinnamon-colored freckles dusted the bridge of her nose and the high-arched planes of her cheekbones. Her jaw was too square and determined for his taste, but her rosy mouth would tempt even a monk to madness. He might actually enjoy this.

"I think, my lord, that it might be more prudent to limit our discussion to poetry." Blus.h.i.+ng, her eyes downcast, Mrs. Mallory ran a finger down the cover of the slender volume.

His lips quirked. "Indeed. For, despite my best intentions, I am still a scoundrel."

The d.u.c.h.ess finished her performance with a flourish and a final chord, which was greeted with polite applause. She lanced a triumphant smile in Mrs. Mallory's direction, then started to select another piece from her sheaf of music. Bainbridge gripped the arm of his chair. So much for subtlety! If Caro continued in this provoking manner, the dowager d.u.c.h.ess would demand to know the reason for their rudeness. And she would not like the answer.

But the dowager had paid no attention; she stifled yawn. "If everyone will excuse me, I will take this opportunity to retire. Good evening."

"Good evening, my lord." Mrs. Mallory rose from her chair in one graceful movement.

Bainbridge climbed to his feet. "You're not retiring as well, are you?" he protested. "It is early yet."

"I think it best," she murmured. Then, to the dowager, she declared, "I will accompany you upstairs, Your Grace. I find I am rather fatigued from our journey and also wish to retire."

The dowager nodded. "Come then, child, and let me lean on you. The evening chill makes my joints ache."

The duke sprang to a.s.sist her. "Let me help you, Grandmama."

"Nonsense," snorted the dowager as she levered herself from her seat. "Kit is perfectly capable of a.s.sisting me." The elderly woman held out her arm.

Mrs. Mallory dipped a curtsy to the room, then went to the dowager and allowed the older lady to lean on her as they proceeded into the hall.

"And to think we have to spend a full week in the company of that outrageous creature," huffed the d.u.c.h.ess from the pianoforte. " 'Tis monstrous intolerable. And did you see that . . . that Hindu creature she brought with her? I tell you, Wexcombe, I do not want that heathen under my roof for any longer than is absolutely necessary."

"Rest a.s.sured, Caroline: we shall deal with Mrs. Mallory," the duke grumbled. "But in the meantime, you must restrain your displays of temper. Grandmama will suspect something is amiss if you are constantly baiting her guest."

"If you say so, my dear. But after tonight you cannot expect me to tip over the b.u.t.ter boat on her behalf," the d.u.c.h.ess replied, wrinkling her retrousse nose.

"You will be polite," Wexcombe insisted. "We must not lower ourselves to her level."

"Very well. If I must," Her Grace muttered, then turned to the keyboard and attacked the opening measures of a Bach prelude.

The marquess ambled back to the mantel and retrieved his gla.s.s of sherry.

"Well?" His Grace queried. "How did you fare?"

"I thought I made some progress," the marquess replied, "but this widow is quite a slyboots. I'm not exactly sure what she's about. It may take some time to find out."

"We have only a week," the duke said with an exasperated sigh. "After that, we might never be able to pry her loose. Did you see how Grandmama has already come to depend upon her? d.a.m.nation-it curls my liver."

"Patience," counseled the marquess. "I will pierce her defenses soon enough. You may depend upon it."

"Are you so certain you can succeed?"

"Yes," Bainbridge murmured into his gla.s.s. "Just leave everything to me."

"So, what do you think of my family, child?" asked the dowager as they slowly ascended the sweeping marble staircase.

Kit pulled a face. What could she say that was not insulting? "I do not think they approve of me very much, ma'am."

"Do you require their approval?"

"No. You know I do not. "

The dowager chuckled. "Good. I thought as much. I tend to pay no attention to their hoity-toity ways. That, or I am so used to it after all these years."

"I wonder that you are able to tolerate it at all, Your Grace."

"Tolerate what? My dear girl, tonight they were on their best behavior," the dowager chortled.

Despite her best efforts, Kit could not restrain her sudden fit of giggles.

"I must say you held your own well enough against those fribbles," the elderly woman continued. "And speaking of which-what is your opinion of my great-nephew, Lord Bainbridge?"

Kit avoided the dowager's forthright stare. "Why do you ask, Your Grace?"

"Well, the two of you seemed to be having quite a coze just now."

"We . . . we were discussing poetry," Kit replied, hoping the shadows in the hallway would prevent the dowager from noticing the wave of embarra.s.sed color that swept her face from jaw to hairline.

"Poetry?" Surprise tinged the dowager's tone. "I would never have thought a man like that would claim an interest in poetry. Racing and gambling, yes, but never poetry."

"A man like what?"