A Gentleman Says "I Do" (2 page)

Clearing his throat and his thoughts, Iverson said, “In that case, Miss Crisp, I would like to speak with your father.”

“My father is not here.”

“Yes, your maid told me he was gone,” he muttered under his breath and rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. “And as I told her, I’ll wait for him to return.”

She gave him an understanding smile. “First, Mrs. Wardyworth is my housekeeper, not my maid. And second, my father has been gone almost a week. If you plan to stay until Papa returns, you will have to take up residence, and I’m afraid I can’t allow that, because it would shred my reputation.”

“On that point I will agree with you.” Iverson took in a deep breath. “So tell me, when is he expected back?”

“Sir, I can’t possibly tell you what I don’t know.”

“And if you don’t know,” Iverson echoed, “then how can you be certain he won’t return tonight?”

“I’m not.” She looked thoughtful for a moment before adding, “There are times when my father simply packs his trunks and follows his dreams and his muse. It often keeps him away for days at a time, but whatever road he takes, it eventually leads him back home. Perhaps you could check again in a few days to see if he has returned.”

That gathering storm of anger rose in him again. Iverson wanted to see her father now and put a death scare in him so he wouldn’t have any desire to print more of that sensational, obnoxious, and completely false drivel about his family.

“No, no, Miss Crisp.” Iverson shook his head impatiently. “I’m afraid that answer is not good enough.”

She sighed softly, folded her hands together in front of her and pleasantly said, “I don’t know where he is, so I don’t know what more I can do for you.”

A wave of sweet anticipation swept over Iverson, and his lower body hardened. Iverson knew exactly what she could do for him. He had an intense desire to pull her into his arms, press her soft breasts against his chest, and kiss her delectable lips. Impulsively, he took a step toward her with that in mind, but the reality of what he was about to do raced through him like a wild fire through dry brush, and he stopped just as he went to reach for her.

What was he thinking?

Kissing her would be madness.

Iverson was treading on unfamiliar ground here. He’d never been so enchanted by such a strong and determined young lady. She was the daughter of the devilish man he came to turn into mincemeat. The last thing he needed to do was kiss her inviting lips. Iverson had done some rash things in his lifetime, but thankfully, someone was watching over him just now and stopped him from creating even more scandal. It was enough of a thorn in his side that he found her immensely attractive.

Emptying his mind of wayward thoughts, he said, “There is a lot you could do for me, Miss Crisp.” He stopped and cleared his throat and his thoughts again. “But I’ll not mention what that is, because even though I’m not always a perfect gentleman, as you no doubt have noticed, I’m the last person to want to take the shine off your pristine reputation.”

Another knowing smile played on her lips. “I’m sure you have done plenty of that to innocent young ladies in your time.”

He started to let her remark go unanswered and not say more on the subject but realized he couldn’t let her have the last word. The temptation to best her was just too thrilling. Besides, there was a reason he was the aggressive twin in the Brentwood’s Sea Coast Ship Building Company, and his brother, Matson, always the peacemaker. They had set up their business that way years ago, and it had served them well, playing off each other as the good brother and the bad brother.

Some habits were just too damn hard to break.

“To a number of ladies, I’ll admit, but to none who weren’t willing.”

“And no doubt you still have a few of them waiting in line for a chance to be the one who conquers the heart of the Rake of Baltimore.”

She
won’t give up.

“Actually, yes, I do. And coming from you, Miss Crisp, I’ll take that comment as a compliment that you even know that much about me.”

“As I said before, it would be hard not to have heard or read about you and your two brothers.”

“Yes, but for now, let’s get the subject back to your father. Surely, at the very least, you know if he’s in London.”

“My father never tells me where he is going.”

A smile fluttered the corners of her mouth again. He was amusing her, and rather than it irritating the hell out of him as it should, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, he enjoyed it. Being tall and broad in the shoulders, his size alone intimidated most people, but it was clear Miss Crisp didn’t have an ounce of fear in her. She was strong, seductive, and every ounce his equal. Iverson didn’t know how a man who could spew such garbage from his fingertips could have spawned a daughter as lovely and captivating as Miss Crisp.

“Sir Phillip’s daily poetry column still continues to appear in
The
Daily
Herald
each morning. His… story, if anyone can call it that,
A
Tale
of
Three
Gentlemen
, just came out in today’s newsprint, so he has to be nearby.”

“Your guess is as good as mine on that. However, I will tell you that the daily poetry is often sent in weeks in advance, and the piece you referenced was turned in several days ago.”

“So you have read it?”

She hesitated, and he wondered why. It was an easy yes or no answer.

“It doesn’t change the fact I don’t know where my father is or that he has no control over when his writings are published. The scheduling of his printed work is always at the pleasure of the publisher.”

Iverson folded his arms across his chest in a nonchalant manner before saying, “Perhaps your father ran off to Scotland like Keats did when
The
Examiner
vilified him a year or two ago.”

Miss Crisp tilted her head back defiantly. “My father’s work is praised and respected by his peers, and he has never been vilified by his critics.”

“No? Then maybe he’s absent because one of his colleagues slandered him. Keats was certainly upset when Lord Byron referred to an article about him and his being ‘snuffed out’ as a poet.”

He watched anger fly across her face. Her back bowed with indignation, and he thought he’d finally found her breaking point, but almost just as quickly, he watched in awe as her lovely, calm countenance returned quietly and without her fury erupting. Somehow she had managed to compose herself and not express her outrage over his damning words. Iverson could take a lesson or two from her on how to do that.

“You know your poets, Mr. Brentwood. I’m duly impressed by your knowledge.”

“Compliments of my mother.” Iverson smiled as he fondly remembered his mama and the many winter nights she sat her sons before the roaring fire and placed a book in their hands. “She was a firm believer in being well read and saw to it that her sons were, too. She was always quoting someone. She didn’t care if it was Shakespeare, Lord Byron, or the Bible, and poetry was always her favorite reading.”

“She’s to be commended on your education in the literary arts.”

“Yes, she is,” he said softly, feeling a sudden sense of grief. “I didn’t see her often in the last few years of her life, but she was a sweet, beautiful woman. She doesn’t deserve to be characterized in print as a
fallen
woman
for a fleeting fling of passion that happened almost thirty years ago.”

Compassion quickly filled her eyes, and she took a swift step toward him. “Mr. Brentwood, I want you to know that my—”

Miss Crisp paused and stepped back when, at the rattle of cups and saucers, Iverson glanced down the corridor. The tallest woman he had ever seen was coming toward them, carrying a tray she held balanced in one hand and holding a cane to help her walk with the other. She was gangly, with slightly hunched shoulders. Her large, bulging eyes stared directly at him, and she wore a wide, giddy grin.

“Mrs. Wardyworth was right, missy,” the woman said as she approached. “I see you do have a gentleman caller, but by the dead saints, she didn’t tell me what a handsome, tip-top man he is.”

“No, Nancy,” Miss Crisp said too quickly, her gaze glancing from Iverson to the servant. “You must have misunderstood her. The gentleman is here to see Papa, not me.”

“Nonsense, missy,” she said, stopping in front of Miss Crisp and leaning heavily on the cane. “You know that can’t be true. Your papa’s not here.”

“Yes, that’s just what I was telling Mr. Brentwood. Papa is not here.”

Nancy continued to smile at Iverson and look directly into his eyes as if she were mesmerized by him. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the woman was infatuated with him.

She held the tray perfectly steady as she leaned against the cane. “Oh, don’t mind that, missy. It’s perfectly fine for him to use your father as an excuse to come see you. That’s what a true gentleman who wants to court you would do.”

Momentarily flustered, Miss Crisp shook her head and said, “Here, Nancy, let me take that tray from you. It’s heavy.” She turned to Iverson and said, “May I offer you a cup of tea before you go on your way, Mr. Brentwood?”

The tightness in her voice and stern set to her full lips let him know the offer was made merely out of politeness, and she didn’t want or expect him to accept. It was on the tip of his tongue to be chivalrous, oblige her, and decline, but unlike his twin brother, he had never been known for always doing the right thing.

Iverson wasn’t quite ready to leave Miss Crisp. It wasn’t something he could revel in, of course, but he was intrigued by Sir Phillip’s daughter. With her, he believed he’d met his match. He wanted to know more about this lady who stood up for her father with such vigor, allowed her servants more latitude than would be accepted by anyone else of means, and had the audacity to tell him to his face his name had been dragged through every respectable home and snickered about in every tavern in London.

He was more than happy to spend a few more minutes in her company. So for now, he would put aside what he wanted to say to her father, and even though he didn’t care a fig for the taste of tea, he would take advantage of her “slip of the tongue” and accept her invitation.

Iverson gave her what he hoped was his most charming smile and said, “Yes, thank you, Miss Crisp. I believe I would like a cup before I go.”

Her mouth rounded in surprise. He relaxed. At last, for the first time since he knocked on the door, he felt he had the upper hand, and it felt damn good.

“Allow me to take that tray from you,” he said, using some of the same words she had spoken to the servant. “It’s heavy.”

She bristled perceptibly and sucked in a long breath. He took hold of the tray, but she didn’t release it.

“No, I can’t allow you to do that,” she said, doing her best to pull the tray from his grasp.

“Of course you can,” he said. “I insist.”

The cups rattled in their saucers as the tray shifted between them. Iverson wouldn’t let go and neither would she. He could see she was more than mildly miffed at him for accepting, and was searching her mind, trying to find a polite way to uninvite him. Iverson sensed vulnerability in her. For a moment, that rare glimpse softened him, and he thought about letting go, but only briefly.

Iverson admired her show of determination, when she finally accepted defeat genially and let go of the tray.

She stepped back, and with a graceful lift to her shoulders and chin, politely said, “Very well. In that case, follow me.”

“Should I go with you, missy?” the affable servant asked while keeping her smiling gaze locked on Iverson.

“That won’t be necessary, Nancy. Don’t worry, Mr. Brentwood won’t be staying long at all.”

Iverson followed Miss Crisp down the corridor and into a spacious drawing room. She quickly removed scattered pages of newsprint from an oval pedestal table that stood between a gold-colored, brocade-covered settee and two large, tufted-back armchairs.

He glanced around as she handled her task. It wasn’t the most fashionably decorated drawing room he’d seen in London but certainly bigger than most. There was a low-burning fire in the fireplace, and he smiled to himself, thinking it wasn’t nearly hot enough to take the chill off Miss Crisp’s disposition.

A lamp had been lit on the desk portion of a finely polished mahogany secretary. It, too, was littered with newsprint, papers, ink jars, and quills. Over the fireplace hung a gilt-framed, large piece of aged parchment that had something written on it. The ends of the paper were rolled like a scroll, and the writing was elaborately styled with swirls, sweeps, and curly lettering throughout. Iverson harrumphed to himself. No doubt it was some long and well-received poetry written by the master of the house. He could see the man displaying his work in such a boastful manner in his own home.

Obviously, Sir Phillip was better off in his pockets than most poets. His house was larger than many of the homes in Mayfair, so it had to cost him a fortune to keep it and all the servants required to maintain it superbly.

Iverson placed the tray on the cleared table and looked at Miss Crisp. She motioned for him to take a chair.

“After you,” he said.

She sat on the settee, not letting her back touch the plush cushion behind her, and began pouring the tea. Iverson leaned back in the upholstered chair and made himself comfortable. He watched her delicate hands as they held the china pot. Her fingers were slim and her nails neatly trimmed. Suddenly he imagined her hands gently gliding across his bare shoulders and down his naked chest. He had a sudden urge to lift her fingers to his lips and tenderly kiss each one.

When she extended the cup to him, her gaze met his and held. He wondered if she had any idea where his thoughts had wandered. Iverson knew when a woman was aware of him, not only as a man but also as an object of her desire. And Miss Crisp had that look. He had never minded it, and certainly not with this lady. He took the tea and was certain she saw in his eyes he wanted something far different from her than tea.