A Gentleman Says "I Do" (3 page)

“You looked deep in thought for a moment, Mr. Brentwood.”

Oh, yes, she knew where his mind had been.

“Somewhat,” he admitted and cleared his throat. Wanting to get back to the reason for his presence, Iverson asked, “Where exactly does your father usually go when searching for his muse?”

She smiled. “I said he follows it, not that he searches for it.”

He acknowledged her correction with a nod. “Pardon me. Where does he usually go when he follows it?”

A wistful expression stole over her face. Iverson caught another quick glimpse of vulnerability in her, and for a brief moment, he had a desire to protect her.

“I have no idea, for I’ve never been with him. I stay here and take care of the house and the staff.”

He gave her a genuine smile. “Yes, I would say you definitely take care of the staff. Tell me, why is it that I haven’t seen you at any parties I’ve attended?”

“I have no idea why you haven’t seen me,” she said softly. “I was at several this past winter.”

She shifted her cup and saucer to her other hand and lowered her long, velvety lashes as if she didn’t want him to see her true feelings. For the second time, he had the feeling she was hiding something. Outwardly, she appeared strong and capable, but instinct told him that inside, she was feeling far differently. Something troubled her.

But what?

Again he wondered if she was hiding her father’s whereabouts, but her servants seemed to back up her claim that the man was gone.

And why did the thought of her hiding anything intrigue him so? No doubt because most young ladies he’d been acquainted with in Baltimore, and the ones he’d met since coming to London, enjoyed talking about themselves. It was easy to grow weary of a young lady constantly telling him how adept she was at running a household, how talented she was on the pianoforte, or how she had been praised for her stitchery.

As if feeling a little guilty about her short answer, she added, “I do tend to arrive early at a party and leave early.”

“That must be the reason we’ve never met. I usually arrive late and stay late. So will you be attending parties when the Season starts?”

“Yes, my father will probably insist that I make some of them, but there are so many, it would be impossible to make them all.” She cleared her throat and asked, “Is your tea to your liking, Mr. Brentwood?”

Iverson took the hint that she didn’t want to talk about herself and looked down at the cup he hadn’t touched. There was a small tart of some kind on the side of the saucer. He decided it might make the tea tolerable.

“Quite,” he said and popped the small refreshment into his mouth. It was very tasty.

“Mr. Brentwood, why don’t we put an end to this idle chitchat, and you tell me what it is you want from my father.”

His eyes searched hers before he said, “I don’t think I should do that, Miss Crisp.”

“Why not?”

He grimaced, remembering why he had come over. The anger he had felt for the slander to his mother’s memory. “What I intended to say was for your father’s ears and not yours.”

“But I am here, and he isn’t. I’m somewhat familiar with my father’s business dealings. I may be able to help you.”

Should he tell her the truth? He was tempted.

No.

Whether or not he was a gentleman, she was a lady. He was in her home. He had probably already shocked her enough for one afternoon.

“Please, Mr. Brentwood. I insist you tell me why you seem so desperate to see my father.”

Iverson tensed. Miss Crisp could get his back up faster than anyone else ever had, and that included both his brothers.

“Me? Desperate?”

“You appear that way to me. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite as determined as you to see my father.”

Suddenly he was really tempted to tell her why he was there.

There was a reason he was called the Rake of Baltimore by the city’s social elite. When he first came to London, Iverson was determined to shed his image of the bad twin, but Lord Waldo had taken the rose off that stem a week after Iverson had hit Town. At that point, it appeared there was no hope to change his image or to be seen as refined and even tempered as Matson. Furthermore, Miss Crisp just seemed to be daring him to shock her. What would this beautiful, self-assured young lady do if he told her the truth?

There was only one way to find out.

He set his cup and saucer on the silver tray and leaned toward her. “All right, since you insist. I intend to grab him by the neckcloth and tell him if he writes another word about my mother or my brother, I’ll break his fingers so he won’t be able to write anything for a long, long time.”

Miss Crisp gasped.

Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.

—Joseph Joubert

An ominous shiver stole up her back.

Catalina Crisp stared at the handsome man with blue eyes, trying to decide if she’d heard what she thought she’d heard. And if she had, did he really mean he would do her father bodily harm for writing a parody of the Brentwood twins’ arrival in London a few months ago?

She swallowed hard. Not from fear, or even outrage at his bluntness, but from sudden awareness. She didn’t know why, but it had never occurred to her that her father’s story had cast an unmistakably shameful light on the Brentwood twins’ mother, even though she was never actually mentioned in the story.

No wonder Catalina was now looking into the stony face of a very angry man.

Why hadn’t she thought about what the story of the two handsome gentlemen, looking so much like a man who was not their father, said about their mother? And what would Mr. Brentwood say or do if he knew it was
she
, and not her father, who had written the ending to that story? And more important, what would he do to her father if he knew there were two more installments at
The
Daily
Herald
waiting to be published?

How should she deal with Mr. Iverson Brentwood? What should she say?

Catalina wished she’d been more intuitive about the people behind the story, but at the time, all she could think was that she had to finish the parody and turn it in so Mr. Frederick would pay her father. Ever since they had moved into the larger home three years ago, it seemed there was never enough money to keep up with the mortgage, buy food, pay her father’s ever-increasing staff, and numerous other expenses.

Oh, yes. She was in big trouble.

But she couldn’t worry about herself right now. No one knew she had helped her father complete his writings, and she had to keep it that way. It would ruin her father’s reputation as a poet if it were made known. He would be ridiculed, and no one would publish his work again. It must remain their secret.

When she had first seen Mr. Brentwood glaring at Mrs. Wardyworth, he had appeared hard and menacing, but after she’d gotten a closer look, she knew neither she nor her staff was in jeopardy from him—though she would do well to be wary. He wore the demeanor of a harsh and ruthless man as if it was a matter of honor, but Catalina was a good judge of people. Mr. Iverson Brentwood didn’t raise any fear in her at all. Even knowing he was most likely the man who had given Lord Waldo a black eye a few months ago, she had no worry for herself, but he could very well make good on his threat to do harm to her father.

That she couldn’t allow. He might be a fierce protector of his family, but so was she.

Collecting her thoughts, she reached over and placed her cup and saucer on the tray beside his before looking into his fathomless, icy blue eyes. With a calmness she didn’t know she was capable of, she asked, “Are you trying to frighten me, Mr. Brentwood?”

He looked at her with hot intensity that made an unfamiliar but delicious sensation spiral through her. Her breath grew uncomfortably shallow as sudden heat flared inside her.

“Absolutely not,” he answered her as calmly as she had spoken.

“Then what were you intending by your previous remark?”

His gaze held steadily on hers. “To threaten your father.”

“And you don’t think a comment like that would frighten a gentle-born lady in her own home?”

He smiled and nodded. “Most ladies, I agree, but not you.”

Mr. Brentwood relaxed into the comfort of the armchair, and a sudden gleam shone in his eyes. Catalina’s breath caught in her throat again. He was a devilishly handsome man when he was so at ease. A true gentleman would never be so crass as to say such a thing to a lady, but she didn’t have time to ponder why she wasn’t offended by his remarks.

“I’ve watched you closely, Miss Crisp.”

Oh, yes, she knew how closely he had looked at her. Her skin had tingled responsively more than once when she caught his gaze skimming down her face. It was as if he was caressing her with his eyes. Even now, she knew he found her as attractive as she did him.

He continued. “I’ve not seen a flicker of fear cross your lovely face.”

He was obviously good at reading people, too.

“What have you seen?” she asked, and the moment the words were out of her mouth she wanted to clamp her teeth together tightly and take them back.

Why was she trying to engage this man and discover how he felt about her? She wasn’t a coquettish female trying to gain his attention or his favor. By his own admission, he intended to threaten her father with physical harm. That was all she needed to know. He was not even a man she needed to converse with. She should have asked him to leave her house the moment he made his reasons known to her. No, the moment she saw him in the vestibule and knew this man had touched a place inside her no other man had been near. Instead, she foolishly chose to match wits with him because she found him so deliciously stimulating.

“I can’t say right now, because I think you are hiding something, Miss Crisp, and I can only assume it is the whereabouts of your father.”

Oh, he was good.

She
was
hiding something: the fact that when her father had left without finishing the story he had promised to Mr. Frederick, she had been forced to finish it so he would be paid.

And it wasn’t the first time she’d had to do it.

In the past couple of years, she’d had to complete at least half of her father’s work. Sometimes he could get so enthusiastic about a story or a poem, he would write all day and night, never stop for food, drink, or sleep. And at other times, like with
A
Tale
of
Three
Gentlemen
, he would get bored or lose interest and never make the time to finish it. Half-finished work would not pay their obligations. Sir Phillip Crisp was a good father, a loyal friend, and a compassionate employer, but he had absolutely no head for business matters, deadlines, or duties.

Catalina was the practical one in the family, and someone needed to be. She had taken over managing their business and household affairs when she was only sixteen years of age. Her father had no use for keeping account books balanced or even paying their debts on time. She had tried to explain to him that their expenses were increasing and he needed to write more often. They needed more money coming in each month. She might as well have been talking to a statue in the garden for all the good it did.

Sir Phillip was a dreamer whose head was always in the clouds. For him, life was a lark. She had never seen her father angry or even mildly upset. He would not be hurried or interrupted when he was writing or doing anything else. If a fanciful notion struck him, he would take off on one of his “idle loafings,” as he liked to refer to trips, saying only that he had to follow his muse.

One glance at Mr. Brentwood told her he was a far different man from her blithe father. Clearly, Mr. Brentwood was arrogant, authoritative, and impatient. She couldn’t imagine he would ever shirk a duty. And she was certain she’d never met a man as intense, challenging, or as maddening as he.

Now she wished she hadn’t turned in the other two installments of
A
Tale
of
Three
Gentlemen
to Mr. Frederick. But she had. So the only thing that could be done now was to go to
The
Daily
Herald
and ask the man to give them back to her.

Trying to appear more relaxed, Catalina leaned against the settee and smiled at Mr. Brentwood. “You are not a very good gambler, sir.”

The edges of his eyes narrowed, and he bent toward her again. In a suspicious tone, he asked, “I’ll admit, you have me curious. I’ll take the bait you’ve thrown out and ask the obvious question. Why do you say that?”

“The first thing is because you wear your feelings on your face.”

He gave her an appreciative nod. “It’s true my anger showed when I entered your house. Reading that travesty of a story and then spending a few hours trying to find out where Sir Phillip lived proved extremely frustrating for me today, not to mention my unsatisfactory conversation with Mrs. Wardyworth when I arrived.”

She smiled. “I do believe you had her in a dither when I walked into the room.”

He gave her a relaxed smile as he said, “The feeling was quite mutual, I assure you.”

“Are you always so impatient with servants?”

He took his time answering her. “I’ve never had a reason to be until today.”

Catalina picked up her cup and sipped her tea while she watched him over the rim. Mrs. Wardyworth was difficult at times, but Catalina would never admit that to Mr. Brentwood.

“You gave me one reason why you think I’m not a good gambler,” Mr. Brentwood said. “I’m curious. Do you have another?”

“Yes,” she said and nodded. “You laid all your cards on the table for me to see.”

He gave her a comfortable grin and said, “That’s a low blow to a man who considers himself a fairly good gambler.”

“Well, you know what they say about ‘if the cap fits.’”

A short burst of derisive laughter was his only answer. He was much too sure of himself.

She lifted her eyebrows a little and said, “You do realize now that I know what you want with my father, when he returns I can tell him to avoid you at all costs and save him from your temper.”

“Please do that, Miss Crisp,” Mr. Brentwood said, keeping his gaze on her lips. “That way at least, Sir Phillip won’t be able to say he didn’t have fair warning of my intentions. I will not allow him to slander my family’s good name again for the sake of a few laughs from a sordid story.”

If only Mr. Brentwood knew it wasn’t for laughs or recognition for her father that she finished the story but for the sake of their livelihood. As it was, she constantly received letters demanding payments from her father’s tailor, her aunt’s apothecary, the milliner, and countless others. She lived in fear that one day everyone would know they were always one step away from destitution.

“The name Brentwood was never mentioned in the story,” she felt compelled to say.

“It didn’t have to be,” he said with defensive resolve. “How many sets of adult twins have come to London in the last year and have an older brother who is a viscount?”

“I believe the older brother was an earl in the story.”

“You’re splitting hairs, Miss Crisp,” he said, his tone and demeanor turning less tolerant than before.

“Not in the least,” she added. “Furthermore, there was never anything scandalous mentioned about the mother. In fact, I don’t think she was referenced at all.”

“Now you are straining to swallow a gnat. It was implied. How else could the twins look exactly like another man if the mother hadn’t taken a secret lover in her past?”

Feeling guilty because she knew he had some ground to stand on with his complaint, yet not wanting to admit it, she was no longer able to sit still. Catalina rose and said, “Surely, Mr. Brentwood, you know my father’s story was not meant to be taken that way. If anything, you are being thin-skinned and making a mountain out of a pebble—no, out of a grain of salt. Surely you know it was not his intention to slander your family.”

Mr. Brentwood rose, too, and stepped so close to her she thought she heard his heart beating.

A wrinkle of anger creased his forehead. “No, I don’t know that,” he said.

“It was only a simple story meant to entertain.”

“Yes, to entertain all of London at my family’s expense. And you wonder why I am upset?”

“No one takes seriously what’s printed in the Society section of
The
Daily
Herald
. If anyone wants serious news, they will go to the
Times
or
The
London
Chronicle
.”

He leaned his face in closer to hers and kept his voice low and his tone level as he said, “No, you’re wrong, Miss Crisp. Most everyone who reads that rubbish assumes every word of it is true, and seeing it in print gives legitimacy to the hogwash. What your father wrote revives the gossip that had finally settled down and fuels the scandalmongers to keep it going.”

“I believe you are wrong, and time will prove that to you. In less than a month this story will be all but forgotten.”

“I hope you are right, Miss Crisp, because it amazes me that anyone could actually think Matson and I would approve of a parody that casts a shameful light on our mother. Tell me, Miss Crisp, how would you be feeling right now if some fashion of
A
Tale
of
Three
Gentlemen
had been written about your family?”

“Oh, but my mother wouldn’t—” Catalina caught herself and clamped her mouth shut quickly.

He leaned in so close his nose almost touched hers. “Your mother wouldn’t what, Miss Crisp?”

“Nothing, nothing. I was just… I mean I wasn’t thinking.”

Suddenly her entire body seemed to go still. She couldn’t believe what she had almost said. Surely it went beyond the pale of decency to say her mother never would have taken a lover. She was horrified she had allowed his goading to rile her to that point. She was usually so calm, knowing exactly how to handle the biggest of problems without getting flustered or angry. Mr. Brentwood was right. The parody should never have been written, and she was sorry and upset for her part in seeing it published. She was going to do everything possible to see that the rest of the story never made it to the streets.

He watched her, studied her hard as if he was absorbing every detail of her face, before slowly letting his gaze sweep down her neck to the crest of her breasts rising and falling with each choppy breath. His eyes lifted to hers again, and for a brief moment, she had the distinct feeling his lips were going to touch hers.

He quietly asked, “Does your father know what a strong advocate you are for him?”