An Extraordinary Flirtation (12 page)

The marquess didn’t think they were talking about foxes. “That would depend on the fox, I suppose,” he replied, a trifle absentmindedly, as he decided that his companion must be wearing stays today, because her habit fit her like a glove. If only he might unwrap the lace from around her throat and press his mouth to the pulse beating sweetly at its base. Then he’d unbutton her jacket and unlace her stays....

Nick shifted in the saddle. Soon
he'd
be drooling on her chest. “Lovely day,” he said.

Cara eyed him. It was nothing of the sort. Nicky looked older in the gloomy light. And not one bit less handsome. So did she, no doubt. Look older, that was, not more handsome. “And your opinion of women owning property?”

Norwood had left her with property, a great deal of it. “Why not?”

“And gardening?”

“Gardens are very nice. I have several myself.”

“Are they orderly?”

“I have no idea.” Nick remembered her fondness for green growing things. “Perhaps you would like to take them in hand.”

It wasn’t the marquess’s gardens that Cara wished to take in hand. She scolded herself. “I’ve been experimenting with hydroponics. What is your opinion of whalebone?”

He grinned at her. “I dislike it of all things.”

Cara could not suppress her dimple. “I was referring to the use of whalebone as fertilizer,” she protested.

Nick longed to kiss that dimple, to fling her silly hat to the breeze; to pull Cara off her horse and onto his and have his wicked way with her in the middle of Hyde Park.
Was
it possible to make love on horseback? Given sufficient ingenuity, he mused, it was probably possible to make love anywhere.

Behind them, Fitz was still pontificating. “I am reminded of a maxim of De Fresnoy’s, which applies as well to the arrangement of colors in dress as in painting. ‘Forbid two hostile colors close to meet, and win with middle tints their union sweet.’“ What Paul Anderley replied was impossible to make out, but it wasn’t uttered in admiring tones.

Cara had set Nicky a harsh catechism. All his answers had been correct, leaving her uncertain whether she was vindicated or dismayed. Time enough to ponder that later. She urged her horse to a quicker gait, so that they might not be overheard. “Zoe went to the theater last night. She was very sorry that you weren’t there.”

Easily, Nick’s horse kept pace with hers. “Were you? Sorry that I wasn’t there?”

Did the man expect her to thank him for attempting to seduce her? Or perhaps that wasn’t the right word, because if Nicky had truly
tried to seduce her, then seduced she would have been. “I am reminded of Great-Great-Great-Great Uncle John, who dropped down choking after eating fruit in the middle of a play at the Theater Royal, and was only revived by a prostitute known as Orange Moll, who thrust her finger down his throat and brought him back to life.”

Nick interpreted this remark to mean that Cara was
uncomfortable seeing him again so soon after he’d done what he did, which wasn’t half of what he’d wished to do. “Is this the same ancestor who appeared naked upon the balcony of Oxford Kate’s tavern in Covent Garden and preached to the crowd gathered below?”

The mare shied at a chipmunk. Cara controlled the horse easily. “It is. He was also responsible for the careers of several actresses, for he was in the habit of seducing a woman by informing her that she was so beautiful and so talented that she should take a career upon the stage. After, of course, he gave her careful instruction on how to play her love scenes.”

“And this reminded you of me?” Nick was startled. He’d never said such a thing to a woman in all his life.

Cara ignored this silly question. Nicky could seduce a woman with a single wicked glance. “John wished to wed an heiress. He discovered that a suitable young woman was on offer for sale in Somerset. Not being foremost in the running—probably not being in the running at all, I suspect, for he didn’t have a good reputation in Society, not that that seems to have slowed his amorous progress one whit—he snatched her by force from her coach at Charing Cross. As result of which, her family being no little bit annoyed by his presumption, he languished in the Tower while the rest of London was visited by the plague.”

“The choice,” droned Fitz, as he and the squire rode up behind them, “of the predominating color will be indicated by the situation, age, form, and complexion of the wearer. Your complexion, sir, would indicate a certain excess of spleen. I would suggest you wear a red jacket so that a comparative fairness might be produced.”

Nick smiled. Fitz had clearly set out to be as annoying as possible, which was very annoying indeed. “Did he marry his heiress, this ancestor of yours?”

Again, Cara urged her horse forward. “He did. Although there was a tricky moment when one of his mistresses draped her undergarments out of his bedroom window. In later years they sat down peaceably to breakfast together, surrounded by their children, his children from his various mistresses, and hers from her various paramours.”

Nick was stricken by the notion of sitting down to breakfast with Cara. “And the point is?”

Cara turned her head to study him. “Never underestimate a Loversall.”

Nick quirked a brow. “I doubt I could.”

Fitz and Paul had fallen some distance behind them. Cara drew her horse to a halt in a copse of trees. “This is serious, Nicky. Zoe informed us over the breakfast cups today that she wants you to be her first
amour.
Because of your vast experience. I assume, though she didn’t say it, that a daughter of Beau Loversall can settle for nothing else. However, she doesn’t wish for you to father her children, because she doesn’t want any children just yet, and by the time she does want them, you will be too old.”

Nicky had been thinking of stealing a quick kiss before they were interrupted. “The devil I’m too old!” he said.

“
I
don’t think you’re too old!” said Cara; the look in Nicky’s eye suggested he might try and persuade her otherwise. “When Zoe abandons you, as she intends to, your heart will be quite shattered, you poor thing.”

The marquess looked sardonic. Doubtful that he would ever be as shattered as when Cara had abandoned him. Or rather, ran away. Fitz’s voice could be heard coming closer. He was now explaining the circumstances of his neck-cloth, which was all the rage; to wit, that the creation had been named by no less than the divine Lady Norwood, for whom he had formed a lasting passion, not that he expected her to return his regard. Still, a gentleman in such a situation wished to rise to the occasion sartorially, so to speak, which was why he decided to drop a hint. “Don’t go getting your hackles up! I mention it for your own good. Fine feathers make fine birds.”

Would Nicky heed her warning? Cara was distracted by the sight of his hands on the reins. Those same hands that had been on her body last night. Although then he hadn’t worn gloves. She wished that his hands were on her now, at this very moment, gloves and all. Not that a person could make love on horseback in Hyde Park. Or could they? Cara wished she might find out.

Nick was charmed by her wistful look. “It seems I’m destined to have an
amour,”
he murmured, at the same moment Paul Anderley was heard to utter, “Curst man-milliner!” Cara looked beleaguered. Nick added, “I’ve told you my terms.”

At any second their tête-á-tête would be interrupted. Cara looked at him reproachfully. “Do I find myself a victim of blackmail?”

Nick lifted her hand to his lips. “You do, indeed.”

Fitz was first into the copse. “By Jove, I believe my honor has been impugned! I should demand satisfaction, don’t you think? After all, m’father did insist on all those fencing lessons. He‘d
wish for me to defend my honor. If I fight a duel, will you second me, Nicky?”

“Mercy!” said Cara, eyes alight with amusement. “Surely not a duel! With wicked sharp swords that slash and cut? My dear baron, you can’t truly wish to spill blood.”

If Nicky wanted this Loversall, Fitz couldn’t blame him. Fitz half wanted her himself. “Oh, but I do!” he said, as Paul Anderley rode up to them.
“
This
person
compared me to a cow turd stuck with daisies! And after I’d been so kind as to point out the various means by which he might improve his own appearance! I think—I
know!
—there is nothing for it but that honor must be satisfied. And do pray call me Fitz."

Fitz was wringing every possible ounce of drama from the moment. Paul longed to throttle him, along with the damned marquess, who looked every bit as entertained as if he were watching a play.

Cara bit back laughter. “Surely you didn’t say such an unkind thing, Squire Anderley. Perhaps the baron misunderstood?"

The baron had misunderstood nothing. Paul had tolerated the mincing jack-a-dandy’s prittle-prattle until he could stomach no more. Not that the popinjay could mince on horseback, but there
was
something suspicious about his sorrel’s gait. Or there had seemed to be, because they’d dawdled along at an old lady’s pace, falling farther and farther behind, until the fribble had touched his heels to the horse’s flanks and left Paul blinking at his dust.

And then he’d ridden into the copse to see Cara flirting—
flirting!
—with that blasted Mannering. “I said it and I meant it! And there’ll be no bloody duel. If you’ve had enough entertainment for this morning, Lady Norwood, I will see you home.”

“Now there’s an interesting point,” mused Fitz. “If one fellow demands honor be satisfied, and the second fellow refuses, does that mean the second fellow is a cad?”

“It means the second fellow is all out of patience!” Paul glowered at Cara, whose hand Lord Mannering still held. “Lady Norwood, if you please."

Cara didn’t please, not with Nicky holding on to her as if he owned her, which she hadn’t realized until Paul pointed out the fact. She snatched her hand away. “I’ll be expecting you,” the marquess murmured, for her ears alone, “at ten o’clock tonight.”

Among the many social festivities favored by the
ton,
musical evenings were much enjoyed, where young ladies of the best families showed off to hopefully good advantage the result of expensive lessons from imported teachers who, even if they couldn’t speak the English language without mangling it, perfectly understood the complexities of forte and adagio. Because this particular evening’s entertainment included not only Handel’s
Water Music
performed on the glass harmonica, but also a pair of Italian opera singers hired for the occasion, in addition to the young ladies whose relatives had made known their severe displeasure should any of the invitees fail to attend, Lady Clement’s rooms were filled. They were not quite so filled as they might have been, however, for Lady Norwood was not present, a circumstance upon which her brother was brooding as a nervous Miss Carruthers recited Mrs. Barbour’s stirring lines, “Still the loud death drums, the thundering from afar....”

Cara was supposed to chaperone Zoe, was she not? She could hardly chaperone anyone from her bedchamber, where once again she’d secluded herself, claiming an aching head. Damned if Beau could see mat his sister had done a single useful thing since she’d returned to town. So here he was, accompanying Ianthe and Zoe to this dull affair, and listening to a whey-faced chit blather on about freedom being prostrate, and fallen blossoms strewn on a foreign strand.

Beau would have much rather been at one of his clubs. Or with one of his own fallen blossoms, although that garden was also in disarray. He had visited one of those lovelies just this afternoon, and matters had been progressing nicely, when the lady was moved to announce that she didn’t think she cared to be one of several anymore, even if it
was
traditional for a male Loversall to keep a stable of sweethearts, at which point both ardor and Beau had fled out the door. First he’d disappointed Lavinia, and now he’d fled from Sidoney. Beau dreaded to think what would happen when he visited Celeste.

Ianthe, at least, was intent on the young performer, perhaps because the girl had mentioned heart witherings. She dabbed a pretty lace handkerchief to the corner of her eye. Zoe was off in another room, escorted there by her young lieutenant and several of his fellow officers, enjoying a glass of punch. Beau wondered if his love life might improve when his daughter was safely settled. Perhaps he should start interviewing prospective candidates for her hand. Separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. Although all he’d seen thus far was chaff. And hopefully, in the interim, none of his own blossoms would spread word of his failure to perform all about the town.

Reference to throbbing bosoms caught his attention. He eyed the young performer critically. Her hands were clasped to her own bosom as if it were thus afflicted. It was a nice bosom, Beau decided. Egypt’s virgins, indeed.

If Ianthe was not similarly affected by mention of bosoms, she was very moved by Miss Carruthers’ stirring delivery, and the fact that the damsel had stumbled over only a few lines; and when London began exulting, thus signifying that the interminable verse was corning finally to an end, she prepared herself to enthusiastically clap.

Fitz also awaited that moment, in the hallway outside the drawing room, which he already knew to be the most elegant of chambers, with pretty blue-and-white foliate-striped wallpaper, rosewood furniture inlaid with lacquered gilded brass, a beautiful plaster ceiling with moldings of musical instruments, large windows, and a fine marble chimneypiece. He cast a last critical glance at his reflection in an exquisitely gilt-framed wall mirror alive with carved moving animals and birds, foliage, and twisting candle brackets; and assured himself again that he looked especially fine tonight in a midnight blue coat and white satin breeches, with frilled linen on his shirtfront, and shiny buckled shoes with daringly square toes. All of this splendor was secondary, however, to his masterfully tied cravat, a variation on the Coup de Grace, which incorporated elements of the Mathematical, with two horizontal dents as in the latter, and two collateral dents as in the former, as well as a Gordian knot, in a lovely shade of cerulean blue, which was complemented by the clocks in his stockings and the stripes in his waistcoat. Where Brummell believed that the severest mortification a gentleman could incur was to attract attention in the street by his appearance, Fitz believed the opposite, and had spent two hours scrubbing himself with a pig-bristle brush, then tweezing his eyebrows and whiskers with the aid of a dentist’s mirror, before beginning the serious business of putting on his clothes.