Leslie Lafoy (22 page)

“I’m tired of Haywood being my only dinner companion,” he said, reaching up to place his hands around her waist. As he lifted her down and settled her feet into the shells on the drive he added, “Either you join us for the evening meal or we’ll join you in the schoolroom. Or the workroom. Or wherever you think to hide from me tonight.”

She considered him, her hands falling from his shoulders to her sides. Slowly she arched a brow. “The workroom. And you’re welcome as long as you either assist or stay out of the way.”

Then she neatly sidestepped from between him and the horse and turned away. Damn. That hadn’t gone as he’d thought it would.

“Oh,” she said, pausing and looking back. “Formal attire isn’t required.” Her eyes sparkled and her smile took on a stunningly delightful wicked edge just before she walked away, adding, “What you’re wearing now would be just fine.”

He didn’t have to look down to know what amused her. Riding breeches never left a damn thing to illusion and his had become uncomfortably tight in the last few minutes. Drawing down the reins, he led his horse toward the stable hoping to hell he could walk off the evidence of his frustration before Haywood finished trying to seduce
Caroline’s maid and trotted up to share the details of the successful effort with him. God, there were times when he really hated his life.

OF COURSE, HE HAD TO ADMIT AS HE SWIVELED ON THE
stool to move his legs out of a maid’s way, his life would be a lot better if he’d quit making stupid decisions. The one to back up his dinner threat with action wasn’t turning out to be one of his better ones. He didn’t know a damn thing about drapery construction and the process of sewing looked only slightly less tedious than it did masochistic. The combination of the two realities meant that he was of no use to anyone in terms of assistance—and didn’t want to be.

Staying out of the way, though . . . Well, he and Haywood were doing their best. The workroom was a sizable one, but with a huge central table having been erected in the center of it and the fifteen, maybe twenty women—it was impossible to get an accurate count—dashing around, it wasn’t big enough to be truly out of their way for any longer than a few minutes at a time.

He and Haywood were, however, clearly out of the collective female mind. For the most part. Until a piece of fabric required toting or opening for an examination of some sort and then the square meter of floor space he and Haywood had staked as their own was claimed with a sharp look and not-so-softly cleared throat.

Haywood leaned close. “Have you ever seen anything like this?” he asked quietly.

“No. You?”

“I’m not sure my mother even knows how to sew clothing, much less drapes. My sisters . . .
pffft
.” He shook his
head. “But even if they did know how to do it, it would never occur to any of them to actually work
with
the servants.”

Drayton smiled and watched as Caroline pinned a sheet of vellum to the blue damask laid out on the table. “She is interesting, isn’t she?”

“Well, if you’re hoping to find a wife like her, you’re going to be looking a long, long time.”

“Maybe I’ll save myself the time and effort and marry
her
.”

Haywood snorted softly. “You might want to think on that a bit. I mean, once she has the house redecorated . . . ”

Drayton looked at him sidelong. “Are you really that shallow?”

“I just think a trip to the altar should be undertaken only at gunpoint.”

Shaking his head, he went back to watching Caroline work. “Your parents must have a horrible marriage to have twisted you so badly.”

“Actually, they have a very good marriage,” Haywood countered, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and resume his survey of female forms. “Never a ripple of discord and all that. Mother goes her way, Father goes his, and from time to time they meet to ask each other if they happen to remember the name of the last child, the one who was in the artillery corps last year.”

“They remember your name,” Drayton assured him. “Your mother sends you a gift for your birthday every March. Last year it was book of short stories. And the year before it was a sketching kit. So you don’t draw. It’s the thought that counts.”

Haywood turned his head to meet his gaze. “I was born in August.”

“Oh,” he said, stunned. “I could see how that might make a . . . Damn, Cyril. I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

“
You’re
sorry?” Haywood said, chuckling.

They both leaned back and pulled their legs to the side as two maids stepped to the end of the table and cut along the top edge of the vellum pattern. After they’d finished and gone, and as Caroline and Mrs. Gladder carefully cut down opposite sides of the vellum and others folded the length in their wake, Haywood leaned forward again and asked, “Do you care for Caroline?”

Drayton’s stomach shifted uneasily. “I like her,” he supplied noncommittally. “And as we’ve agreed, she is interesting.”

Haywood nodded and then grinned. “I won’t embarrass you by asking whether you find her physically attractive.”

He considered denying it, but just as quickly decided that there wasn’t any point; Haywood wasn’t blind or stupid. As long as his friend didn’t push the matter any further, being that honest wouldn’t create any problems. “What a good friend and gentleman you are,” he allowed.

“When’s her birthday?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, suspecting that Haywood was going to suggest that he might want to find out so that he got her a present in the right month.

“Does she have a middle name?”

A middle name? Why did Haywood want to know that? He shrugged. “Yes. It’s in the report Geoffrey had made on her. I don’t remember what it is, though.”

“Is she Anglican?” his friend pressed on. “Or maybe one of those Presbyterians?”

“All right,” he said on a sigh. “I give up, Haywood. Why are you asking me all these—”

The main doors to the workroom suddenly swung open, stopping everyone in the room mid-motion, mid-syllable, including Drayton. Winfield stepped across the threshold, snapped to attention and lifted his chin to announce, “Miss Jane Durbin.”

The butler barely had time to step aside before Miss Jane Durbin . . . well,
exploded
into the room. Drayton was vaguely aware that his jaw sagged, but it was beyond him at that moment to do anything about snapping it closed.

Orange hair. Bright orange hair swept up high and wrapped—several times around—by what looked to be at least half a dozen strips of bright green paisley silk, the ends of which fluttered behind her like the tail on a kite as she swept across the threshold and threw open her arms in triumphant arrival. As wild applause erupted, she grinned and dropped into a deep curtsy of appreciation.

“Whoa,” Haywood whispered as her bosom threatened to spill over the lower edge of her neckline. “And thank you, God.”

She’d traveled from London wearing an evening gown? Drayton scrubbed his hands over his face and looked back to the door. Why had he been expecting a . . . a . . .
mouse
?

“Jane!”

“Oh, Caroline! You look gorgeous!”

Well, of course she was gorgeous. She also looked decidedly wholesome and respectable and sensible and sane. She didn’t look at all like Jane Durbin. God, he hoped she didn’t catch something in hugging the woman.

“I’m so glad to see you. I didn’t expect you for another day.”

“I finished everything and simply couldn’t bear to wait another single minute to see you.”

The women chattered on as Haywood leaned close again to ask, “Do you suppose Caroline would give me an introduction?”

Drayton looked over at him, amazed. “Do you suppose not having one would make a difference?” Jesus. Of all men, Haywood should recognize an easy conquest when she sailed into a room. Hell, if
he
did, the woman was all but carrying a placard.

“Let me introduce you to everyone.”

Haywood jabbed his elbow into Drayton’s arm and vaulted to his feet, jerked the hem of his jacket into place, cleared his throat, and struck a ridiculous come-hither pose. Drayton slowly pushed himself to stand and forced himself to smile.

“Lord Ryland and his friend, the Honorable Cyril Haywood,” Caroline said, gesturing to them. Drayton nodded as Haywood bowed so deeply that Drayton wondered if he intended to lick his boots. Jane’s gaze moved slowly up and down Drayton’s body and then slid over to Haywood. She was smiling like a cat full of bird when Caroline took her by the arm, turned her slightly and added, “This is Mrs. Gladder, the housekeeper.”

“A pleasure to have you join us, Miss Durbin,” his housekeeper said, taking the woman’s hands in hers. “There are no words to express our delight with the fabrics you’ve chosen. They’re all beyond our happiest, wildest dreams.”

“I assure you that I enjoyed every moment of choosing them. Caroline’s instructions and drawings were, as always, simply divine and so easy to work from. I knew exactly what she wanted.”

“And this is Dora, my maid,” Caroline went on, turning Jane yet again.

“Let’s slip out of here,” Drayton said, turning toward the door. “I’m not feeling at all well.”

“Oh, but that’s a beautiful woman.”

“Agreed.” He stepped past his reluctant, entranced friend, adding, “But it’ll be a week before she notices anything except fabric. You might as well cool your heels until then with a good bottle of brandy.”

“It might take two,” he countered, sighing and falling in behind him.

Drayton stopped at the door, took the handles of both panels in hand and looked back. “Good night, ladies. Happy sewing.”

Only Caroline acknowledged his departure. She met his gaze, smiled, mouthed, “Good night,” and then turned her attention back to the excited feminine chatter.

Telling himself that he should be grateful for her dedication to the improvement of his property, Drayton closed the doors and headed for the stairs with Haywood on his heels. It wasn’t every man, he reminded himself, whose ward and staff happily worked well into the night so that a house could be ready for guests. He should be grateful and thinking of some way to show his deep appreciation.

And he was grateful and appreciative. But he was resentful, too. As well as a bit insulted. To think how she’d melted into him that afternoon and how very close he’d been to having his hungers satisfied, only to have his company declined for fabric and the sisterhood of scissors and thread . . . The fact that she’d chosen to work on the new drapes rather than have dinner with him and pursue their attraction . . .

Yes, he admitted, as he entered the study and headed for the brandy, he was being a bit obsessive about it, but a
man with a fragile sense of himself would be crushed by the rejection. At least he hadn’t gone that far over the edge. He still had hope. All he needed to do was to get her alone for a few minutes; he could make her forget all about the wonder of new draperies.

“It might take three bottles if you’re going to drink the first one all by yourself.”

He blinked, startled by Haywood’s voice. Damn, he’d forgotten that he wasn’t alone. He handed the freshly poured drink in his hand to the man and reached for another snifter for himself.

Haywood waited until they’d both taken a sip before asking, “So, what’s troubling you, Dray? If it’s my interest in Miss Durbin, I’ll defer. Rank has its privileges, you know.”

Jane Durbin? Not if she were the only woman left on earth. But telling Haywood that would be too close to a judgment on the man’s standards. But confiding the truth wasn’t an option, either. It was one thing to admit to finding Caroline attractive in a purely distant sort of way, entirely another to confess his determination to get her back in his bed.

Not that he’d be horribly unhappy about the ultimate outcome of complete honesty. Being forced to marry Caroline would save him from the indignity and embarrassment of being placed on the marital auction block this coming Season. It would also save him from having to figure out how much money she was worth. Putting too much in her dowry would attract every ne’er-do-well from across the width and breath of the empire. Offering too little for her . . . She was going to be humiliated enough in being inspected without adding the insult of being viewed as a pity purchase. Yes, all things considered,
it would be ever so much easier if they were to marry each other and avoid the whole mess.

“Or are you trying to remember Caroline’s middle name?”

Sometimes Haywood had the most irritatingly smug smile. “No,” he replied. “I’m wondering why all the questions you know I don’t have answers to.”

“Oh, that,” Haywood countered with a dismissive wave of his hand as he dropped down into a leather chair. “Just being a good toady and tossing out some conversational possibilities for you. In case you feel the need to work your way toward the ‘Will you spend all of eternity with me?’ question. You know, soften her up a bit, lull her into thinking that you want to know more about her than whether she prefers long or short stockings.”

Long. Very long
.

“Not that I’m encouraging the notion, you know. Wouldn’t be a particularly forward-thinking move for either one of you.”

“In terms of money,” Drayton clarified, dropping down in the other chair.

“Is there anything else?”

“Enjoyable company?” he posed, feeling boxed in and surly about it.

“Ah,” Haywood countered, lifting his snifter, “but if you marry the right woman you’ll have plenty of money to buy all the enjoyable company you want, whenever you’re in the mood for it.”

The right woman. Meaning, in Haywood’s world, a woman from a good family with incredible wealth and no real interest in her husband’s desires or his activities in satisfying them. From a logical standpoint, it was the perfect sort of arrangement; unlimited money, a respectable
wife, a thriving estate, a legitimate family, and permission, all the way around, to have an affair whenever he wanted. All the things that made a man’s life utterly enviable.

Draining his snifter, Drayton pushed himself to his feet and headed off to refill it, thinking that the world into which he’d so unexpectedly fallen was certainly a far different one than the one into which he’d been born. And that he’d be a damn fool to refuse to play by its rules just because he thought they were hollow. Haywood was right; money could buy you anything, anyone you wanted.