Something Sinful (7 page)

Eleanor kept her gaze on her brother, though her heart jumped. “He
pretended
disinterest? You’re certain it wasn’t actual disinterest?”

“It could have been, I suppose. You know him much better than I do.”

Eleanor turned back to face her companion and newfound friend. “You don’t need to pretend ignorance to make me feel better. I know Zach’s told you all about the Griffin clan. And I also know you’re rather observant.”

“Well, Zachary’s assessments aren’t always very helpful. The first time I asked him about Shay’s character he said, and I quote, ‘Shay? He’s got bloody numbers running through his head all day and all night, and he likes it that way. He’s mad, in other words.’” Her cheeks reddened. “And excuse my language.”

Eleanor smiled. “No need. I grew up with the lot of them, if you’ll remember.” She watched as Shay’s carriage turned west along the Rotten Row riding path. “Considering that he literally said there was nothing special about Lady Sarah last night,
and
that I saw him dancing with her a night or two before,
and
that today he’s taking her riding in Melbourne’s barouche,
and
that he hates riding in barouches,
and
that he broke an engagement to take Peep to the museum today to be here at all, I would say his disinterest was most definitely feigned.”

“And so what do we do?”

Nell’s smile deepened into a heartfelt grin. “What we do, dear Caroline,” she answered, “is continue to observe. I know it’s not proper for a sister to speak of her brother’s mistresses, but Shay has had a few over the years, and they’ve tended to be…ordinary. Nothing to upend his schedule or take any part of his stupendously large mind away from things that actually interest him.”

Her sister-in-law frowned. “But this Sarah is a marquis’s daughter, and new to London. Making her his mistress could ruin her, couldn’t it? That doesn’t seem like something Shay would—”

“No, it isn’t.” Eleanor chuckled. “This is going to be
very
interesting.” She signaled for Dawson to head the team toward home before the rain could begin. “And we are not going to tell Sebastian anything. Melbourne will want to step in, one way or the other, and for once I’d like to see what happens when he doesn’t meddle.”

“You think he won’t find out?”

“I think if anyone can keep him from doing so, it will be Shay.”

“Oh, dear,” Caroline sighed, her eyes dancing with amusement, “this
is
going to be interesting, isn’t it?”

“I should hope so.”

He blinked, looking in the direction she gestured. “Kensington Palace. The royal family used it as their main residence until about fifty or so years ago.”

“It’s stunning. Who lives there now?”

He smiled. “That depends on the time of year. At the moment it’s the Duchess of Kent and her daughter, Princess Victoria. Would you care for a tour?”

“Heavens, no. I wouldn’t intrude.” She eyed him. “You could do that? You know them?”

Only someone who’d never lived in London would ask that question. “We’re third cousins, or some such thing.” He turned from the familiar sight of the palace to Sarala. He needed to make a move; it was time he wasn’t the only one searching for footing. “Your mother hasn’t seen you yet today, has she?”

Green eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that? Do you think I need her approval to engage in business?”

Covering his smile, Charlemagne reached out and touched her dangling left ear bob with his forefinger. “I was referring to these,” he said, brushing his fingers against her cheek as he withdrew again. Soft as summer.

She covered the jewelry with both hands. “We are not here to discuss my jewelry. What’s wrong with them, anyway?”

“Not a thing. They’re lovely. And they suit you. Amethyst peacocks. I had just assumed that since your mother’s changed your name, she’s attempting to…minimize any appearance of foreign influences about your person.”

“You’re very forward to make that assumption.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

“Very well, no. You’re correct. My mother probably wouldn’t approve of my wearing them. They were a gift from a friend, however.” Sarala drew a breath. “And speaking of gifts, I cannot accept one from you.”

He’d wondered how he would bring up the topic of the ruby necklace. She’d beaten him to it. “Why can’t you accept it?”

“Because whatever it is, we are barely acquainted, and besides, we—”

“‘Whatever it is?’” he interrupted, frowning. Surely she’d been curious enough to at least take a peek. “You didn’t look at it?”

Sarala shifted slightly away from her maid, as if that would prevent the girl from hearing every word of the conversation. “As I was saying, we are business rivals. Would you give a male rival a…whatever this is?” She produced the velvet bag from her reticule.

Charlemagne hesitated, honesty warring with the instinct to maintain a position of strength. “Probably not that particular item, but a token of respect wouldn’t be out of the question, no.”

Her gaze lowered to the bag, then returned to him again. “A token of respect? Is that what it is?”

If it would induce her to keep it, she could call it whatever she liked. “Yes. I merely thought you might appreciate it.”

“So it has nothing to do with our negotiations, then.”

“Not a thing.”

“I see.” She lifted her hand and held the pouch out over the road. “Then I could discard it, and nothing would change.”

“Dis—” He cleared his throat, setting aside the thought that he’d spent two bloody hours picking it out. “Yes, I suppose so. It would be a shame to see it trampled by horses, though, if I may point that out.”

Abruptly she lowered the pouch to her lap and sat forward to glare at him. “How can you give me a gift that’s worth more than the entire shipment of silks, tell me it has nothing to do with our negotiations, and when I threaten to drop it, merely point out that horses might trample it? It’s ridiculous!” She threw it at his chest. “And it’s a bribe of some sort. I won’t accept it.”

His momentary satisfaction over the fact that she
had
opened the pouch twisted into consternation as he reflexively caught the bundle. “Don’t you like it?”

“Of course I like it. But I can’t wear it without someone wondering who gave it to me, and I won’t wear it if you think it obligates me to sell you the silks. Especially not if you think it constitutes payment for them.”

“I actually didn’t think much beyond the fact that it would look well on you,” he answered, inwardly swearing at himself. He’d wanted to know how she would view the gift, if it would flatter her and soften her resistance to his maneuverings, business and personal. He had his answer; she’d looked at it from every angle, just as he had, and obviously she hadn’t been so much as tempted to keep it, whether it was worth twice what the silks were, or not. Damnation. He’d underestimated her. Again. “You said you like it, so keep it.”

“No. Not even if you swear to me that my keeping it won’t alter our business rivalry, or the fact that you, being wealthy enough to purchase a ruby on a whim, must pay me six thousand pounds if you want those silks.”

“What?
Six
thousand pounds? I told you that it wasn’t a bribe.”

“So your intentions are matrimonial?”

He actually had to work not to blush. “And why the devil do you assume that?”

“Because when I tell my parents where it came from, that is exactly what
they’ll
assume. And so will everyone else.”

“No one will know where it came from. I purchased it from a small shop in Greenwich, told the fellow it was for my niece.” He hadn’t completely lost his mind, after all.

“
I
will know where it came from, Lord Charlemagne. I had hoped that we could conduct this negotiation in a professional manner, but obviously you have a different idea. For your information, I have sent out several inquiries regarding the silks, and expect to hear offers as soon as this afternoon.”

“Sarala, I—”

“You may let us out here, my lord.”

For a heartbeat he glared at her. “Tollins, here.”

“Yes, my lord.” The barouche rolled smoothly to a stop.

Charlemagne stood to open the door, then stepped down to help Sarala and her maid to the ground. “I beg your pardon if I’ve offended your sensibilities,” he said stiffly, “and I hope my offer of a gift hasn’t removed me from the competition.”

He hoped he sounded contrite; he meant to. In his defense, he was unused to both apologies and to making excuses. Hell, on the rare occasions he gave women gifts, they generally just said thank you and then fell on him with their clothes off. Obviously Sarala Carlisle wasn’t a typical female.

“Business is business, my lord,” she returned succinctly. “I will still consider a reasonable—and I stress
reasonable
—offer from you. Good day.”

She was
not
going to dismiss him from two private conversations in a row. “Tollins, drive home,” Charlemagne instructed, and strode after her.

“What are you doing?” she blurted as he caught up. “Go away. You’re obviously devious, and we should only meet in very public, very crowded locations.”

“Certainly, if you feel you’re not a match for me otherwise,” he drawled, taking her hand and placing it over his sleeve. “But I’d hardly abandon a female in the middle of London.”

“We are five streets from Carlisle House, my lord. Perhaps we should negotiate by letter, if my being a female distresses you.”

They angled toward the more secluded walking path as a light drizzle began. She seemed to be ignoring it, so he did the same. “Your being a female does not distress me,” he stated. “I’d negotiate with a three-legged goat, if it had my silks.”

“But you wouldn’t buy it a ruby.”

“A goat would only eat it.”

She snorted, then coughed, obviously trying to cover her amusement. “You are now one of several interested parties, my lord. You will have to offer me something that I want. And what I want is a fair price, not rubies.”

“Is it?” he returned. Charlemagne tugged her around to face him, leaned down, and kissed her.

Sarala’s maid swung the parasol at him again, wielding it like a club. “You take your hands off her!” the girl sputtered, dancing just out of his reach.

“My hands are off her. Desist.”

“Jenny, it’s all right,” Sarala broke in, moving past him as though to shelter him from the petite servant’s onslaught.

“It’s not all right, my lady. I’m here to chaperone you, and I can’t have any tomcat who wanders by accosting your virtue.”

Charlemagne frowned. “‘Tomcat’?” he repeated carefully. As if he would go about rutting with every female in the park. Not bloody likely. Hell, he hadn’t had time for a mistress in nearly three months. He didn’t want one now. He wanted Sarala. Shay blinked, trying to focus again and blaming his confusion on being bashed on the head.

Sarala continued forward and took the parasol from her maid’s hand. “Lord Charlemagne isn’t a tomcat, and he wasn’t attempting to assault my virtue, Jenny. He’s losing the negotiation, so he’s attempting either to startle me into making a mistake, or to seduce the silk shipment away from me.” Calmly she faced him, one eyebrow lifted and only the twinkle in her eyes giving away her glee at his being beaten with a parasol. “So which was it, my lord? Startlement or seduction?”

Charlemagne backed away a step. All he needed was for her to begin clobbering him, too. He hadn’t meant to kiss her at all, either time. Her wit, her intelligence, her confidence, the way she had a logical counter for his every approach—she simply drew him. But if she knew or realized how spider-webbed his brain had become, he would never get those silks. “If you were a man,” he improvised, using every ounce of skill to keep his tone light and edged with humor, “I would play cards or billiards with you to test your mettle.”

“Would that be ‘test,’ or ‘taste’?” she queried.

That was when he heard the tremor in her voice. She’d felt it, too—the pull between them. As he realized he hadn’t lost ground, Charlemagne smiled. “I’ll let you come to your own conclusions, Sarala.” He turned on his heel, heading for the closer southern border of the park. “And I shall call on you at noon tomorrow. I’ll bring a picnic luncheon.”

“I’m not available,” she called after him.

Charlemagne didn’t slow. “Yes, you are,” he returned, his smile deepening now that she couldn’t see his face. Being something of an expert, he could say with a fair amount of assurance that that had been one hell of a kiss. And this negotiation was far from over.