The Bride Wore Pearls (7 page)

A long, expectant moment hung over them. Then, “No, I do not,” she finally said, her voice surprisingly strong. “I occasionally desire you, Rance. You are . . . well, the sort of man who brings out the worst in a woman, I suppose. Or perhaps it’s the best. But no, I do not love you.”

The arrogant devil looked at her as if taken aback.

“Is there anything else, then?” she asked coolly. “Before I go back to Whitehall? I don’t know how many trips I can make before Napier’s patience gives out.”

Rance’s face seemed to flame with heat. But he was, as ever, perfectly shameless.

“Yes,” he finally said. “There is one particular thing.” He went to the small desk near the door and extracted a piece of the club’s stationery. Impatiently, he scratched a name on it and handed it to her.

“John Coldwater.” She flicked an irritated glance up at him.

“Or Jack,” Rance rasped. “Jack Coldwater.”

In an instant, her heart was in her throat. The scene from that awful day came hurtling back. “I know who he is.”

“Or any name in the file that might be loosely connected to a person named Coldwater.”

“And how am I to know that?” she snapped.

“That’s why I was headed over to Ned Quartermaine’s,” Rance replied. “I’m going to hire one of his informant thugs to dig the chap out. Find out where he came from, and who his family is.”

“Why?” Anisha felt her lips thin with disapproval. “I should have thought you’d learnt your lesson on that score.”

Somehow, she resisted the urge to hurl the slip of paper back in his face. She wondered yet again just what he and Coldwater had been doing that fateful day when she and Raju had stumbled upon them together. It had looked very . . .
physical
. And very angry, as if thwarted rage and frustration and yes, even something akin to lust, perhaps, had driven Rance to the edge of madness.

But anger was a complex emotion, and men—well, Anisha could not claim to understand what drove them. And really, Rance’s emotions were his own problem. She had begun to grow weary of worrying about him.

Rance cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “Coldwater is dogging me for a reason, Nish,” he answered. “This is more than the
Chronicle
looking for a story, because I’m old news now. No, this is personal.”

“
Personal
.” Anisha crammed the piece of paper into her pocket. “I’ll tell you what I think, Rance. I think your obsession with Jack Coldwater is
personal
.”

“Do you?” he asked a little snidely.

“Yes,” she snapped. “And very, very unwise.”

For an instant, he hesitated, his jaw hardening ruthlessly. And for a moment Anisha was perfectly certain he meant to kiss her again—and that this time he would not be so gentle. That this time, he would not stop until she begged, and perhaps not even then . . .

The thought sent lust twisting through her again, hot and liquid.

In the end, however, he did not kiss her at all.

“You will pardon me,” he finally managed, his voice tight. “I am wanted elsewhere.”

Then Rance turned on one heel and stalked out the door, leaving her alone in the bookroom.

S
lamming the door shut behind him, Lazonby strode out, blinded by anger and a churning, thwarted lust he’d too long suppressed. By God, he wanted, suddenly, to kiss Anisha Stafford until she shut the hell up and surrendered to him—surrendered what she must surely know by now he wanted.

What he had always wanted.

So blindsided was he by this notion that he bumped squarely into Lord Bessett, who stood just a few paces down the corridor, one shoulder set to the passageway wall, his fingers pinching hard at the bridge of his nose, as if he was holding back some powerful emotion.

“Christ Jesus!” Lazonby uttered, throwing up his arms. “Where did you—?”

Too late he realized Bessett had laid a finger to his lips. “For pity’s sake, Rance,” he managed, his voice choked with either rage or laughter, “get the hinges on that damned door sanded if you mean to keep kissing people you oughtn’t behind it.”

“
You
!” said Lazonby again, hands fisting at his sides. “What the hell are
you
doing here?”

“It appears I might ask you the same thing, old chap,” he managed. “But me—well, I’ve just come by to pull an iron out of the fire. Higgenthorpe said I might catch Nish here.”

“An
iron
out of the fire?”

“Aye,” said Bessett, eyes dancing with mirth, “though frankly, old chap, it looked rather as if you were doing the job for me.”

Lazonby was struck by a wave of pure nausea.

God. Oh, dear God.

He opened his mouth. Unfortunately, the abject apology the situation demanded seemed stuck in his throat and came out as a sort of guttural, choking sound.

But Bessett’s mirth was shifting slowly to exasperation. “You had only to claim your interest in the lady, Rance,” he said, his voice low but chiding. “I asked you, you know, before I left for Brussels. I gave you every opportunity.”

“But I haven’t—I don’t—”

Lazonby paused to swallow hard, clawing through his mind for the right words. The words to undo a thousand small regrets. To salvage his friendship with Bessett and give Anisha the happy life she deserved—with a decent man who possessed the wealth, polish, and character she deserved.

“It was a moment of madness,” he finally snapped. “Just lost my head and forced her to kiss me. I
am
not
interested.”

But this, oddly, did not seem to be what Bessett wished to hear.

“Oh, you’d bloody well better be interested, old boy.” Bessett’s countenance was darkening. “There is a word for a gentleman who toys with a lady’s affections, and the word . . . well, it is not
gentleman
. It is
cad
. And I ought to slap a glove in your face for it, by God.”

Lazonby drew back as if Bessett had, in fact, done so. “I beg your pardon,” he said softly. “Aye, you have every right. After all, Nish is . . . why, she is all but your affianced wife.”

But now the color seemed to be draining from Lord Bessett’s face. The groom-to-be cleared his throat yet said nothing. The painful vision of Nish and Bessett standing before a padre stopped worming around in Lazonby’s head, and a cold sense of dread began to steel over him.

“Geoff . . . ?” He dragged the word out, giving Bessett every chance to interrupt. “That kiss was entirely my fault. Call me out. Pink me good and proper; I won’t so much as flinch. But Anisha is practically your
affianced wife.
She deserves . . . well, someone like
you
.”

The muscles of Bessett’s throat worked up and down. “I did ask Ruthveyn if I might court her, it’s true,” he finally murmured.

“Oh, you did better than that!” Lazonby glowered. “Your mamma’s been squiring her all over town, Geoff, puffed out like a mother hen and laying hints like eggs. People are talking.”

But Bessett just stood there, turning his hat round and round by its brim.

“
So
—?” Lazonby finally prompted.

The hat stilled. The air, in fact, seemed to still. “So things have changed,” Bessett said after a long moment had passed.

Lazonby’s senses leapt to full alert. “What sort of
things—
?”

“Things.” Bessett’s voice was low but strained. “My affections. They are—they have become—otherwise engaged.” Bessett moved as if to push past Lazonby. “Look, just get out of my way, Rance. I came to talk to Lady Anisha. You can go to hell.”

“
Otherwise
engaged?
”

Lazonby seized Bessett’s lapel and yanked him back, an incomprehensible mix of rage and relief exploding inside his head. “What the devil does that—oh, wait!—I see how the wind blows! You practically pledged your troth to Anisha, then went ripping off to Brussels with that black-haired Tuscan wench, and suddenly your head is turned? And
you
have the bollocks to call
me
cad?”

“Miss de Rohan.” Jerking from his grasp, Bessett flung the hat aside. “Her name is Miss de Rohan, which you should well know, having sponsored her here in one of your mad, drunken whims. And she is not a wench. Nor is she Tuscan, precisely. But she
is
a lady—one whom you, Rance, insult at your peril.”

“Peril? I’ll give you peril, you mewling whelp.” Lazonby rolled onto the balls of his feet. “You
dare
to throw God’s gift over as if she’s
nothing
? As if she has no feelings? And for what—? For
Anaïs de Rohan
? That ax-wielding Amazon will never be a fraction of the woman Nish is. Why, I ought to slap a glove in
your
face, you faithless bastard. But since I am not much of a gentleman, perhaps I’ll just knock your teeth down your throat!”

Bessett shoved up one coat sleeve to come at him, but suddenly the air was punctuated by the sound of slow, solitary applause.

On a low curse, Lazonby turned to see Lady Anisha step from the shadows deep in the passageway.

“Oh, bravo!” she said, strolling languidly toward them, still clapping. “
That,
gentlemen, was a most worthy performance.”

“Lady Anisha.” Flushing profusely, Bessett bowed. “I do beg your pardon.”

Lazonby could only wonder, speechless, if there was any way this dreadful day might worsen. But when Anisha finally reached them, her black eyes shooting even blacker fire, and looking so like her demon of a brother it made him shudder, Lazonby began to wonder instead just how fast he could run.

Anisha’s gaze swiveled from Bessett to flick almost disdainfully up and down Lazonby’s length. “I cannot say which one of you pays me the greater insult,” she said musingly. “You, Geoffrey, for assuming I wished to court you and then trying desperately to foist me off on someone else. Or you, Rance, for trying to force Geoff’s hand merely to spare yourself . . . well, whatever it is you wished to spare.”

“But Nish—” they said as one.

“Oh, do hush, the both of you!” Anisha’s temper fairly crackled in the passageway. “Lord Bessett, I am eight-and-twenty years of age, long widowed, financially comfortable, and—if I do say so myself—reasonably lovely. Though my blood isn’t quite what some might wish, I have no doubt that I can find myself a husband
somewhere
—if and when I wish one.”

Bessett had lost the rest of his color. “Why, without a dou—”

“
If
and
when,
” she repeated, cutting him off. “But it occurs to me now, sir, that only a coward approaches a widow’s brother behind her back. Had you any real affection for me, you would have sought me out, declared your intent, and kissed me passionately. Perhaps even invited me to your bed so that you might, shall we say,
demonstrate
precisely what you had to offer?”

Bessett had gone rigid as a beanpole. “Really,
Anisha—
!”

“Good Lord,” Lazonby murmured.

“But you did none of that, did you?” Anisha pressed on. “You let your friendship with my brother override any passion you might have felt for me. And that, sir, is no sort of passion at all.”

“She’s right,” said Lazonby aside. “It
was
badly done.”

“And you!” Anisha whirled on him, eyes rekindling with fury. “You are a bigger coward, even, than Bessett. Bessett is merely passionless—at least where I am concerned. But you, sir—you are gutless.”

“The devil!” Lazonby felt oddly wounded. “I—why, I would walk over hot coals for you, Nish! You know I would.”

“That, sir, is not where I wished you to walk.” Her arms were crossed now, one toe tapping impatiently upon the carpet. “Do you know, Rance, I used to fantasize about inviting
you
to
my
bed. I yearned for it, in fact, fool that I was—even knowing as I do what a single-minded scoundrel you are. But I am now exceedingly glad I never gave in to that idiotic inclination. I daresay you would do nothing but disappoint—just as you have done today.”

Rance could only stare at her, gape-mouthed.

Bessett, however, cleared his throat and stepped boldly forward. “You are right, Anisha,” he said quietly. “I esteem you greatly—
adore
you, actually. And you are quite likely the loveliest woman I’ve ever known. But I’ve never felt much more than a passing interest in you—or, quite honestly—in any other woman.”

“
Flatterer,
” said Lazonby snidely.

Anisha ignored the aside. “And now—?” she asked, waving one hand expansively.

“And now . . . it’s different,” said Bessett, looking perplexed. “I met the woman for me, and I did not hesitate an instant. I did not ask anyone’s permission. Not even hers. Not even, sadly, her father’s—a circumstance I now mean to rectify, with your blessing.”