Miss Pymbroke's Rules (3 page)

Lord Carrisworth waved a hand impassively. “Naturally, you will have whatever you require. If you are finished, I should like to dress and go downstairs.”

Mr. Wetherall lowered the razor, but his eye twitched violently. “My lord, perhaps a tray sent up to your bedchamber until a new coat has been procured—

“Oh, I am not so stiffly on my stiffs with the Ladies Iris and Hyacinth. Family, you know.”

Thus, some minutes later, the marquess was in the dining room clad in the reprehensible coat and pantaloons from the evening before, helping himself to a generous portion of kidneys, ham, toast, and eggs.

Lady Iris was the only other person at the table. Lady Hyacinth never left her bed before noon.

Wise enough to wait until his lordship had put away a large portion of his breakfast. Lady Iris at last deemed it time to march forward with her plans. “How long do you guess it will be before you can inhabit your house, Carrisworth?” she asked in a deceptively casual tone.

The marquess took a sip of coffee before replying. “The man from the Sun Fire Company estimated several months.”

“As bad as that, eh?”

“Yes. But you may be at your ease. I shan’t impose on you that long, Lady Iris. I shall look for lodgings or maybe a house—”

A large crocodile smile creased Lady Iris’s face, making the star-shaped patch she wore by her mouth rise halfway up her cheek. “Upon my honor! Nothing was ever more providential. The lady next door finds herself in straitened circumstances and wishes to let her house. It will be the very thing. I’ll just fetch my shawl and we’ll call on her immediately before she—that is, before the house gets away.”

Lord Carrisworth had no opportunity to form a reply before Lady Iris abruptly picked up her cane and left the room. He helped himself to a rasher of bacon and wondered idly what maggot the lady had taken into her head.

                       * * * *

Walking up the steps of the townhouse next door, his lordship felt decidedly sour on the idea of living in such close proximity to Lady Iris.

His previous meetings with his grandmother’s cousin had been brief and infrequent. Now, he saw she showed an alarming tendency toward being a managing female.

He avoided the type assiduously. He could just imagine her reaction to his choice of friends—male and female—not to mention his parties. And, leasing a house directly from what he assumed would be another aged lady fallen on hard times, one who would make all sorts of stipulations to their agreement, was not a pleasant thought.

Some excuse for not taking the house would have to be found.

The butler who answered the door informed Lady Iris and the marquess that Miss Pymbroke was working in her garden and escorted them through a prettily furnished morning room. Opening the glass doors that led to a walled garden, he bowed and withdrew.

Lord Carrisworth saw a female dressed in a serviceable gray gown bending over to retrieve a basket brimming with freshly cut roses. A worn chip-straw bonnet hung down her back on a blue ribbon.

She stood up slowly, turned around, and faced her visitors.

The startled marquess drew in his breath sharply. “Manna from heaven,” he murmured.

A single shaft of sunlight beamed down directly onto the lady’s head, giving her a halo. Although her brown hair was ruthlessly scraped back into a severe knot, golden lights danced from its clean, shining surface. Her velvet brown eyes appeared huge in a delicate face notable for its perfect ivory complexion. A straight little nose and a beautifully shaped mouth, a mouth that his lordship thought positively begged for kisses, completed her angelic appearance.

Lord Carrisworth leaned against the doorframe, crossed one booted foot over the other, and smiled lazily. He would take the house ... and the lady.

Chapter Two

Verity stared wordlessly at the tall stranger who stood framed in the doorway.

His eyes were a dark emerald green, the lids heavy and curved, giving him a languid, sensual look. Thick, glossy black hair shined over a broad forehead. The cut of his coat emphasized his wide shoulders and slim hips.

“Verity, may I present the Marquess of Carrisworth?” Lady Iris was saying.

For some reason, Verity felt breathless. The heady scent of the riotous rose bushes around her seemed almost too pungent. Her hands began shaking, and suddenly, she dropped the basket of roses.

The marquess bowed low and strolled with a nonchalant grace to Verity’s side. He knelt at her feet and gathered the roses back into their holder.

Finishing his task, Carrisworth straightened to his impressive height. He held one red rose between them, and his long white lingers caressed the flower, while his eyes never left hers for an instant.

“Miss Pymbroke,” he murmured, his deep voice causing her heart to leap, “you must take care. Something so lovely and fragile should be cherished by an expert hand.”

The look in his eyes, the subtle message behind his words, the meaning she could only guess at, snapped Verity out of her trance.

Her mind registered the fact he was inappropriately dressed in evening clothes. Upon closer inspection, she discovered the eyes she had been admiring were shot with red. His firm, full mouth was stretched in a decidedly wolfish grin.

Oh! Here, surely, was a rake of the first magnitude!

Everyone knew rakes spent hours practicing their art of seduction. Had not her body just been behaving in a most peculiar way? She congratulated herself for taking his measure so promptly.

Verity snatched the rose from Carrisworth’s fingers and took a determined step backward. She placed the flower on top of the others in the basket. Her chin came up, as she said coolly, “Thank you for your assistance, sir.”

He raised his dark eyebrows in what she interpreted as surprise at her icy response. There was a maddening hint of arrogant self-confidence about him. Why had Lady Iris brought the handsome viper into her garden?

Verity wrenched her gaze away quickly lest he somehow detect the effect he was having on her. Turning to Lady Iris, she spoke with a calmness she was far from feeling. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, my lady?”

Lady Iris looked at the young girl’s flushed face and ignored the question. “Verity, your cheeks are pink from the sun. Come inside, gel, and offer us some tea.”

Verity picked up the basket of roses. Good manners forced her past the marquess, whose face she noted held an expression of amusement. She led the party through the doors into the morning room, stripped off her gloves and tossed them, along with her bonnet, onto a nearby table where she placed the basket of flowers.

Across the room, a middle-aged woman appeared and sat in a chair. She pulled a tremendous amount of knitting out of a large bag and placed it in her lap before noticing the company. “Oh, Verity, I did not know we had guests,” she bleated, her gaze darting nervously over his lordship.

“How are you this morning, Miss Woolcott?” Lady Iris inquired. “May I present my late cousin’s grandson, the Marquess of Carrisworth?”

A relation! Heavens, Verity thought, looking with distaste at the shameful way the marquess was bending over Woolsey’s weathered hand. Surely he would not be so brazen as to place a kiss upon it—it appeared he would. Woolsey simpered.

Verity pursed her lips in disapproval. She sat down on the gold satin sofa close to Woolsey’s chair as if to protect her companion from the marquess.

Undaunted, Carrisworth had only a moment to wait while Lady Iris seated herself on the chair opposite the sofa, leaving the way clear for him to sit next to Verity. He looked at her, seemingly pleased with himself. “This is a comfortably furnished room,” he drawled, with what Verity thought a strangely proprietary air.

“I find it so, my lord,” she replied curtly. He would not be allowed to practice his flirtations in her house. She might have to endure his company during this unwanted morning call, but after that, since she never went about in Society, most likely they would not meet again.

A maid settled a heavy tray on the table in front of her. Trying to disguise her annoyance at the marquess in front of the others, Verity busied herself with the tea things.

But the marquess was not a man to be ignored. “You may want to consider ordering a fire made up. Miss Pymbroke. Is this room always so chilly?” he inquired blandly enough, but she saw the teasing twinkle in his eyes.  He referred to her manner rather than the temperature of the room, the rogue.

The teacups trembled in their saucers as she passed them to Lady Iris and to Woolsey. Preparing a cup for the marquess, she was suddenly seized with a mad desire to fling the contents into his lap. Mayhaps that would persuade him she was not one to fall into his arms. Verity gritted her teeth.

Instead, passing him the cup with every evidence of martyred civility, it was she who almost received a drenching when Carrisworth sat forward abruptly and clasped her hand.

Startled, Verity’s gaze flew to his face. The marquess adroitly removed the cup from her nerveless fingers, placing it aside and holding her hand firmly. He spared but a glance at the two older ladies, assuring himself they were busy examining Miss Woolcott’s knitting, before raising a handkerchief to one of Verity’s fingers.

“You must have pricked yourself on a thorn, Miss Pymbroke,” he whispered.

Struck speechless, Verity watched in fascination as he wiped at a smear of blood on her index finger. Appalled at the intimacy of his action, she tried to tug her hand away, but he held fast. “Let go of me at once, sir,” she commanded, keeping her voice low.

His lordship did not oblige her. Instead, before she knew what he was about, he lowered his dark head to mere inches above her hand. She could feel a whisper of warm breath against her wounded finger. A tingling sensation ran through her while at the same time her stunned brain cried out in protest of his disgraceful behavior. He would not dare kiss her ungloved hand as he had Woolsey’s!

As if reading her thoughts, the marquess met her gaze, and again Verity saw the teasing twinkle in his green eyes before his lordship slowly, reluctantly released her hand.

Lady Iris loudly cleared her throat.

In the wink of an eye, the Marquess of Carrisworth was sitting at his leisure, drinking his tea, as if he had not just made advances to a young lady of virtue in her own home.

“Have you explained to Verity why we have come this morning, Carrisworth?” Lady Iris asked.

The marquess placed his empty teacup on the table. “Yes, and I’m happy to report Miss Pymbroke has been all that is kind. She took pity on me when I told her my townhouse burned down last night.”

Struggling to retain her equanimity, Verity listened to him with increasing disbelief.

Leaning back in his seat, the marquess smiled on the company and continued, “Being able to lease a suitable house from a gracious lady has made me feel the luckiest of gentlemen. All that we have left to decide is when I may move in.” He turned to her, a look of unholy glee on his handsome face.

Still feeling the heat in her cheeks from the marquess’s bold conduct with her hand, Verity felt a fresh rush of indignation at his latest piece of impudence. Lease him her house? She might as well rent the premises out to a group of Cyprians! Insufferable man, how dare he say she had agreed to such a scheme?

She opened her mouth to protest, but Miss Woolcott asked bemusedly, “What can this mean?”

Lady Iris hastily explained the plan to lease Verity’s townhouse for the Season while Verity lived next door, ending with, “And, Miss Woolcott, you may at long last return to the country.”

Miss Woolcott’s knitting fell to the floor when she lurched from her chair to embrace Verity. “Oh, my girl, thank you! I know you will be as happy with the Ladies Iris and Hyacinth as I shall be with my widowed brother back in my dear village with its marvelous sheep and cows.”

Verity returned the woman’s hug while the marquess politely gathered the fallen knitting. Miss Woolcott thanked him and flew from the room declaring she must begin packing.

“How neatly this has fallen into place,” Lady Iris said and beamed at the young people.

“Indeed,” Verity responded crossly, feeling as if she had been manipulated and was now trapped in an odious coil. Her conscience would not allow her to disappoint Woolsey. And, because rudeness was foreign to her nature, she shrank from insulting Lady Iris, who had been so kind since Mama’s passing last year, by denying the lady’s relation occupancy of a house she had previously agreed to lease.

It was entirely his fault, Verity decided, glaring at the marquess. He must know she would not want to lease the house to a rackety sort such as him. But, then, he would hardly spare a thought for her feelings, she reflected. Rakes never concerned themselves with the sensibilities of others. Her father certainly had not cared for his wife’s or either of his daughters’ feelings when he had run off with an actress.

The butler entered. “Mr. Cecil Sedgewick has called, miss. Shall I show him in here?”

Lady Iris moaned. “Must we?”

“Of course,” Verity replied, frowning at Lady Iris. Turning to the waiting servant, she said, “Yes, Digby, and please bring fresh tea.”

The butler bowed and left the room.

The marquess rose to his feet, a glint of humor in his eyes. “I shan’t keep you from your guest, Miss Pymbroke. Would three days be sufficient time for your removal next door? I would like to occupy the house by the end of the week.”

Verity wished she might turn up her nose and send him away with a flea in his ear. However, since her finances were past praying for, such emotions would have to be kept in check. She must make it clear, though, that he follow certain rules if he were to live in her home.

Rising to her feet, she threw back her head in a martyred way and said, “Yes, three days will do, my lord, but we have the rules of your tenancy to discuss.”

He waved a careless hand at her. “Rules? Miss Pymbroke, I rarely concern myself with such trivialities. My man of business will call upon you tomorrow and settle whatever sum you require for the arrangement.”