“That depends upon how you define virtuous,” she retorted crossly. “From what I have heard, your definition is unduly strict. Few women are true paragons. It is very boring being a paragon, you know. Indeed, sir, you would have a somewhat longer list of candidates from which to select if you were searching for an heiress, as Lord Enfield is. And we all know how short in supply heiresses are.”
“Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on one’s view of the situation, I do not happen to be in need of an heiress. I can, therefore, set other standards of suitability. Your information concerning my personal affairs amazes me, however, Miss Ballinger. You seem very well informed. May I ask how you came to have so many details?”
She certainly was not going to tell him about Pompeia’s, the ladies’ club which she had helped form and which was a bottomless well of rumors and information. “There is never a shortage of gossip in town, my lord.”
“Very true.” Graystone’s gaze narrowed speculatively. “Gossip is as common as the mud on London’s streets, is it not? You are quite correct when you assume I would prefer a wife who will come to me without a great deal of it sticking to her.”
“As I said, my lord. I wish you luck.” It was very depressing hearing Graystone confirm everything she had heard about his infamous list, Augusta thought. “I only hope you do not regret setting your standards so very high.” She tightened her grip on Rosalind Morrissey’s journal. “If you will excuse me, I would like to return to my bedchamber.”
“By all means.” Graystone inclined his head, gravely polite as he stepped aside and allowed her to pass between him and Enfield’s desk.
Relieved at the promise of escape, Augusta stepped quickly around from behind the huge desk and rushed past the earl. She was all too well aware of the intimacy of their situation. Graystone dressed for riding or a formal ball was impressive enough to capture all her attention. Graystone dressed for bed was simply too much for her unruly senses.
She was halfway down the length of the room when she remembered something very important. She stopped and swung around to face him. “Sir, I must ask you a question.”
“Yes?”
“Will you feel obliged to mention any of this unpleasant business to Lord Enfield?”
“What would you do if you were in my place, Miss Ballinger?” he asked dryly.
“Oh, I would definitely maintain a gentlemanly silence on the subject,” she assured him quickly. “After all, a lady’s reputation is at stake.”
“How true. And not just that of your friend. Yours is just as much at risk tonight, is it not, Miss Ballinger? You have played fast and loose with the most valuable jewel in a woman’s crown, her reputation.”
Damn the man. He really was an arrogant beast. Too pompous, by half. “It is quite true I have taken some risks tonight, my lord,” she said in her most chilling tones. “You must remember that I am descended from the Northumberland Ballingers, not the Hampshire Ballingers. The women of my side of the family do not care a great deal for Society’s rules.”
“You do not consider that many of those strictures are designed for your own protection?”
“Not in the least. Those rules are designed for the convenience of men and nothing more.”
“I beg to differ with you, Miss Ballinger. There are times when Society’s rules are extremely inconvenient for a man. I can promise you that this is one of those occasions.”
She frowned uncertainly and then decided to let that enigmatic comment pass. “Sir, I realize you are on the best of terms with my uncle and I would not have us be enemies.”
“I quite agree. I assure you I have no wish to be your enemy, Miss Ballinger.”
“Thank you. Nevertheless, I must tell you frankly that you and I have very little in common. We are completely opposite in terms of temperament and inclination, as I am sure you will acknowledge. You are a man who will always be bound by the dictates of honor and correct behavior and all those pesky little rules that govern Society.”
“And you, Miss Ballinger? What will bind you?”
“Nothing at all, my lord,” she said candidly. “I intend to live life to the fullest. I am, after all, the last of the Northumberland Ballingers. And a Northumberland Ballinger would sooner take a few risks than bury herself beneath the weight of a lot of very dull virtues.”
“Come, Miss Ballinger, you disappoint me. Have you not heard that virtue is its own reward?”
She scowled at him again, vaguely suspicious that he might just possibly be teasing her. Then she assured herself that was very unlikely. “I have seen very little evidence of that fact. Now, please answer my question. Will you feel obliged to tell Lord Enfield about my presence here in his library this evening?”
He watched her with hooded eyes, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dressing gown. “What do you think, Miss Ballinger?”
She touched the top of her tongue to her lower lip and then smiled slowly. “I think, my lord, that you are well and truly tangled up in the snare of your own rules. You cannot tell Enfield about this night’s work without violating your own code of behavior, can you?”
“You are quite right. I will not say a word to Enfield. But I have my own reasons for keeping silent, Miss Ballinger. And as you are not privy to those reasons, you would be well advised not to make assumptions.”
She tipped her head to one side, considering that carefully. “The reason for your silence is the obligation you feel toward my uncle, is it not? You are his friend and you would not want to see him embarrassed because of my actions this evening.”
“That is a little closer to the truth, but it is not the whole of it, by any means.”
“Well, whatever the reason, I am grateful.” Augusta grinned suddenly as she realized she was safe and so was her friend Rosalind Morrissey. Then it suddenly struck her that there was still one very large question that remained unanswered. “How did you know what I had planned here tonight, my lord?”
It was Graystone’s turn to smile. He did so with a curious twist to his mouth that sent a chill of alarm through Augusta.
“With any luck that question should keep you awake for a while tonight, Miss Ballinger. Consider it well. Perhaps it will do you good to ponder the fact that a lady’s secrets are always prey to gossip and rumor. A wise young woman should, therefore, take care not to take the sort of risks you took tonight.”
Augusta wrinkled her nose in dismay. “I should have known better than to ask you such a question. It is obvious someone of your high-minded temperament cannot refrain from issuing reproving lectures at every opportunity. But I forgive you this time because I am grateful for both your help and your silence tonight.”
“I trust you will continue to feel grateful.”
“I am certain I shall.” On impulse Augusta hurried back toward the desk and came to a halt directly in front of him. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly, fleetingly on the edge of his hard jaw. Graystone stood like stone beneath the soft caress. She knew she had probably shocked him to the core and she could not resist a wicked little chuckle. “Good night, my lord.”
Thrilled by her own boldness and by the success of her foray to the library, she whirled around and dashed toward the door.
“Miss Ballinger?”
“Yes, my lord?” She halted and turned back to face him once more, hoping that in the shadows he could not see that her face was flaming.
“You have neglected to take your taper with you. You will need it to climb the stairs.” He picked up the candle and held it out to her.
Augusta hesitated and then went back to where he stood waiting for her. She snatched the candle from his hand without a word and hastened out of the library.
She was glad she was not on his list of prospective wives, she told herself fiercely as she flew up the stairs and down the hall to her bedchamber. A Northumberland Ballinger female could not possibly chain herself to such an old-fashioned, unbending man.
Aside from the marked
differences in their temperaments, they had few interests in common. Graystone was an accomplished linguist and a student of the classics, just as was her uncle, Sir Thomas Ballinger. The earl devoted himself to the study of the ancient Greeks and Romans and produced imposing books and treatises that were well received by people who knew about that sort of thing.
If Graystone had been one of the exciting new poets whose burning prose and smoldering eyes were currently all the rage, Augusta would have understood her own fascination for him. But he was not that sort of writer at all. Instead he penned dull works with titles such as A Discussion of Some Elements in the Histories of Tacitus and A Discourse on Certain Selections from Plutarch’s Lives. Both of which had been recently published to critical acclaim.
Both of which Augusta had, for some unknown reason, read from beginning to end.
Augusta extinguished the candle and let herself quietly into the bedchamber she was sharing with Claudia. She tiptoed over to the bed and took off her dressing gown. A shaft of moonlight seeping in through a crack in the heavy drapes revealed her cousin’s sleeping form.
Claudia had the pale golden hair of the Hampshire branch of the Ballinger family. Her lovely face with its patrician nose and chin was turned to the side on the pillow. The long sweep of her lashes hid her soft blue eyes. She deserved the title of the Angel which had been bestowed upon her by the admiring gentlemen of the haute ton.
Augusta took personal pride in her cousin’s recent social success. It was Augusta, after all, who, at four-and-twenty, had undertaken to launch the younger Claudia into the world of the ton. Augusta had decided it was the least she could do to repay her uncle and her cousin for taking her into their home after her brother’s death two years ago.
Sir Thomas, being a Hampshire Ballinger and therefore quite wealthy, had the blunt to pay for his daughter’s launch and he was generous enough to underwrite Augusta’s expenses as well. Being a widower, however, he lacked the female contacts to manage a successful Season. He also lacked any knowledge of style and dash. That was, of course, where Augusta could contribute mightily to the project.
The Hampshire Ballingers might have the money in the family, but the Northumberland Ballingers had gotten all the style and dash.
Augusta was very fond of her cousin, but the two of them were as different as night and day in many ways. Claudia would never have dreamed of sneaking downstairs after midnight to break into her host’s library desk. Claudia had no interest in joining Pompeia’s. Claudia would have been appalled at the notion of standing around in one’s wrapper at midnight chatting with a distinguished scholar such as the Earl of Graystone. Claudia had a very nice sense of the proprieties.
It occurred to Augusta that Claudia was probably on Graystone’s list of prospective wives.
Downstairs in the library Harry stood for a long while in the darkness and stared out the window at his host’s moonlit gardens. He had not wanted to accept the invitation to Enfield’s weekend house party. Normally he avoided such events whenever possible. They tended to be boring in the extreme and an utter waste of his time, as were most of Society’s frivolous affairs. But he was hunting a wife this Season and his quarry had a disconcerting habit of appearing in unpredictable locations.
Not that he had been bored this evening, Harry reminded himself wryly. The task of keeping his future bride out of trouble had certainly enlivened this little jaunt into the countryside. He wondered how many more such midnight rendezvous he would be obliged to endure before he had her securely wed.
She was such a maddening little baggage. She ought to have been married off to a strong-willed husband years ago. She needed a man who could keep her firmly in hand. One could only hope it was not too late to control her rash ways.
Augusta Ballinger was twenty-four years old and still unwed due to a variety of reasons. Among them had been a series of deaths in the family. Sir Thomas, her uncle, had explained that Augusta had lost her parents the year she turned eighteen. The pair had been killed in a carriage accident. Augusta’s father had been driving in a wild, neck-or-nothing race at the time. His wife had insisted on accompanying him. Such recklessness was, Sir Thomas admitted, unfortunately typical of the Northumberland side of the family.
There had been very little money left for Augusta and her older brother, Richard. Apparently a certain devil-may-care attitude toward economy and financial matters also characterized the Northumberland Ballingers.
Richard had sold off all his small inheritance except for a cottage in which he and Augusta lived. He used the money to buy himself a commission. And then he had been killed, not in battle on the continent, but by a highwayman on a country lane not far from the cottage. He had been on leave at the time and had been riding home from London to see his sister.
Augusta, according to Sir Thomas, had been devastated by Richard Ballinger’s death. She was alone in the world. Sir Thomas had insisted she had come to live with himself and his daughter. Augusta had eventually agreed. For months she had appeared sunk in a deep melancholy that nothing could lift. All the fire and dazzle that characterized the Northumberland side of the family appeared to have been extinguished.
And then Sir Thomas had had his brainstorm. He had asked Augusta to undertake the task of giving his daughter a Season. Claudia, a lovely bluestocking, was twenty years old already and had never had her opportunity in town because her own mother had died two years previously. Time was running out, Sir Thomas had gravely explained to Augusta. Claudia deserved a Season. But being from the intellectual side of the family she had no knowledge of how to go on in Society. Augusta had the skills and instincts and—through her new friendship with Sally, Lady Arbuthnott—the contacts to show her cousin the ropes.
Augusta had been reluctant at first but she had soon plunged into the business with true Northumberland Ballinger enthusiasm. She had worked night and day to make Claudia a great success. The results had been spectacular and somewhat unexpected. Not only was the demure, well-behaved bluestocking Claudia immediately hailed as the Angel, but Augusta herself had proved just as successful.
Sir Thomas had confided to Harry that he was quite pleased and expected both young ladies to form suitable alliances.
Harry had known it was not going to be quite that simple. He strongly suspected that Augusta, at least, had very little intention of finding herself a suitable husband. She was having too much fun.
With that lustrous chestnut brown hair of hers and those lively, mischievous topaz eyes, Miss Augusta Ballinger could have had a dozen husbands by now had she truly desired marriage. The earl was very sure of that.
His own, undeniable interest in her amazed him. On the face of it, she was definitely not what he required in a wife, but he could not seem to ignore her or put her out of his mind. From the moment his old friend Lady Arbuthnott had suggested that Augusta be added to Harry’s list of prospective brides, he had been fascinated by her.
He had even established a personal friendship with Sir Thomas in order to get closer to his prospective wife. Not that Augusta was aware of the reason behind the new association between her uncle and Harry. Few people were ever aware of Harry’s subtle plots or the reasons behind them until he chose to reveal himself.
Through his conversations with Sir Thomas and Lady Arbuthnott, Harry had learned that, as strong-willed and reckless as Augusta was, she nevertheless had a steadfast loyalty to family and friends. Harry had learned long ago that loyalty was as priceless as virtue. Indeed, in his mind it was synonymous with virtue.
One could even overlook the occasional harebrained escapade such as the one that had taken place tonight, if one knew the lady could be trusted. Not that Harry intended to allow that sort of nonsense to continue after he had Augusta safely wed.
During the past few weeks Harry had come to the conclusion that, although he might have moments of dire regret, he was going to marry Augusta. Intellectually, he could not resist. She would never bore him. In addition to her capacity for
intense loyalty, she was intriguing and unpredictable. Harry, who had always been compelled by puzzles, had found her impossible to ignore.
As a final seal on his fate, there was the undeniable fact that he was fiercely attracted to Augusta. His whole body tightened with awareness whenever she was near.
There was a feminine energy about Augusta that captured his sense. The image of her had begun to haunt him when he was alone at night. When he was near her he would find his gaze lingering on the curve of her breasts, which were far too prominently displayed in the scandalously low-cut gowns she wore with such natural grace. Her small waist and sweetly flaring hips teased and tantalized as she moved about with a subtle swaying motion that never failed to make the muscles of his lower body clench.
Yet she was not beautiful, he told himself for the hundredth time—at least not in the much-admired classical style. He conceded, however, that there was an undeniable charm and vivacity about her faintly slanting eyes, tilted nose, and laughing mouth. Lately he had grown increasingly hungry for a taste of that mouth.
Harry stifled an oath. It was very much as Plutarch had once written about Cleopatra. Her beauty was not remarkable in itself, but her charm and presence were irresistible, even bewitching.
He was no doubt mad to be plotting to wed Augusta. He had set out looking for another sort of woman entirely. Someone serene, serious, and refined. Someone who would be a good mother to his only child, Meredith. Someone who would devote herself to hearth and home. Most importantly, he had intended to marry a woman who was completely free of any taint of gossip.
Previous Graystone brides had brought disaster and scandal to the title and had left a legacy of unhappiness that stretched back for generations. Harry had no intention of marrying a female who would continue that sad tradition. The next Graystone bride must be above reproach. And above suspicion.
Like Caesar’s wife.
He had set out to find that treasure which intelligent men had always considered more valuable than rubies: a virtuous woman.