Then she’d been caught up in the excitement and danger. It was so deliciously wicked, in the corridor, with her hoop petticoats going up and down like ocean waves. It was thrilling, too, knowing that any minute she and Marchmont might be caught.
The trouble was, any minute they might be caught and he’d think he had to marry her. So would everyone else.
Her body liked the idea, too much. Her heart and mind and pride knew better. When she wed, she wanted an eager and happy and, yes, loving bridegroom. She did not want a man doing his duty—no matter how beautiful and exciting he was and how wild he made her when he touched her.
“Perhaps we ought to adjourn to a less public environment,” said Marchmont.
Papa stared at him. “What’s brought on this attack of stuffiness? The trials of managing Zoe into respectability? But if it were easy, Marchmont, then anyone could do it, and you’d be bored.” He held up a thick envelope. “Know what this is, Zoe?”
“It looks official. Like the Sultan’s firman.”
Papa laughed. “You’re close, child. Only observe the seal. This is your invitation. Arrived a moment ago, direct from Carlton House.” He clapped Marchmont on the shoulder. “Lady Lexham will be in alt. I know you said it would come. I know my girls are all in a frenzy about it. But my lady didn’t want to get her hopes up.”
The frozen expression on Marchmont’s face melted slightly.
“But that’s weeks away, I understand,” Lexham went on. “And my lady and I agree with Zoe that she needs to practice her social skills before that. With strangers. Men, in particular. She’s had all the experience she needs in dealing with women, and she is a woman herself.”
Marchmont’s gaze slanted briefly at Zoe before returning to her father. “Men,” he said. “You want her to meet men.”
“Other men,” Zoe said.
“She suggested it last night,” Papa said.
Marchmont looked at her. He gave very little away, but she was trained to notice. His eyes held some emotion, and it didn’t seem to be relief.
She told herself it was stupid to try to read his mind. They had been interrupted in a moment of passion. His mind would be muddled with balked lust.
“Mama said we could have a small dinner party,” she said.
“With men,” said Marchmont.
“No more than twenty guests,” said Lexham.
“With a lot of men she doesn’t know,” said Marchmont.
“That’s the point,” Zoe said. “I need to practice how to behave with men I don’t know.”
“But I’ll want your help with the list, Marchmont,” said Papa. “I’m liable to fill the places with a lot of fusty politicians.”
“They must be the kind of men who’ll wish to talk to me and dance with me and flirt with me,” said Zoe. “The kind of men who might wish to marry me.”
“He understands,” said Papa. “Eligible men, of course. He’ll know who’s most suitable, in the circumstances.”
“Eligible men,” said Marchmont.
“We shall give Zoe an opportunity to dip her toes into the social waters in a small way, among those disposed to accept her, before she tackles the mob at the Queen’s House.”
“Dip her toes, yes,” Marchmont said. “I beg your pardon if I seem preoccupied. I quite agree, and I should be happy to help you with the guest list, but the present time is inconvenient. Zoe and I have an appointment to see a man about a horse. Then we must have her measured for a saddle and riding habits.”
“Ah, yes,” said Papa, “I meant to attend to that. We had a bit of a to-do yesterday, I understand. Threw Priscilla into a panic. But Zoe always did that, I reminded her. You remember, don’t you, Marchmont?”
“Yes.”
“You needn’t worry about the horse, Papa,” Zoe said. “Marchmont will take care of that. But he’s right. We cannot stop now. I must change out of these contraptions.”
“In any event, I should want some time to decide exactly who merits the honor of meeting Zoe before the Queen does,” said Marchmont. “I’ll send a list tomorrow.”
“Splendid,” said Papa. He clapped Marchmont on the shoulder. “Well, then, run along, Zoe. Mustn’t keep the horses waiting.”
“I beg you, don’t run,” said Marchmont. “But do make haste.”
There was only one man in all the world whose opinion and respect meant anything to Marchmont.
To debauch that man’s daughter—under his roof!—was the act of the most swinish of scoundrels.
He and Zoe had had a narrow escape. The error must not be repeated. Marchmont must be on his guard against her at all times, because she was not going to guard herself.
Besides, she wanted to meet other men.
Marchmont stuffed the hooped petticoats and the frothy silk gown into the special mental cupboard. He stuffed the low-cut bodice there, too. He shut the door and turned his mind firmly to Zoe’s horse and saddle and habit.
She wanted to meet other men, and rightly so.
Her only trouble was an inability to say no.
She simply needed close chaperonage.
She must have realized this, because when she came downstairs a miraculously short time later, she had her maid with her, armed with the ever-present umbrella.
He and Zoe behaved with unfailing correctness all the way to Tattersall’s and during the time they spent there. They did not relax propriety for an instant, all the time at the saddlery and thereafter, during the purchase of a dozen riding dresses, the first of which was promised for Monday.
The errands completed, Marchmont took an immaculately polite leave of her and she of him.
Then he went home and drove himself mad selecting and discarding the names of eligible gentlemen. After which he dressed and went out and got very drunk.
The following morning, while nursing a headache, he tore up the list and wrote another one. He tore that up and wrote another. Two dozen tries later, he summoned a footboy to deliver the list of recommended invitees to Lord Lexham.
Marchmont did not return to Lexham House. She didn’t need him, he told himself. Her sisters would ready her for the presentation.
Perhaps he’d see her at the dinner party. If he decided to go. If he had nothing better to do. He wouldn’t be needed there. Her parents could watch her well enough. She’d get no opportunities to not say no.
She wanted to meet other men. She was quite right. It was perfectly reasonable. He should have thought of it himself, in fact.
He did not ask himself why he hadn’t.
Nine
Lexham House
Evening of Thursday, 16 April
The Duke of Marchmont didn’t know where Zoe had found the dress. It looked like Vérelet’s work, but he was positive he’d had nothing to do with ordering it.
He would never have ordered the corsage to be made so tight or cut so low. If there was an inch of lilac-colored satin covering her bust, it was the narrowest inch he’d ever seen.
And there were Adderwood and Winterton, on either side of her—the golden-haired half-naked angel between two leering dark devils. Not that they were obvious about it. But he knew that they—along with Alvanley, who sat opposite her—were staring at her breasts while pretending not to. He knew how to do that, too.
He emptied his glass.
The dessert course was in the process of being set out, and he was well on his way to being drunk.
Other men.
Lexham had decided to err on the side of caution. Ten guests only. Of the men Marchmont had suggested, Lexham had selected only Alvanley and Adderwood, the two youngest. Marchmont had put Adderwood on the list only because he couldn’t not add him. The stout Alvanley was less of a problem. No one could ever accuse him of being handsome.
But Lexham had discarded the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe, along with several other steady, older gentlemen. He’d invited Winterton instead.
In addition, he’d invited Adderwood’s sister Amelia, Lady Lexham’s sister Lady Brexto
n, Marchmont’s spinster cousin Emma—one of the indigent relations he supported—and the American ambassador, Mr. Rush, and his wife.
With only a dozen at table, the conversation was general, ranging freely up and down and across the board.
The meal had reached its last stages, and Adderwood was running the show, thanks to the opening the American ambassador had given him. Rush had marveled at the British press and its propensity to tell everybody everything about everybody and everything. From newspapers, Adderwood easily turned the conversation to books.
He was at his most charming this evening, the lecherous swine.
“Walter Scott seems to be highly popular here,” Rush was saying. “I heard of a dinner at which the hostess asked each of her guests to write down on a piece of paper the Scott novel he liked best. She received nine slips of paper, each one with the name of a different novel.”
“I heard of that,” said Adderwood. “The guests she asked were all men. If one were to ask women to name their favorite books, I suspect the slips of paper would bear the titles of horrid novels.” He turned to Zoe, using the opportunity, Marchmont had no doubt, to ogle her assets. “What do you say, Miss Lexham? Scott or a horrid novel?”
“What is a horrid novel?” said Zoe.
“A book in which a lot of bizarre and terrifying events are told in a desperately romantic fashion,” said Winterton.
Before he could continue, Marchmont said, “Typically, an innocent maiden finds herself in a decaying castle where she is hunted by depraved men, haunted by ghosts, locked into dungeons, attacked by vampires or werewolves or both. There’s usually a madman in the picture.”
“It sounds like Cairo,” she said. “Afreets everywhere.”
“Afreets?” said Adderwood.
“Demons,” said Winterton, the know-it-all, before Marchmont could answer.
“Everyone there believes in ghosts and demons and giants and jinn and the Evil Eye,” said Zoe.
“Good heavens!” said Cousin Emma. The only excitement in her life was the periodic summons from Aunt Sophronia to accompany her somewhere—excitement that even Emma, whose life was numbingly dull, would rather do without.
“They think all sicknesses can be healed with magic spells and charms,” said Zoe. “I don’t need to read a horrid novel. I’ve lived in one.”
“No, no, Miss Lexham, you want something more improbable than that,” Marchmont said. “Pieces of gigantic suits of armor appearing in the garden. Corpses resurrected via dismemberment, neat stitchery, and electricity. You are too real.”
She frowned. “Too real?”
“Not at all,” said Adderwood. “Miss Lexham is precisely real enough.”
“I meant that the rigors of your ordeal might be too painful for some of the ladies,” said Marchmont. He couldn’t believe she was going to talk about the harem after all his work trying to put it out of people’s minds.
“I wasn’t referring to an ordeal,” said Zoe. “I thought we were speaking of the absurd things in these stories. Ghosts and such. It’s the same elsewhere. The Thousand and One Nights is famous in Egypt. I saw that my father has this book in his library, but in French.”
“Oh, yes,” said Amelia Adderwood. “I’ve read those stories.”
“I’ve read them, too,” said Cousin Emma. “Magic lamps and flying carpets.”
“To us, all those impossible things are make-believe, fantasy,” Zoe said. “To those among whom I lived, the stories are true.”
“Very well, then, Scheherazade,” said Marchmont. “Tell your tales. I’m sure everyone here is longing to hear the secrets of the harem.” He emptied another glass and glanced at the nearest footman, who quickly refilled it.
“That isn’t what I meant,” she said.
“Sometimes you speak English and think in Arabic,” he said. “It’s charming but confusing to some of the company.”
“I think we all understand Zoe well enough,” said Lexham.
Marchmont heard the reproof in his voice, but the doting smile Adderwood bestowed upon Zoe—or her breasts—put it straight out of his mind.
“Then I shan’t recommend Frankenstein to you,” Adderwood told her. “You may find Pride and Prejudice more to your liking. The heroine is an independent-minded young lady of wit and charm. You are sure to find more in common with her.”
I’m going to be sick, Marchmont thought. Who’d ever have guessed that Adderwood could be so treacly? The breasts under his nose must have turned his brain to syrup. Marchmont said, “That one I found more harrowing than Frankenstein.”
“You’re joking,” said Miss Adderwood.
“He usually is,” said Alvanley.
“Not at all,” said Marchmont. “Frankenstein was too improbable to alarm me. Pride and Prejudice, however, was all too probable. It had me on tenter-hooks: Would this one marry that one? And so many marriages to fret about. So many choices. Would the ladies choose well or ill? Would Fate intervene, and destroy this one’s chance of happiness? Would the aunt get her way? Would the sister—But I don’t want to spoil it for you, Miss Lexham.”
“We may be sure, given your observations, that Miss Lexham has not the smallest inkling what the book is about,” said Adderwood. “Meanwhile I’m all agog to learn that you’ve read a book.”
“You do me a shocking injustice,” said Marchmont. “I most certainly did not read it. I allowed my valet to tell me the story, while I was dressing for dinner at Carlton House. A lengthy and tearful process, I regret to say—tearful on his part, that is.”
“Marchmont’s valet is famous,” said Adderwood. “He’s been known to faint at the sight of an over-starched neckcloth.”
“He cries when Marchmont puts anything into his pockets,” said Alvanley.
“He wept while he related the tale,” Marchmont said. “Whether it was the story or my buttons that made him sob, I cannot say.”
“What a remarkable servant he must be, to entertain you while he dresses you,” said Mr. Rush.
“I should never let him make a habit of it,” said Marchmont. “On this occasion, I invited him to tell me. Miss Austen’s books were favorites of the Prince of Wales, Miss Lexham, and one wishes to appear au courant when one attends His Highness.” Again he emptied his glass. Again it was refilled.
“Everyone knows what the Regent’s favorites are,” said Adderwood. His gaze reverted to Zoe’s breasts. “But Miss Lexham is terra incognita.”
And if you think you’re going to explore that territory, Marchmont thought, think again. He said, “By terra incognita, Adderwood means—”
“I know what he means,” Zoe said. “Do you not remember, Marchmont? How dreadful I was at French, and how Papa said I might study Greek and Latin, as the boys did?”
“Ah, I recollect,” he said. “I recall your French tutor saying that when you spoke his beautiful language, he had only one desire, and that was to have his ears cut off. I used to picture him holding his ears and screaming in pain whenever you attempted to parler.”
“Marchmont will have us believe he knows everything there is to know about you, Miss Lexham,” said Adderwood. “As though he wasn’t conceited enough before. It gives him an unfair advantage.”
“Adding insult to injury,” said Alvanley, “he’s kept you to himself for all this time.”
“An eternity,” said Marchmont. “A whole fortnight.”
And I’m the one who kissed her first. I’m the one…
The thought fell away as he realized the occasion on which he would not be the first.
Other men. She wanted to meet other men. He’d offered to marry her and she’d said no. She wanted to meet other men.
And that was when she said, “But Marchmont is one of the family. He’s like a brother to me.”
He froze.
She beamed at him.
“I should call that a decided disadvantage,” said Winterton.
Before Marchmont could lunge across the table and strangle Zoe, her mother
rose. The other ladies instantly heeded the signal and followed her out of the room, leaving the men to their port…and mayhem and murder if they so chose.
One hour later
“‘Remembered an appointment,’” said Adderwood as he followed Marchmont into the drawing room. “You sly devil. She’s the peach.”
Adderwood was still alive. Marchmont wasn’t sure why.
Oh, yes. Because she wanted to meet other men, and how could she meet them if Marchmont killed them? However, she’d met Adderwood this evening. Technically, it would be all right to kill him.
Later, though. Mustn’t get blood all over the drawing room.
“Appointment,” he repeated blankly. “The peach.”
“The girl in the antiquated hackney,” said Adderwood. “The girl you chased into the Green Park. The girl who pulled the boy out of the smashed carriage. The girl who threw the book at you. All those stories we heard and couldn’t believe. The ones you never actually confirmed or denied.”
“Oh, that peach,” said Marchmont.
“It’s all clear now. Of course you knew her the instant you clapped eyes on her. She hasn’t really changed, has she? That is to say, she’s grown up and grown beautiful. It’s a good thing you’re so constantly besieged by beauties that you’re immune.”
“A good thing, yes.”
“I am not, however. Had I undertaken the task of launching her into Society, I couldn’t possibly have remained aloof. I should have offered for her instantly, to make sure no one else got a chance.”
Marchmont looked back longingly at the door leading out of the drawing room. “Why did we leave the dining room so quickly?” he said. “I wasn’t done drinking.”
“You’re bored, I know,” said Adderwood. “Bored with us. We’re all so proper, trying to make a good impression on Miss Lexham.”
“A good impression—on Zoe?”
“I know. Everyone supposed it was to be the other way about: Could the exotic creature meet the standards of English Society? There are bets on at White’s. But that’s no surprise to you.”