A Different Sort of Perfect (39 page)

His Grace slipped across Fleet Street between
carriages — none would dare strike him, of course — and before he
could reach for the latch, a footman appeared out of nowhere,
bowed, and opened the door for him.

Neither the largest nor fanciest coffee house in the
vicinity, this one retained its popularity amongst a certain set
less from the quality of the conversation and more from the
strength of the brew, as it was invariably provided. Certainly the
frilly yellow curtains and unexceptional furniture contributed
little to that popularity. But perhaps the owners' lovely daughters
had sewn those curtains; for that reason alone, His Grace would be
the last man on Fleet Street to criticize the décor.

As he stepped inside, a hush fell over the clientele,
conversational voices fading away to silence before the usual
murmuring whispers rustled all around. When he'd first arrived in
London, such whispers had disturbed his equanimity; now he accepted
them as very much his due. He'd worked hard for his reputation, and
with it finally, properly conferred, he intended to enjoy it.

And let the mothers hide their daughters if they
didn't.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Trent," he said.

Behind the counter, the coffee shop's owner beamed,
his face round and pink as ever. At his side, his equally rounded
eldest daughter barely breathed, her bosom unmoving and still
appealing, her naturally large and gorgeous eyes now better
described as enormous. The heavenly smell of roasting beans
permeating the shop's most distant alcoves could have woken the
dead. And kept them that way.

Trent cleared his throat, his eyes cutting aside
toward his daughter, then sharply back. "Your grace, what a
delightful surprise."

In years past, a lady not inexperienced in the games
of love had described His Grace's manner of meeting her gaze as an
"unsealed invitation." Their resulting conversation remained one of
his fondest and most life-changing memories. Now, he met Miss
Trent's gaze in exactly that manner and allowed his lips to curl
into a rogue's smile. "Miss Trent, you're in such splendid looks, I
can only imagine the holiday season before you promises the best of
blessings. Come, what gentleman seeks to hold your heart?" His
smile deepened. "Besides myself, of course."

Her eyes widened, her color intensified, her lower
lip vanished between kitten's teeth, and she hung her head. But not
before he saw the rapture she sought to hide.

She'd not complain, even if gifted with a baby from
the wrong side of the blanket.

And judging from Trent's predatory, monetary gleam,
neither would he.

A full page from every society rag in town, that
would be. Should he ever need one, of course.

"A pot of your excellent tea, Mr. Trent." Satisfied
with his sally, he turned away.

Much of the coffee house, with its polished wood
paneling and discreetly attentive patrons, separated the Kirkhoven
ladies from the hidden solicitor. The most advantageous table, at
the halfway point of their playing field, was already occupied by a
passing acquaintance. His Grace flashed a welcoming smile and wove
amongst the tables, advertising his intention to butt in on the
man's privacy. He'd ignore the equally open scowl being aimed his
way.

"Mr. Culver, what a delightful surprise."

If Culver shared the delight, he kept it well hidden.
He rose, bowed, and without lifting his gaze again, gathered his
gloves and umbrella.

"A pleasure indeed, your grace, albeit unfortunately
a brief one."

Ah. Naming no names, but it seemed
someone
else
had had the same plan and target.

Well, Culver had never been able to stand
competition.

Nor could he compete.

As Culver exited, abandoning his half-finished coffee
and target, young Miss Trent bobbed up in his place, carrying a
tray and rag. She cleared and wiped down the table, flashed him a
coy smile from beneath her adorable mob cap, set a blue and white
flowered teapot and cup before him, and whisked away with perhaps a
bit more sashaying than was precisely necessary.

Indeed no, that one wouldn't mind at all.

His Grace poured a cup — only lesser men doctored
Trent's pure, bracing, potent brew — and leaned back in his
chair.

Staring at Anne.

Oh, discreetly, of course. Or pseudo-discreetly, at
least. Never blatant ogling nor shabby gaping. Just an
intermittent, attentive eye watching beyond the rim of his cup,
focus shifting between painted blue flowers and elegant female.
Merely displaying his not-quite-open admiration for her
breathtaking complexion, the sweet curves of her cheek and ear, the
sunlight glinting off her golden hair, the mortified blush
spreading from her neck to her forehead and then fading, leaving
her pale as death.

The whispers amongst the patrons sank into subdued,
horrified fascination. Which was entirely proper; as obvious as
he'd made his actions, surely they'd had no trouble tracing his
stare.

Finally she glanced at him.

He smiled
that
smile, dipped his chin, and
lifted his cup.

And she promptly showed him her shoulder, a smooth
curve of touchable white cambric. Well, it was lovely, too.

But her attention refused her imposed self-discipline
and she glanced back his way a moment later. Of course, his smile
and gaze hadn't shifted. Her focus lifted higher, over his
shoulder, and paused, her eyes wider than ever. That delicate,
swan's-neck throat rippled as she swallowed, with her own cup down
on the table and nowhere near her sweet lips.

Tempting, to glance over his own shoulder and assess
the young solicitor's expression, hidden with him in his dark
corner. Such curiosity was always difficult to suppress. But the
game would progress in a more advantageous manner if His Grace
didn't surrender to that whim. Instead, he allowed his imagination
to conjure the helpless, horrified fury of a middle-class
professional man, watching a titled one far above his station
admiring the woman upon whom he'd set his heart.

Or at least, that's what he should imagine if the
rumor mill was correct. And it always was in such sad, lovelorn
situations.

The volume eased back to normal conversational levels
around them. But the undertone of surging excitement, egged on by
the onlookers' flashing eyes and breathless sniggers, gave more the
feel of an audience around a cockfighting ring than a genteel
coffee shop. Doubtless
they
were watching the solicitor, and
their reaction provided His Grace all the background information
required.

Finally —
finally!
— Lady Wotton's volubility
snagged, as if the twisting atmospherics had shaken her from her
chattering reverie. A glance at her daughter, a measured following
of her daughter's attention, and Lady Wotton's gaze crossed his
own. She started. As well she might; she'd missed his entire
posturing display. Shame on her.

His Grace smiled, lifting his cup to Lady Wotton, and
her smile bloomed even as her eyes narrowed. Oh, he'd seen that
expression countless times before, in the six years he'd lived in
London: the assessing stare of a predator facing a new, previously
unknown variety of prey — or a mother with a daughter of
marriageable age, discovering an unmarried, rich, titled man
staring at said daughter. The expression of a mother calculating
his intentions to a nicety, without ever permitting anything so
unpleasant as a frown to cross her face and potentially discourage
his suit.

But then — and his glee quivered at her movement —
then Lady Wotton lifted her gaze a fraction higher. Her smile
twisted into a scowl.

She'd spotted the solicitor.

And nothing was going to save the lovers now.

Lady Wotton tugged on Anne's slender arm, and the two
ladies prepared to abandon their teacups. But as they rose, His
Grace started to his feet as well. They'd been introduced at Lady
Forester's rout earlier in the year, so he wouldn't flout propriety
by speaking with them.

Not that he'd ever allowed that to stop him. And
indeed, no mother with a marriageable daughter would allow his
attentions to come to naught without a fight.

And so the game began.

****

The man couldn't be serious.

Anne didn't dare breathe as the most notorious rake
in the
ton
lifted her hand and kissed the air a hair's
breadth from her glove. She couldn't feel the actual touch of his
lips, but he may as well have scorched her with his heat, and her
entire arm threatened to quiver in his hand. His admiration took in
her hair, her face, the fur around the neck of her pelisse, her —
attributes,
and she would certainly
die
before he was
done. The atmosphere in the coffee house thickened, deepened, and
she didn't have to look to know every eye in the place followed his
assessment, seconded his assessment, with avid interest.

Forget him. Her
mother
couldn't be
serious.

And thankfully Mama's lips started to purse, her
smile to wane, and her eyes to narrow. The Rake — well, His Grace,
the Duke of Cumberland to the world, but
The Rake
in effect
— finally released her hand, murmured something — was it
"Delightful" or "Delicious"? couldn't be certain — and asked—

—and asked Mama if they'd be at Lady Baldwin's
concert tomorrow.

Had he ever actually
pursued
anyone before
consuming them? Didn't he rather corner innocent young ladies (like
her) in boxes at the theater or opera and there did whatever it was
he did with them that utterly ruined their reputations? If he
pursued her first, did that mean—

No. It couldn't possibly mean he was serious. He was
a rake,
The
Rake, he'd earned the sobriquet as surely as
Messrs. Harding and Howell of Pall Mall carried the most exquisite
muslin within miles, and if she asked around doubtless she'd find
herself provided with names and horrifying details. Why she hadn't
asked before now, she couldn't imagine. She should already know all
about him, and—

—and behind him, sweet, adorable Frederick watched
the spectacle with agony etched into his brown spaniel's eyes.

Oh, it was all beyond mortifying, and seeing
Frederick hurt gave it an extra layer of mortifying-ness. Truly, it
was like something from a really good Gothic romance — standing in
a coffee house under assault by a notorious duke, indeed — and once
Frederick wrote that one, it would compete with
The Romance of
the Forest, The Castle of Otranto, The Old English Baron
. With
any of them. Frederick's romances were always the best. He could
call it
The Wicked Duke and the Baronet's Daughter
. After he
finished the one he was working on, of course. He'd described his
current progress last week as "grimly pushing ahead" and the
printer had been awaiting the completed manuscript for more than a
week now.

Hopefully this agony would give him a stimulating
creative push, rather than a push down.

And surely she contributed something, something
somewhat intelligent, while Mama and His Grace exchanged
banalities. But the very ordinariness of their conversation
completed its transformation as it drifted past into a horrifying,
distant, buzzing blur. His Grace was precisely the sort of match
Mama had been seeking for her. As if she were incapable of
selecting a suitable husband for herself. Merely because Mama was
no longer willing to even discuss Frederick and had forbidden Anne
to see or speak with him, making their assignations all too brief
and far between. He'd met her behind some trees in Hyde Park last
week, and for a few blissful minutes, it had been heaven on
earth.

What was a duke,
any
duke much less
this
one, in comparison to Frederick Shaw, Esquire,
barrister, solicitor, writer of the best Gothic romances in
England, and future member of Parliament? And why could Mama not
see how perfect their match truly was?

Then she blinked, and she was walking along Fleet
Street with Mama, safe and anonymous among the bustling sidewalk
pedestrians and with Gregory, their safe and anonymous footman, at
their heels. The carriage awaited them down Fetter Lane, and as the
corner opened before them, the coachman lifted the reins and his
two matched chestnuts mouthed their bits and stepped forward.

She hadn't even been sufficiently aware to glance a
goodbye to Frederick before she'd left. And that would hurt him
most of all.

Under cover of their turn, Anne risked a look back
toward the coffee house; Mama was too busy talking to notice. The
pedestrians opposite the jeweler's shop parted like a curtain, and
Frederick strode across that impromptu stage, his long restless
strides clipping across the sidewalk, coattails flapping and his
hat catching a brief flash of light from the fickle sun. Then the
clouds closed in again, they turned the corner, and he was gone,
leaving behind the usual dull, ugly, yearning ache in her
heart.

And Mama continuing to talk.

"Oh, of course you know the sort of thing I mean,
girl, you're no fool despite your silly ways. You know how to draw
a man on without encouraging any nonsense from him."

Right. That explained
everything
. Whatever she
was talking about.

Even without a word in response, Mama rattled on.
"It's a matter of fluttering your eyelashes at him without —
without fluttering your eyelashes. Meeting his eyes without your
look devolving into a stare. That sort of thing."

Oh, well, yes, that sort of thing. She should have
expected this topic of conversation to dominate, all the way back
to Half Moon Street and probably for the rest of the year. As if
Mama were Polonius and she Laertes, and His Grace, the Duke of
Cumberland, was the answer to all of life's mysteries. More to the
point, as if Mama were serious but not as much as she could have
been.