An Unexpected Gentleman (15 page)

Harold Autry hadn’t the funds to pay her brother’s debts, but at least her furniture wouldn’t squeak.

Adelaide looked over at the muffled sound of Connor’s voice coming from the foyer—then Isobel’s, Connor’s again, and then a long pause.

At length, a sliver of Isobel’s slippered feet appeared beneath one of the parlor doors. The handle turned and the door gave way slowly and with a great deal of noise. Isobel squeezed inside the meager two feet she was able to access.

“Mr. Brice to see you, Adelaide.”

Exasperated, Adelaide beckoned her inside with her hand and waited for Isobel to cross the room.

“I know Mr. Brice is here to see me,” she whispered, flicking a glance at the open door. She shouldn’t care if Connor overheard them, but the good manners that had been drilled in since birth were not easy to ignore. Especially when a young lady was sitting upon her grandmother’s settee. “I thought you were going to send him away.”

“I shall if you insist—” Isobel began in a normal voice.

“Shh!”

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Isobel marched back to the parlor door, shoved it closed with two hard swings of her hip, then marched back again.

“I shall send him away if you insist,” she repeated. “But first—I am to inform you that a façade of willingness to be courted might very well turn public opinion away from pity and condemnation.”

Suddenly, she didn’t much care if Connor could hear them. “I cannot fathom by what ridiculous twist of logic—”

“He’s quite right, actually.”

Adelaide slumped in her seat, ignoring the seat’s loud complaint. “
Et tu
, Isobel?”

“Set your anger aside a moment and think,” Isobel urged. “Upholding your innocence in this may not serve you in the long run. Certainly not if you have any intention of marrying Mr. Brice. In the eyes of society, you’re either a victim or a woman of loose morals, and you’ll never be anything else. Unless, of course, you
had
meant to meet him in the garden. If the two of you
had
been holding a clandestine courtship that you always intended to bring to light—and to the altar—then you are no longer a tragic figure, but—”

“Merely a woman of loose morals,” Adelaide muttered.

“A woman swept away by the dark thrill of a secret romance,” Isobel corrected. “The ladies will still tsk behind your back, but their tongues will taste of envy.”

“That is quite an image.”

“Isn’t it just?”

“Smears a bit when one takes into consideration I might not marry Mr. Brice.” She’d decided to, but Isobel wasn’t aware of it. Adelaide thought it best to wait until the particulars were settled before making any sort of announcement.

“I think you should,” Isobel said. “He is prodigiously handsome.”

Adelaide gave her a bland look. “An agreeable countenance is not a sensible reason for marriage.”

“Love is the only sensible reason for marriage. But as that’s not an option for you at present, you might as well take the next best thing.” Isobel shrugged. “Entirely up to you, of course.”

Her sister would choose now, of all times, to attempt a bit of pragmatism. “Oh, very well. Let him in.”

“Excellent.” Isobel bobbed once on her toes in a disgustingly chipper manner then strode back to the parlor doors. She looked at them, sighed, and began the process of wrenching them open. “We should just remove the bloody things,” she muttered.

Adelaide opened her mouth to berate Isobel for swearing, then snapped it shut again when Connor’s large hand appeared in the meager space Isobel had managed to create.

“If you would back away, Miss Ward . . .”

Isobel did as suggested, crossing the room to stand next to Adelaide. A moment later, both doors flew open with an angry shriek of old wood and rusted hinges. Adelaide jumped at the sound and sight, half expecting the doors to explode into splinters under the strain.

Still intact, they came to a screeching, shuttering stop to reveal the foyer, and Connor Brice standing in the doorway with his legs braced apart. He wore tan breeches, a green coat several shades darker than his eyes, and a smile.
That
smile. The terrible, beautiful, inviting smile that had been the start of her undoing.

“Your sister is right,” he announced. “You should remove the doors.”

She curtsied out of habit, and, admittedly, a little out of the pleasure to be had in spiting his attempt at familiarity. “Good morning, Mr. Brice. My sister and I are grateful for your assistance and shall take your advice under advisement.”

If he was put off by her cool tone, it didn’t show. “It was my pleasure to offer both.”

Brushing off his coat, he stepped into the room. A floorboard in need of replacing groaned under the weight of his large frame. Adelaide wished the house would finally make good on one of its threats and the floorboard would buckle. It would be immensely satisfying to see Connor Brice take a tumble.

It was a childish and petty wish, but she didn’t much care. She had to marry the blighter; she didn’t have to like him. She didn’t even have to be nice to him.

Sadly, the floor held. Fortunately, another possibility occurred to her.

“Won’t you have a seat?” she offered, gesturing to the cherrywood chair before the settee. She threw a hard look at Isobel, warning her to say nothing.

No one sat in the cherrywood chair. There was no one left alive who could even remember someone having ever sat in the cherrywood chair. It had been rickety and unpredictable when she’d been a child, and—spared from the woodpile for sentimental reasons of unknown origin—consigned to the attic as a result. Its entire purpose now was to provide a surface on which to place a book, or George’s spoon, or anything else that was lightweight and sturdy enough to survive the likely event of the chair giving out.

But if Connor insisted on staying . . .

He eyed the chair dubiously. “I’ll stand. Thank you.”

Blast
.

Stifling a sigh, she gave up the hope of seeing Connor tumble. It was tempting to think of another trap—heaven knew, the possibilities in her home were endless—but they’d never get around to the business at hand that way. And she very much wanted to get to the business at hand, and Connor out of her home, as quickly as possible.

“What may I do for you, Mr. Brice?”

“You may grant me the pleasure of a few hours of your time. I thought perhaps a drive.”

“It is a lovely day for it,” Isobel chimed before Adelaide could speak.

“I haven’t a chaperone.”

“I have a phaeton.” He gestured to the window to where the open-air vehicle was waiting in the drive. “An acceptable conveyance of courtship, I believe. Shall we, Miss Ward?”

She couldn’t see that she had any choice. There would be no time to stroke her pride before bidding it a fond farewell. She’d have to lay it at Connor’s feet just as it was and hope there was something left of it when he was through.

“A short drive,” she relented and headed for the foyer in search of her bonnet. “I want to return before George.”

She wanted a readily available excuse to return to the house should a hasty retreat become necessary.

Isobel’s voice trilled cheerfully at her back. “I’ll see to George. No need to rush.”

Adelaide crammed the bonnet on her head and spoke around a jaw clamped tight with frustration. “Thank you, Isobel.”

“You’re welcome. Do enjoy yourselves.”

Unable to form a response, Adelaide swept past a smirking Connor and out the front door into the bright light of midday. Connor followed, closing the door behind them. He placed a gentle hand at the small of her back and ushered her toward the phaeton.

Attempting to ignore the warmth of his touch through her gown, Adelaide concentrated on the vehicle. Isobel was right; it was new, without a rough spot of wood or visible scratch on the black and gold paint.

“Is this yours?” she asked.

He nodded and assisted her onto the seat. “I had it commissioned upon my return to Scotland. What do you think?”

“I think you’re dissembling,” she replied smartly. “Your assets were seized by the courts.”

He came himself onto the bench beside her. “You’ve been asking about me.”

“I heard a rumor.”

“There’s truth to it,” he confirmed. “As my elder brother, Sir Robert was allowed to take guardianship of my fortune during my imprisonment.”

She thought that grossly unfair, as Sir Robert had been his accuser, but she felt no particular desire to express her sympathies to Connor. “Then how did you purchase this phaeton?”

“It was commissioned before my arrest.” He started the horses off with a light flick of the reins. “Sir Robert wasn’t given the bulk of my fortune, at any rate. Just a small part of the whole.”

“You had funds hidden away,” she guessed.

“I did.” He smiled a little. “Sir Robert was aware of it, but he could never prove it.”

“Were you given the rest back on your release?”

“Physical properties were returned to me intact. He’d not been allowed to sell them. As for the rest, I was given what remained—all fourteen pounds.”

She grimaced, all too familiar with the frustration of watching another fritter away the family fortune and being helpless to stop him.

“Was it a great deal of money?”

“Depends on your definition of a great deal. It was enough.” He deftly steered them around a pothole. “You visited your brother.”

It took a moment for her mind to wrap around the sudden change of subject. “Have you been spying on me?”

He had a roundabout way of denying the accusation. “I inferred from your willingness . . . more or less . . . to join me on this drive that you are no longer laboring under the impression I am a liar.”

“Oh, I labor—”

“Allow me to rephrase. I inferred that your brother admitted to Sir Robert’s role in his imprisonment.”

Because he sounded too smug by half, she sniffed and replied in her finest you’re-not-so-clever-as-you-imagine tone, “
Sir Robert
admitted to it.”

He brought the horses to an abrupt stop and pivoted in his seat to pin her with a cold stare. Evidently, he was not impressed with her tone.

“You
confronted
Sir Robert?”

His voice was no less chilling for its softness, and his anger was no less palpable. The eerie stillness of his large frame spoke of a fury carefully tethered. She suspected it would be an awful sight to see that tether snap. And yet, she wasn’t at all frightened. She wasn’t nervous as she had been in the presence of Sir Robert’s temper. Certainly, it was discomfiting to be the object of such an imposing glare, but she didn’t feel threatened, or even particularly intimidated.

No, he didn’t make her uncomfortable in the way Sir Robert did. But he made her uncomfortable in every other way.

“Naturally, I did,” she replied with what she hoped was equal composure. “Did you expect me to condemn the man without giving him an opportunity to defend himself?”

“I expected you to have the good sense to keep your distance from the rotter.” His eyes narrowed. “You won’t see him again.”

He attempted to round off this insulting and ridiculous bit of nonsense by returning his attention to the road, effectively dismissing her. As if the topic were closed. As if her own feelings mattered not a wit.

He lifted the reins.

She reached over and snatched the right one out of his hand. “You will not dictate to me, Mr. Brice. If I should fancy another visit with Sir Robert, I’ll have it.”

She didn’t fancy another visit, but that was not the point.

He turned back to her, slower this time, and held his hand out for the rein. “That’s dangerous, lass.”

Having never before ridden in a phaeton, let alone driven one, she had no idea if that was true. But it didn’t seem the sort of thing she ought to take a chance on. Feeling a bit foolish, she handed him the rein, and then a good piece of her mind.

“If you start this vehicle again, I shall have to insist you return me to my sister. I’ll not be spoken to like a child, or as if our marriage was a foregone conclusion.”

His lips twitched as he settled the reins in his lap. “But you’ll adhere to your husband’s dictates after marriage?”

She gave him a taunting little smile, and a lie. “You’re not in a likely position to ever know.”

“And Sir Robert is?” He shook his head, clearly not believing the lie. “Sir Robert is responsible for your brother’s—”

“He had his reasons,” she cut in. Those reasons were unacceptable to her, but that, too, was not the point.

Connor lifted one very arrogant, very irritating brow. “I should very much like to hear them.”

“Yes.” She shifted in her seat and returned his leveled stare with one of her own. “I imagine you would.”

What followed was an exceedingly long silence accompanied by what could only be described as a childish battle of stares. Adelaide had never before considered herself to be of an obstinate nature—not an excessively obstinate nature, anyway—but she’d always known herself to be honest. And she could honestly say they were both being stubborn as a pair of mules. She was not, however, willing to admit they both had equal cause for such ridiculous behavior. Connor Brice was not her father, not her husband, and not her brother. If he thought himself due an explanation, he was sadly mistaken.

She rather hoped his error occurred to him soon. A contest of wills was a bit less comfortable than she might have imagined. She was twisted awkwardly at the waist, and an itch on her ankle that she’d been vaguely aware of during their short trip suddenly sprung to life, demanding her attention.

She tried rubbing her other foot against it, but the soft leather of her slippers acted like a breeze against a bug bite. The itching intensified. She tried shifting ever so slightly on the seat, but not only did that fail to alleviate the itch, it succeeded in positioning her so that a stream of sunlight broke through a small crack in the weave of her old bonnet and landed directly on her left eye. Now she was itching
and
squinting.