An Unexpected Gentleman (7 page)

“I liked you ill behaved.” His mouth curved in the most wicked of grins. “I liked being a cad.”

That
, she decided, was much, much too casual. And dear heavens, that smile. It could tempt a woman to all manner of sins. It
had
tempted her to sin. She looked toward the house. “I should go. I shouldn’t have—”

“I shouldn’t have teased,” he cut in gently. “I apologize.”

She eyed him warily. “If I stay, will you promise to behave as a gentleman?”

“You have my word as a cad.” He smiled again, but there was no wickedness, just a disarming silliness that eased her tension. “Tell me what you did after we parted last night. Was your tardiness noticed?”

“No.” She hesitated, uncertain of how much she cared to admit. “I never went. My sister gave my excuses.”

“Your sister, Isobel?”

She nodded and leapt at the chance to settle on a safe topic. “Yes. Isobel with an ‘o.’ ” She laughed softly at his raised brows. “She often finds it necessary to make that distinction.”

“Adelaide, Isobel with an ‘o,’ and Wolfgang, correct? An unusual set of names.”

She stifled a cringe at the mention of her brother. Wolfgang’s circumstances were public knowledge, but she’d rather hoped that knowledge had managed to slip by Connor.

“My mother was Prussian,” she replied, setting her embarrassment aside—something she’d become all too adept at over the last year. “Her mother was Italian.”

“But the best part of you is British.”

She smiled at that. “My father liked to think so. He liked to say so as well, but only to nettle my mother.”

His tone and expression turned gentle. “They didn’t get on.”

“Oh, they did,” she assured him. “Very much. They liked to tease, that’s all.”

“A common way to show affection.” He reached behind him, plucked a bright yellow flower, and held it out to her. “I believe this is another.”

Flattered, she extended her hand to take the offering. “Thank you—”

He drew the token out of reach. “Do you know what it is?”

“Yes. It’s
Helenium
, brought from the Americas.” It was also known as sneezeweed, which she didn’t see the benefit of mentioning.

“Do you have a favorite?”

“Flower?” She shook her head. “No, though I’ve a fondness for poppies.”

“Poppies. I’ll remember that and buy you a dozen.”

She blushed with pleasure at the thought. She’d never received flowers from a gentleman, not even Sir Robert. “You can’t. Buy them, I mean.”

“Everything can be bought.”

“But they won’t last. They wither as soon as you cut them.” For her, that was part of their appeal. Poppies couldn’t be tamed in a vase or lost in a bouquet. “They have to be appreciated in the garden, just as they are.”

He twirled the flower between long, elegant fingers. “Will this last?”

“For a time. Without the proper nutrients, everything will wither eventually.”

“Until then,” he said and handed her the bloom.

Their fingers met on the stem, and she remembered how those fingers had felt trailing across her cheek. The memory made her blush and pull the flower free with more force than she intended.

“Isobel paints them,” she blurted out before remembering that Isobel no longer painted because they had long since run out of funds for supplies. “She has a tremendous talent for it. My father used to say that when I gardened, I created beauty for a season, and when my sister painted, she captured an essence of that beauty for eternity. He was a hopeless poet.”

“Do poets come any other way?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” she replied with a smile. She was glad she’d chosen to stay. It was so pleasant to sit with a man and make interesting conversation. She’d forgotten just how pleasant.

With Sir Robert, she listened. Or tried to listen, if one wished to be precise. The man wasn’t a bore, exactly, but he was predictable and more than a little redundant. Always he spoke of his most recent acquisition for his stable, then his most recent purchase from the tailor, and finally his most recently acquired tidbit of gossip, which generally concerned an individual she had never met and knew nothing about. If she were very lucky, he would vary his routine with a complaint or two about his staff. Her contributions were limited to “oh, my” or “oh, yes” or “what a pity” at the appropriate pauses in conversation.

Sir Robert never asked her questions. He knew nothing of her family, her past, her likes or dislikes. She very much doubted he was aware of her interest in horticulture, or her sister’s gift for art.

It was different with Connor. He made her laugh, made her think, made her feel. He had learned more about her in less than twelve hours than Sir Robert had in four months.

The exchange reminded her of the lively debates and long, rambling talks she’d once shared with her father. He’d encouraged her to think for herself, to be an active participant in the conversation. She missed that, missed having a man speak with her rather than at her.

“Where are you?”

Connor’s murmured question pulled her from her musings. She shook her head. She didn’t want to think or talk about Sir Robert. Not this morning. Not just this minute. She didn’t want to think about the years of mindless interaction ahead of her.

“I was woolgathering. Tell me what your family is like.”

“My mother was Irish, and my father was a British gentleman with Scottish holdings.”

She frowned a little. That was fairly nondescript. “Do you have siblings?”

“None I care to claim.”

She thought at first that he might be jesting, but a quick search of his features showed no signs of humor.

“I have felt that way once or twice,” she admitted. There had been days when she wanted nothing more than to renounce Wolfgang.

“About your brother,” Connor guessed.

She nodded reluctantly. So much for the hope he’d not heard of Wolfgang’s failings. “We were very fond of each other as children.”

“But now . . .”

But now her brother sat in prison because of debts he’d accumulated through a combination of obstinacy and selfishness. And he would continue to sit there, unless she did something about it. Suddenly, the morning didn’t seem quite so charming. The changing light, the warm air, the whisper of the breeze through leaves, it all seemed rather sad.

“I wish . . .”

“What do you wish?”

She wished she had Isobel’s talent for capturing beauty. She might have stolen a moment or two that morning and kept it for herself.

It was an impossible dream, an unreasonable expectation.

“I wish to return to the house.” She rose and, before she could think better of it, asked, “Will you escort me?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? There’s nothing amiss with a lady and a gentleman taking a stroll from a garden in broad daylight.” Particularly when there were no other guests about to see and comment.

“Not generally, no.”

“I can’t imagine any circumstance that would . . .” The most horrifying thought occurred to her. “Dear heavens, you’re married.”

“No. I haven’t a wife, or a fiancée.”

She blew out a short breath of relief. Her sins were many. She had no desire to add adultery to the list. “Then why—?”

“Because I haven’t an invitation either.”

“To come in from the garden?” She gave a small, perplexed laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“To be
in
the garden,” he corrected.

The implications of that statement sank in slowly. “You jest.”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m afraid not. The lady I wished to avoid last night was your hostess.”

“You . . . You’re an
interloper
?” Oh,
good Lord
. No wonder he’d been hiding last night and missing that morning at breakfast. “Why would—?”

“To see you,” he replied easily.

“We just . . . You can’t . . . I have to go.” She spun around and headed for the house at a pace just shy of an outright trot.

“Adelaide, wait.” Connor caught up and fell into step beside her.

“You should have told me. You should have . . . Good Lord, you broke into the house.”

“The door was open,” he countered. “It was a ball. I’m not the first gentleman to invite himself to a ball. Happens all the time during the season. It’s an accepted practice.”

Having never participated in a London season, she had absolutely no idea if that was true.

“Accepted or not, it was wrong, and you ought to have told me—”

“I should have. Will you stop a moment so I can apologize properly?”

She shook her head. “Sir Robert will be looking for me.”

And if he was not, she would begin looking for him. It was well past time she remembered why she had come to Mrs. Cress’s house party.

“You can’t marry him,” Connor said gruffly.

“I haven’t a choice,” she admitted, hoping bluntness would put an end to the matter.

“You do. Marry me, instead.”

“What?” She threw him an incredulous glance and increased her pace. “No.”

“Why not?”

Why not? Was the man unhinged? “I’ve only just met you. We scarcely know each other.”

“I’m one-and-thirty. I have all my teeth. I’ve never before proposed to a lady. And I have more money than Sir Robert.”

“Those are not—”

“I’ve thought of nothing but you for months.”

She stumbled to a stop under the rose arbor and spun to stare at him. “We met last night.”

“I’ve seen you before, bringing your nephew to see his father. You passed by my window every Saturday.”

She shook her head in patent disbelief. Though most of the people in her village of Banfries were familiar to her, she couldn’t claim to have met everyone who resided in the four miles between her home and the prison. “You’ve watched me?”

“Just for those minutes I could see you.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t know what to feel about it. Should she be flattered? Unnerved? Offended? She rather thought she was all three, but they were buried under a mountain of astonishment.

Evidently interpreting her silence as encouragement, Connor smiled and reached for her hand. “Marry me, Adelaide.”

In the absence of anything else to say, she settled for the obvious. “You’re in earnest.”

She couldn’t believe he was in earnest. It was even more alarming that a small part of her was tempted to accept his offer. She knew almost nothing of Connor Brice except that he was willing to sneak into a party to which he was not invited and watch a woman through his window for months before speaking with her. He could be a drunkard. Or a consummate gambler. He could be a thief or a murderer. He could be all four.

She didn’t love Sir Robert, but four months of courtship had afforded her some assurance of his character.

Those four months had also depleted much of her inheritance. She was out of time.

“I can’t.” The words felt thick and sour in her mouth. Her hand felt cold and empty when she pulled it away. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

Connor stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “Not to Sir Robert.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Give me time to prove I’m a better man. Give me another day.”

She shook her head. Every day she put off Sir Robert was a day her family’s future remained in peril. The risk of offending Sir Robert was too real, the consequences too great.

“I’m offering another option,” Connor pressed. “I’m giving you the chance to have something more than—”

“I don’t need more. I don’t want it.” How easily the lie slipped from her tongue. “I want to secure what I have.”

That, at least, was the truth.

A hardness settled over his face. “Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry.” She stepped past him, only to have him catch her arm and spin her around again.

“Kiss me good-bye,” he growled. “Give me that, at least.”

He yanked her to him before she could think of denying him.

This kiss wasn’t gentle. There was no coaxing or teasing or easy slide into warmth. His mouth slanted over hers and took it. His breath was hot, his scent as intoxicating as the whiskey she’d sampled the night before. The rasp of stubble against sensitive skin made her shiver. The skillful pressure of his lips and smooth glide of his tongue made her tremble.

His hand cupped the nape of her neck, angling her head to his liking . . . and hers.

The world spun away. And just as quickly righted itself when laughter erupted directly on the other side of the arbor.

Mrs. Cress. The tour. A wave of panic washed over her.

She froze, her mouth open an inch from Connor’s lips.

Connor moved. In a single fluid motion, he pulled them both out from the shelter of the arbor and into full view of a dozen guests.

Which is precisely when her world begin to spin away once more, and this time, there would be no righting it.