Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03] (15 page)

When the tall, striking butler opened the door to him, Wolfe did his best to project benign intentions. “Good morning. I am Mr. Wolfe, of Stickley and Wolfe, Solicitors.”

The man’s face did not change, but the respectability of Stickley had apparently paved his way, for he was allowed in.

“Are you here on business, sir? Her ladyship is not at home.”

Wolfe remembered not to smile. Respectable people seemed to shrink back a bit when he showed his teeth. He shook his head. “I did not mean to misrepresent myself. I am here to call on Miss Blake . . . er, socially.”

The butler reassessed him with cool precision. The man was good, Wolfe had to give him that. He felt as though his faults were written in ink on his forehead.

Fortunately, he’d planned for just such a barrier. He leaned forward. “Is she working on her translations? I so wanted to see them. Mr. Stickley knew I’d be intrigued. I’m a collector of folklore, you see. A little side interest of mine.”

Actually, it was true—if one considered a vast assortment of pornographic pamphlets from all over Europe to be “folklore.”

The butler’s faintly furrowed brow cleared. “I see, sir. Miss Blake is in the parlor, entertaining callers.”

Following him, Wolfe caught his image in the mirror hanging in the entrance hall. Wolfe’s own mother, had she lived past his birth, wouldn’t have recognized him. Without his luxurious mustache and dashing clothing, he looked entirely—well, perhaps not entirely—average.

He was still tall and broad shouldered and still had all his teeth and hair, which alone set him above most of the men his age, but more than this, he had the air of a man who’d seen more than his share of bedchambers—not to mention linen closets, carriages and dark, sticky alleys.

That simply wouldn’t do. With one deep breath, he exhaled all that he was, collapsing his chest into a bookish slump, dropping his chiseled jaw into his neck and fixing his blinking, vague gaze upon the floor. One quick glance into the shimmering mirror told him that he’d done it. He was, for all intents and purposes, no
more than a taller version of Stickley himself. It infuriated him, however, to see that he suddenly looked every one of his forty-mumble years.

From where he stood in the doorway, he could see Miss Sophie Blake, or Sofia, as she now pretended, conversing with a crowd of young pups who couldn’t take their eyes off her.

Someone had done their best to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. To Wolfe, she looked like nothing more than an overdressed scarecrow. A woman wasn’t a woman without possessing enough bosom to suffocate a man. This creature might have cleaned up better than he would have suspected, but her new airs only infuriated Wolfe further.

Snob. She wasn’t born so far out of some Scottish hovel that she deserved to lift her chin so haughtily. Just looking at her made Wolfe’s fists clench. She was just the sort of woman he hated most—and the kind he most enjoyed destroying.

For just a moment, he allowed his natural predatory smile to cross his lips. All this and the money as well. Breaking Miss Blake was going to be fun.

Wolfe only had one bad moment in the parlor of suitors and alleged ladies. A harlot of the highest order—who passed herself off as a proper lady, but whom he’d seen in some very compromising positions in some very illegal but treasured moments—spotted him through his Stickley disguise.

“Wolfe?” A look of amused derision crossed Lady Lilah Christie’s face. “Aren’t you looking dapper this afternoon?” Her tone dripped with irony. Wolfe saw indignation and sympathy cross Miss Blake’s expression and pressed his suit with downcast eyes and a pained flush, which he accomplished by surreptitiously holding his breath.

“I’ll leave you to your courtship, then, Wolfe.” Lilah turned away with a snort of derisive laughter. “Take care, little girl. He’s badder than he looks.”

With his gaze downcast, Wolfe saw that Miss Blake’s fists were clenched. She felt sorry for him! He hurriedly smothered his laughter with his handkerchief, then proceeded to dab at his brow. “So sorry, miss—Oh, dear, so embarrassing—”

“Nonsense,” Sophie said sharply. “She is the one who ought to be embarrassed, mocking a respectable gentleman so!”

Wolfe sighed. “I fear I am easily mocked, for I’ve never quite been able to—to be—” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m not—”

Sophie patted his arm, feeling more warmth for him now than ever before. “I know precisely what you mean, sir. This world requires a bit of a roadmap, I fear.”

Wolfe gusted a self-deprecating laugh. “Well, it seems I’ve misplaced mine!”

His plan seemed to be working. He played along with her when she offered advice in dealing with critics—so naive!—and nodded gratefully when she spoke of sending business his way.

“I’m so indebted, Miss Blake, truly. I only hope I can repay you in kind.” He leaned closer. Now was the time to begin his sortie on Edencourt’s good name—though in truth it was little better than Wolfe’s own!

He really needn’t lie at all, come to think of it. . . .

“Miss Blake, I’ve heard that you’ve taken an interest in the Duke of Edencourt.”

She shot him a hot, embarrassed glance, then looked away. “I think ‘interest’ might be too strong a word.”

Wolfe refrained from rolling his eyes. Spare him the lovelorn! “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but—”

Tessa’s tinkling laugh rang out above the general hubbub. “Oh, I have the most amusing story. It concerns our own dear Sofia!” She sent Sophie a pretty smile beneath a vicious, triumphant glare.

Oh no. Alarm swirled through Sophie. She began to shrink into her chair—an impossible feat for a girl her height.

Most of the group turned their attention politely Tessa’s way.
No, don’t!
Sophie wanted to scream at them to turn away.
Don’t listen to her!

Tessa preened before the group. “First, I must tell you that although I had invited Sophie to share our little sojourn in London, I’d heard nothing from her mother, not even a note! Then, a week after we have settled into that dear little house, she arrives unannounced on our doorstep—I could hardly contain myself!—dripping wet, with nothing but a satchel of old gowns and a trunk of books! She was such a sight in an ancient cape that was six inches too short! I thought we’d opened the door on a skeletal specter!” She laughed musically and looked around for everyone to share in her little joke.

Sophie was completely speechless, gazing down at her hands. As always, the right retort did not occur to her until too late. What did it matter, when she was too tongue-tied to utter it anyway? If she could only maintain the icy calm that Lementeur had tried to teach her, if she could only lift her chin and portray an air of boredom—but still her belly writhed and her limbs tended to twitch from the sheer pressure of her boiling embarrassment.

She would never be that paragon of elegance that Lementeur had worked so hard to create. She would never actually master that fashionable ennui. Too many things mattered to her, her emotions were too deep and
too entangled. Injustice angered her, unwarranted scorn offended her, the snobbery of the
ton
caused her heart to pound with fury.

The languid and the elegant had no such strong feelings, no such burning desire to right the wrongs of Society, no doubts and fears because they simply didn’t care enough to do so. Such a life would be death to her soul, yet she—in a contrary impulse that confounded even her—still longed for a bit of the cool detachment, of that easy unconcern.

Yet, evidently her new coterie was a better class of friends than Tessa was accustomed to, for her chaperone’s remarks were met with silence and uncomfortable averting of gazes. Tessa, unfortunately, seemed immune to such subtle disapproval. She only became more strident in her attempt to become more entertaining.

“Did I mention that Sophie traveled all the way from Acton by herself? She actually rode the coach
alone
. Of course, no one would interfere with a girl who looks like she does, but still—”

As always, Sophie felt muzzled by a lifetime of bashful withdrawal. She wanted to shout Tessa down, to say something cutting and devastating and permanently stifling—but her writhing was all internal. She simply couldn’t open her mouth in front of all these people.

Succor came from somewhere entirely unexpected—although perhaps she ought to have expected it.

“Oh, I don’t know, Tessa. I’ve always favored the independent sort.” Graham leaned indolently in the
doorway and sent an easy smile of approval in Sophie’s direction. “And we all admire a woman who reads a great deal, do we not?”

His words sent a ripple of relieved agreement through the guests and sparked a discussion of the latest novels. Completely excluded and finally aware of general disapproval, Tessa fumed but thankfully did so silently.

Slowly the hot humiliation ebbed from Sophie’s pale cheeks. She even managed to offer an opinion or two to the topic of conversation, but she had eyes only for Graham, who had moved around the outside of the group to take up a watchful station with one elbow on the mantel.

His expression was one of amused commiseration.
Do you really want to be here?

She smiled slightly, meeting his eyes warmly.
I do now
.

“Hello, my love,” purred a voice in Graham’s ear.

Graham watched as Sophie’s expression went from wry welcome to icy disinterest when she realized that Lilah had accosted him. Then Sophie looked away altogether, casting her attention upon the rabble instead.

As much as he might want to slither out of Lilah’s grasp—for she’d wrapped both taloned hands about his biceps—he forced himself to turn and smile down at her. “Good afternoon, my lady.” It wasn’t a very good smile, more of a grimace, really, but Lilah didn’t seem to be keeping a scorecard at the moment. That meant he was in serious danger, for Lilah never gave anyone an advantage—not for free, anyway.

This time, however, Lilah only gazed with infatuated silver eyes at him and surreptitiously rubbed her breast against his arm. “I’ve missed you, Grammie,” she whispered. “Won’t you come back to see Lillie soon?”

“Er—” Graham slid his gaze helplessly toward Sophie. He knew if she heard Lilah call him “Grammie” like that, he’d never hear the end of it! At least Sophie had given him a decently manly pet name of “Gray,” which he rather liked.

But Sophie wasn’t paying a bit of attention. She was, in fact, leaning toward some older fellow that Graham hadn’t noticed before. Then he felt Lilah’s nails bite into his arm and remembered the value stamped firmly on his arse.
One ancient title, only slightly tarnished, for sale to highest bidder
.

And Lilah had coin to spare. Graham tried not very successfully to repress a sigh. “What will you bid, my lady?”

“I beg your pardon?” Her eyes snapped, ever wary of mockery, probably because it was a bit easy to do.

Graham thought of crumbling cottages and starving dependents and added several candlepower to his smile. “What is your bidding, my lady?”

Lilah purred. Literally. He’d once thought it highly arousing. Now he only hoped Sophie didn’t hear the ludicrous affectation from where she sat. He could just imagine the incoming sarcasm.
Keeping pets now, Gray? Don’t forget to dust the cat hair from your arse before you leave
.

“Come to me tonight, my sweet,” she urged, her
husky whisper almost an orgasmic sigh. “Come to my bed and let me console you . . . just the way you like best!”

Knowing he’d never get rid of her if he didn’t agree—not that he wanted to get rid of her, of course, not when he was seriously contemplating marrying her, but she really couldn’t be allowed to continue so or she’d embarrass them both—he patted her hand and whispered back.

“Yes, of course. Whatever you say, Lilah.”

“Don’t be late,” she said crisply, releasing his arm at last. Graham secretly flexed his hand, for he’d lost some sensation there while she had clung.

Lilah retreated at once, just as he’d known she would. Having had her way, she would expend not a moment’s more effort on the matter. With a flourish of her hand and a toss of her head, she collected Tessa on her way out the door.

Now free of her, Graham turned back to Sophie—who ignored him completely. She was surrounded again, nearly invisible behind a row of attentive men. Graham fought down irritation that she was not simply waiting here alone for him, as she once had. He’d suspected the throng would descend, but somewhere inside him he’d still expected her to be clad in some old rag, spectacles slipping down her nose, engrossed in something that left ink on her fingers and made her blink with annoyance when interrupted.

The way she used to be.

Yet at the same time, just look at her! He didn’t know what that dressmaker had done to his Sophie, but
she sat erect and composed, cool and serene in a room full of idiots that he knew she must want to flee at top speed. Possessive pride warred with ordinary possessiveness until he pushed off from his watchful perch, determined to leave this mess behind. He had a great deal to attend to.

On his way to take his leave, he brushed by a couple of the less worthwhile pups in the room.

“I’ll take her to the opera on Wednesday, see if I don’t!”

“Well, I’m going to ask to escort her to Lady Peabody’s musicale tonight and—”

A snarl rose in Graham’s throat. Before he knew what he was about, he turned it on the two young men. “
I’m
escorting her to Lady Peabody’s musicale tonight!” He turned to the other one. It didn’t matter if he had the right fellow, for they were surely interchangeable parts. “And I’ll be sitting with her in Brookhaven’s box at the opera on Wednesday!”

Leaving the pups near whimpering in his wake, Graham turned eyes sparked with murderous glee on the rest of the crowd. It began to thin at once. A few hardier souls thought to defy his claim, including Somers Boothe-Jamison, but Graham stalked them down one by one and made it quite clear that their presence was not welcome.

“Your presence is not welcome,” he told Somers sharply.

Somers lifted his chin. “I say, Edencourt—you’re being a right bully. I don’t see that you’ve any more rights here than the rest of us!”