How to Woo a Reluctant Lady (4 page)

He still couldn’t believe the saucy wench had plagued him about what he was doing at Newmarsh’s and then had blackmailed him into kissing her. He still couldn’t believe what had happened when he’d given her the kind of kiss meant to teach her a lesson about the dangers of tempting a rogue.

Somehow he’d forgotten she was his best friend’s sister. That he was a dissipated second son at the beginning of a shaky career, in no condition to take on a sweetheart, much less a wife. Somehow the kiss had become bigger, more dangerous . . . more intoxicating. She’d made him want and yearn and think the unthinkable.

She still did.

A pity that she hated him now. She’d made that perfectly clear in her books, laying him out on the pages in the guise of fiction, skewering him even as she circled ever nearer to his secrets.

He’d first been alerted to the problem at the Valentine’s Ball they’d both attended a few months ago. Until then, he’d never read her novels. He’d had enough trouble putting their kiss behind him without having her voice in his head.

But the dance they’d shared had stoked the fire anew. They’d danced around each other in their conversation, layering innuendo upon innuendo until his blood ran hot and her remarks grew sharper, and he’d feared he might be reckless enough to do something foolish. Like whisk her out onto a balcony and kiss her senseless.

After it was over, he’d been left aroused, angry, and confused. Until that night he’d assumed that she’d forgotten about him, that his callous remarks when they’d kissed had squelched anything she might have felt. Discovering that they hadn’t had sent him to her books. And that’s when he’d discovered what Minerva was up to.

He’d put off doing something about it, hoping that her grandmother’s recent demands might keep her too occupied to write anymore.

But here was a new installment. He could no longer ignore the problem of Minerva. What if she started including allusions to his activities that night at Newmarsh’s town house? Anyone in the judicial system who connected him to the theft would realize he’d been the one to inform upon Newmarsh and his partner, Sir John Sully. Then it wouldn’t take much to connect him to other cases for the Home Office, and those he’d informed upon would set out to ruin him. They’d start by ending his chance of becoming King’s Counsel.

“You haven’t even reached the pertinent part yet,” Ravenswood said, jolting him from his thoughts. “Go to the page I told you.”

Giles found it and immediately noticed the two paragraphs in a different font at the bottom. The first was about Lady Minerva’s connection to the Sharpe family, something that only she would have the audacity to include. The bloody
woman refused to take a pseudonym—it was a bone of contention between her and her grandmother.

But it was the next paragraph that left him staring in shock:

Dear Readers,

If you wish to read future installments of this book, you must help me with a troublesome domestic situation that has arisen in my life. I suddenly find myself in dire need of a husband, preferably one who possesses a tolerance for authoresses of gothic fiction. To that end, I ask that you send any of your unmarried brothers, cousins, or acquaintances to Halstead Hall on June 20, where I will be conducting interviews for the position of husband. I thank you for your support.

Regards,
Lady Minerva Sharpe

The twentieth of June? That was today, damn it!

“Amusing, isn’t it?” Ravenswood said. “My wife laughed for a full ten minutes. What a clever joke.”

“Not a joke,” Giles retorted. “Her grandmother laid down an ultimatum earlier this year—the Sharpe siblings must all marry or they all lose their inheritance. Knowing Lady Minerva, this is her way of irritating her grandmother.”

Ravenswood gaped at him. “You mean the woman is seriously interviewing husbands?”

“I don’t know how serious she is, but the interviewing is undoubtedly real.”

The chit was mad if she thought this would gain her anything. He could only imagine how Oliver and Jarret would react, not to mention Mrs. Plumtree. The old woman had a spine of steel—she wouldn’t tolerate Minerva’s nonsense for one moment. She certainly wouldn’t change her mind about her plans.

He tucked the magazine under his arm. “I have to go.”

“Planning to show up for the interview, are you?” Ravenswood joked.

“It’s a thought,” he said tersely.

“You and Lady Minerva? That’s interesting.”

“You have no idea.”

An hour later, after he’d read Minerva’s first chapter, he was furious. Damn her to hell. She’d gone too far this time.

So she wanted to interview men for a husband, did she? Fine. She was about to have one hell of an interview.

M
INERVA PACED THE
Chinese drawing room at Halstead Hall, her spirits falling lower by the moment. How was she to get Gran to rescind her ultimatum if no one showed up?

She’d envisioned scores of young fools and fortune hunters clamoring for her attention, overrunning Halstead Hall and making such a to-do in the press that Gran would
have
to give up. Or cut her off completely. And since Minerva refused to believe that Gran would make her siblings suffer for one grandchild’s indiscretions, that was the outcome she was hoping for. Then she could find a small cottage somewhere and write what she pleased, free of any husband.

Hard to believe that she’d once considered marriage a good idea. Her parents’ marriage had been disastrous. And through the years, she’d seen that men had no respect for the institution.
There’d been the publishers she’d approached to sell her book who’d made colorful suggestions about what she could do to gain their “favor.” And the legions of fortune hunters who were never far from her door. Respectable gentlemen wouldn’t have her, since she wrote novels under her own name.

Not that she wanted a respectable gentleman anymore—they were the worst. She’d had a few as suitors and she’d even kissed a couple. But as soon as they’d learned what she was really like, they’d run as far and as fast as they could. Men didn’t particularly like women who spoke their minds.

Even her brothers were no great endorsement of respectable gentlemen, with their wild living and autocratic behavior toward their sisters. Perhaps Oliver and Jarret had been domesticated a bit, now that they were married, but would it last? And what if it didn’t? Their wives would be trapped.

Women were always trapped. Minerva would never forgive Gran for trapping her with the cursed demand that they all marry. And Oliver and Jarret—how dare they betray their siblings by going over to Gran’s side? Six months ago, they would have been leading the charge. Now, if they realized what she was up to and why, they would scuttle her plans at once.

Her eyes narrowed on the door. Was that why no gentlemen had shown up? Had her brothers—or Gran—found out that she was being outrageous again?

No, how could they? She’d purposely put her advertisement in
The Ladies Magazine
because it was delivered in the evening and no one in the family read it. Celia was too much a tomboy for such things, Gran only read the
Times
, her brothers wouldn’t be caught dead even opening the thing, and—

Their wives. Drat it all. They had wives now. And while Jarret’s wife, Annabel, didn’t seem the sort to read a lady’s magazine, Oliver’s wife, Maria, was an avid supporter of
Minerva’s books. She wouldn’t have missed the first installment of the latest one.

Minerva cursed under her breath as she headed for the door. How could she have forgotten about Maria? So help her, if Maria had done something to—

A man entered the room. But he wasn’t one of her brothers, and he certainly wasn’t anyone who’d come to be interviewed.

He was the last, but not the least, of her reasons for not marrying. Giles Masters, her weakness . . . and the focus of a most unhealthy obsession. What a pity that she still found him more devastatingly attractive than any other man, even after all these years. And far more interesting.

Not that she would ever let
him
know it. “Good morning, Mr. Masters,” she said in her frostiest voice.

“Same to you, my lady.” He dragged his gaze down her person in a roguish glance. “You’re looking well today.”

So was he, unfortunately. Giles had always known how to dress. Today he was resplendent in a well-tailored riding coat of cobalt superfine, a figured waistcoat of sky blue marcella, white doeskin trousers, and highly polished black Hessians. He looked perfectly at home amid the Ming vases and gilt dragons meant to intimidate her would-be suitors and keep them in line.

Somehow she knew they wouldn’t intimidate
him
. And no one ever kept Giles in line unless he wanted to be there.

She strove to appear nonchalant. “If you’re here to see Jarret—”

“I’m here to see you.” He tossed something onto the golden silk chair nearest her. “I’ve come to be interviewed.”

When she saw
The Ladies Magazine
lying open, a pounding began in her chest. How much had he read? Just the advertisement? Or the chapter of her book, too? “You subscribe to
The Ladies Magazine
?” she asked with what she hoped was just the right dollop of condescension. “How droll.”

“Apparently I’m not the only one, judging from the horde on your lawn.”

She blinked at him. “What horde?”

“You didn’t know?” He let out a sharp laugh. “But of course you didn’t. You would have been out there railing at Gabe and Oliver by now if you’d known they were turning gentlemen away as fast as they arrive.”

“Why, those arrogant, meddling—What about Jarret? Isn’t he out there, too?”

“Apparently he’d already left for the brewery by the time they mustered the troops. But they’ve sent for him, so I’m sure he’ll join the fray as soon as he gets here.” Giles leaned against the doorway with a smirk. “I don’t think you’ll be interviewing any other gentlemen today.”

She glared at him. “Yet they let
you
in.”

“They think I’m here to visit Jarret. I chose not to disabuse them of the notion. I’m supposedly cooling my heels in the study while I wait for his return.”

She headed for the door. “Well, you can cool your heels in here if you like, but I’m going to give my brothers—”

“Not so fast, my dear.” He pushed off from the doorway to block her path. “You and I have some unfinished business.” Without taking his eyes from her, he shut the door behind him.

An uneasiness rose in her that she fought to hide. “You know perfectly well it’s improper for you to be alone with me with the door closed.”

“Since when do you care about propriety, Minerva?” he drawled.

“And I haven’t given you leave to call me by my Christian name, either.”

His cold smile gave her pause. “I haven’t given you leave to use me in your books, but that hasn’t stopped you.”

Oh, Lord.
Steady, Minerva. He might just be fishing for information.
“Are you saying that you’ve read my novels?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Frankly, yes. Even my brothers don’t bother.”

“Your brothers haven’t been vilified in them.”

Though her unease exploded into alarm, she forced a smile. “If you’re insinuating that—”

“I’m not insinuating anything—I’m stating it flat out.” He circled her like a shark seeking to intimidate his prey. “You’ve made me into your favorite villain: the Marquess of Rockton.”

Drat it all. He really had read her novels.

She tried to brazen it out. “You’re confused. Everyone knows that Rockton is based on Oliver.”

“Right. That’s why Rockton has blue eyes and dark brown hair.”

“I couldn’t make him be exactly like Oliver, for goodness sake. I had to change a few details.”

“Is that why Rockton has a father rather than a mother who committed suicide?” he went on, those blue eyes gleaming. “How clever of you to anticipate that people would assume you changed
that
detail, too. Your little personal joke.”

She colored. Never in a million years had she thought he would read her books. “You’re making absurd assumptions.”

“Really? What about the lines in
The Stranger of the Lake
where the hapless Lady Victoria falls in love with Rockton and throws herself at him?” He stopped in front of her. “What was it he says? Ah, yes. ‘Do be careful, my dear, next time you decide to act like a doxy. Some men don’t take kindly to blackmail.’ Sound familiar?”

That one she really couldn’t get around.

“But the passage that settles it is the one I read this morning.” With a blatant confidence that rubbed her raw, he strolled over
to where he’d left
The Ladies Magazine
and picked it up to read aloud:

“Lady Anne pushed her way through the crowds at the masquerade, praying that her Marie Antoinette costume was innocuous enough to keep her from being noticed by Lord Rockton’s loathsome friends. As she burst into the study, relieved to have escaped unscathed, she realized she was not alone. Rockton himself stood by the fireplace in his priest costume.”

He tossed the magazine back onto the chair. “The chapter ends there. What comes next? Rockton helping himself to the files in the study?”

She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “All right, so I used some of our . . . encounter at Lord Newmarsh’s party in my novels. I don’t see how—”

“You swore to keep quiet about that night.” He strode up until he stood so close that she could smell the spicy scent of Guard’s Bouquet on him. “You exacted a price for it, as I recall, and I paid your damned price.”

“I did keep quiet—about your stealing, at least. You ought to be glad that I have, considering that a brief explanation from you might have prevented my being interested in the first place.”

“Or enticed you to write about it all the more. You’d probably even embellish the incident to make it worse. You made Rockton a spy for the French, for God’s sake! Why would you put
that
in there?”

“Because I’m a writer. I invent things. It’s called fiction.”

He narrowed his eyes on her. “Not when you use real people as characters.”