How to Woo a Reluctant Lady (5 page)

“You’re missing the point. First of all, Rockton isn’t you or Oliver or anyone. Just because I took a bit of what happened between us and—”

“A
bit
?” His gaze bore into her. “You put our kiss in the very first novel where Rockton appears. Rockton accosts the heroine in the mews and forces a kiss on her. She slaps him for not being ‘nice,’ and he says, ‘What made you think that a kiss from me would be
nice
?’” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “You know perfectly well where you got that line.”

“You read that book, too?” she squeaked. “How many of my novels have you read, anyway?”

“Since I found out that you’re putting me in them? All ten. Imagine my surprise to discover that you’ve been flaying me alive in your ‘fiction’ for the last three.”

He was right, though she’d never admit it to him. His rejection that night had stung her pride and wounded her heart, so she’d taken her anger out on him in her novels. But she’d honestly never believed he would read a word of it. Or that anyone would recognize him in it.

She had certainly never believed he’d be angry about it. Giles didn’t get angry. He didn’t seem to feel deep emotion of any kind. He joked and gambled and flirted his way through life without a care in the world. It surprised her to see him showing
this
much passion.

“I don’t understand why you’re so annoyed,” she said. “No one knows that Rockton is . . . partly you. No one has even guessed.”

“Only because you haven’t given them enough hints,” he bit out. “It’s very clever of you to use
me.
Anybody else would sue you for libel, but you know I won’t because I don’t want people
looking too closely into my secrets. So you think you can put whatever you want about me in your books with impunity.”

“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Mr. Masters.”

“Am I? When were you planning to put the theft into your books? The next chapter, perhaps?”

“I promised to keep silent about that, and I will.”

“Why should I believe you? You haven’t kept silent about any of the rest of it.”

She glared up at him. “What do you want from me?”

There was a subtle change in his manner, from anger to something far more disturbing. Awareness of her as a woman, one he could seduce. It was just like that night at the Valentine’s Ball when they’d danced, when his flirtations had heated her blood while leaving him unmoved. Curse him for that.

He cast her a veiled glance. “What I want is to know
why.
Why you decided to put me in your books as the villain. Why you decided to make me a central character in your most recent novels.”

“That . . . just happened. When Rockton first appeared, readers wrote me several letters about him, wanting to see more of him.”

“Because you draw him in such loving detail. But why does he capture your imagination so? And why do you keep attributing to him things that
I
said and did? Were you so very angry at me over how I treated you that night?”

“It has nothing to do with you personally—”

“Liar.” He bent close to press his mouth to her ear. “Admit it—you put me in your books because you can’t forget me.”

She jerked back. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“And God knows, I can’t forget you.”

For a moment, she actually believed him, and her heart faltered.

Then she cursed it for its fickleness. The last thing she needed right now was her own private version of Rockton mucking with her determined spinsterhood. Especially when he didn’t mean any of his smooth words. According to her brothers, his casual treatment of women was legendary.

Slipping past him, she went to stand at the window that looked out onto the courtyard. “Why are you here? If it’s to berate me for putting you in my books, you’ve accomplished your aim, so you might as well leave. You’re certainly not here for any interview—”

“Actually, you’re wrong.”

She whirled on him.

Seeming to enjoy her look of confusion, he sauntered toward her with a smile. “Here’s the situation, Minerva. It’s obvious to me that you’re going to plague your grandmother with increasingly reckless behavior until you get what you want from her. And what would be more outrageous than to expose me as Rockton, so you can create a scandal like the one Lady Caroline Lamb did with her novel about Lord Byron?”

She bristled. “I would never—”

“So I can’t really trust you not to keep writing about me. I’m not sure I can even trust you to keep quiet about who Rockton is. That leaves me with two choices, if I want to keep my secrets safe. I can murder you to keep you silent. Not a good choice at all. No matter how you treat it in your novels, murder is messy. Not to mention illegal.”

A shiver swept her. “And the other choice?”

The sudden glitter in his eyes did nothing to quell the pounding in her chest. “I can marry you.”

To Giles’s great surprise, Minerva burst into laughter. “You? As my husband? Are you mad?”

He hadn’t expected wild enthusiasm, but incredulity wasn’t what he’d been aiming for, either. “Quite possibly.”

He’d spent the journey over here rehearsing what to say, how to approach Minerva, how to intimidate her into stopping this nonsense of putting him in her books. But as he’d neared the gates of Halstead and seen the crowds, it had dawned on him that the best solution was the simplest.

Make her his wife. That way he could control her and her “fiction.” She was too practical to damage her husband’s future. And she had to marry anyway if she and her siblings were to gain their inheritance.

A few years ago the idea might have thrown him into a bachelor panic, but with the upturn in his career, he would have to settle down with a wife soon. Especially if he became a King’s Counsel.

And if he must have a wife, it might as well be one he desired. Minerva certainly qualified, no matter how she tried to hide her allure with her attire. Today she wore a fashionable morning gown of printed green muslin with a number of fussy flounces about the hem, those hideous puffy sleeves that
had become so popular, and a bodice that ran right up to her chin.

Every feminine curve had been buried beneath furbelows and padded sleeves and lace edgings, and it didn’t matter one whit. He already knew that her figure was lushly feminine. Thanks to the many evening gowns he’d seen her in, he could imagine it as clearly as if she were naked. And just the thought of taking her to bed made his blood quicken and his good sense vanish. Truth was, seeing her always did something extraordinary to him.

But God help him if she ever guessed it. Reading her books had offered him a peek inside her fathomless brain, so he knew she was clever enough to wrap him entirely about her finger if he allowed it.

“As if I would marry a scoundrel like you,” she informed him with a minxish look that grated on his nerves. “Are you daft?”

“I believe we’ve already established that I’m halfway to being a bedlamite. But humor me anyway.” Apparently she wasn’t clever enough to see that marriage to him was her only viable choice. He would have to correct that. “You ought to leap at the chance to marry a scoundrel, given how much you enjoy writing about them.”

She eyed him as if he really were a bedlamite. “It’s not the same. You make an excellent villain precisely because you would make a wretched husband. You don’t fit any of my criteria for a suitable spouse.”

“Criteria? Ah yes, the interviewing. You must have drummed up some questions for your prospective spouses.” He glanced about the room and spotted a stack of paper atop a red lacquered table. As he strode over, he asked, “Is this them?”

When he picked up the sheaf of paper, she hurried over. “Give me that!”

He held her off with one hand while he scanned the first page. “Let me see . . . Question one: ‘Have you ever been married before?’ That one’s easy. No.”

“Because no woman would have you,” she muttered.

“That probably had something to do with it. Question two: ‘Describe your ideal wife.’” He let his gaze trail leisurely over Minerva. “About five foot seven, golden brown hair, green eyes, with a bosom that would make a man weep and a bottom that—”

“Giles!” Hot color filled her cheeks as she crossed her arms over that bosom.

He grinned. “Suffice it to say, she’s quite beautiful.”

The brief satisfaction in her eyes told him that Minerva wasn’t as immune to compliments as she pretended. “I wasn’t speaking of physical appearances, as I’m sure you know. I wanted a description of their ideal wife’s
character.
”

“I see. Well then, my ideal wife is an unpredictable hellion, with a penchant for getting into trouble and speaking her mind.”

“Sounds dangerous.” Her lips twitched. “And utterly unsuitable for a man who keeps secrets.”

“Good point.” Except that her unsuitability was precisely the thing that intrigued him. She was wrong for him in every way. And that only made him want her more.

Besides, he could handle Minerva. He was probably the only man in England who could.

He tore his gaze from hers to read on. “‘Question three: ‘What domestic duties will you expect your wife to perform?’” He laughed. “What sort of answer are you looking for? Some indication of the frequency with which your applicant would wish you to share his bed? Or a description of the acts he would wish you to ‘perform’?”

She blushed prettily. “That is
not
the sort of duties I meant, and you know it.”

“It’s the only sort of duty that matters to those louts out there,” he said coldly. “Since they intend to hire plenty of servants with your fortune, they need only focus on the essentials of having a wife. For them, those essentials are obvious.”

“But not for you? You haven’t answered the question, after all.”

“Whatever your ‘domestic duties,’ I’m sure you can handle them.”

She glared at him. “It’s whether I
want
to that’s in question.”

Leaving that alone for the moment, he turned back to her list. “Question four: ‘How do you feel about having your wife write novels?’” He snorted. “Did you honestly expect anyone to answer this truthfully with you breathing down their necks?”

“Not everyone is as devious as you.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t realize you were expecting a progression of saints this morning.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just for amusement’s sake, what would be
your
honest answer?”

He shrugged. “I have no objection to my wife writing novels as long as they’re not about
me.
”

“You say that now,” she said with quiet seriousness. “But you’ll feel otherwise when you come home to find that your dinner isn’t on the table because your wife was so swept up in her story that she forgot the time. Or when you discover her sitting in her dressing gown scribbling madly while your house goes to rack and ruin about your ears.”

“I can afford servants,” he countered.

“It’s not just that.” She gestured to the list. “Read the next question.”

He glanced down at the paper. “‘What sort of wife do you require?’”

“Any respectable man requires a wife who lives an irreproachable life. Why do you think I haven’t married? Because I can’t give up writing my novels.” She flashed him a sad smile. “And you in particular will require an irreproachable wife if you’re to succeed as a barrister.”

She had a point, but not one he dared argue at present. “I’ve already succeeded as a barrister. In any case, I haven’t lived an irreproachable life, so why should I expect my wife to do so?”

Her gaze turned cynical. “Come now, we both know that men can spend their evenings in the stews and their mornings cropsick, and other men just clap them on the back and call them fine fellows. But their wives aren’t allowed to have even a hint of scandal tarnish their good names. They certainly can’t write books.” She gave a dramatic shudder. “Why, that smacks of being in trade. Horrors!”

“I already told you—”

“Did you know that my mother was a writer, too?”

Now she’d surprised him. “What did she write?”

“Poetry for children. She used to read her verses to me, asking my opinion.” A heavy sigh escaped her. “But she stopped after she and Papa argued over her wish to have them published. He said that marchionesses didn’t publish books. It wasn’t done.” Her voice hardened. “It was fine for him to toss up the skirts of any female who took his fancy, but God forbid Mama should publish a book.”

He tensed. “I’m not your father, Minerva.”

“You differ from him only in the fact that you’re unmarried. Safer to keep it that way, don’t you think?”

Damn it, sometimes his role as a scoundrel slapped him right
in the face. It chafed him raw that she couldn’t see past it any better than the rest of the world. “Or a man could change.”

“For a woman? Really? In fiction, perhaps, but rarely in life.”

“Says the woman who buries herself in her books,” he snapped. “Your idea of venturing out into life is to surround yourself with your siblings and hold off every eligible gentleman who might come near you.”

Her eyes flashed fire. “Oh, that is so like a man to say such a thing. I’m not jumping to marry you, so I must be a spinster pining away alone in her room writing. I tried venturing out into it today, didn’t I? But my brothers wouldn’t let me.”

“That was merely a ploy, and you know it. You were never serious about interviewing gentlemen as husbands. You just wanted to provoke your grandmother into giving up her demands.”

He knew he’d hit on the truth when she paled. “What makes you say that?”

“You advertised it in
The Ladies Magazine
, a public forum, when you could as easily have managed it privately with more discretion. And you just explained to me how no respectable man wants a woman who writes novels, yet you say you don’t want
me
because I’m a scoundrel. If you don’t want a scoundrel and you don’t think you can have a respectable gentleman—”

“All right, drat you.” She tipped up her chin. “I have no intention of marrying you or anyone else. Can you blame me?”

“No,” he said sincerely. When she blinked, he added, “But your grandmother has made it perfectly clear that you must take a husband, so you have no choice. As long as you
have
to marry to inherit, why not marry me?”