Miss Mischief - A Regency Romance (23 page)

‘As you can see, local Society does not care for me, overly much,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Well, the
women
do not. I am excluding Letty Fulham and Delia Gregson, for they are my friends. At least,’ she said doubtfully, ‘I believe they are my friends. But most of the other ladies do not like me in the least.’

He was quiet for a moment. She danced very well and as they pursued the strains of a very daring waltz – for things arrived in the country, especially this far north, a great deal later than they did in the capital – he found she fit into his arms very well.

There was no point in protesting her observation. It was entirely accurate. ‘Why is that, do you think?’

‘A variety of reasons, I suppose. I am unreasonably pretty and unrepentantly wealthy. Oh, that their daughters – or sons for that matter – had such a delightful dowry. I am spoilt and willful and Papa does not reign me in nearly enough. Oh, and I am cursed with Grandma. That is the most unforgivable offence of all.’ He caught the note in her voice and frowned. She did not feel sorry for herself, so much was apparent but their attitude hurt, nonetheless. ‘Of course, most of them would manage to overlook all of these faults if I would marry one of their wretched sons. I exclude Mr. & Mrs. Esk in this, incidentally. They are a very puffed up pair and would not welcome me no matter what benefits I might bring.’

It was a scathing commentary of the girl’s social situation and he felt a sharp pang of sympathy. Apart from the willful element, something he’d had good cause to rue himself, none of Miss Claybourn’s perceived ‘faults’ were her doing. And in what way could they be considered a fault, if the truth be told? She could no more help her looks than her money, and anybody who had met Mrs. Howeth must realize that the woman was of excellent character. He wondered what his own family would make of the woman and decided, almost immediately, that they would like her. His mother abhorred snobbery and could not comprehend how an individual could be judged on anything but their merit.

‘It will be quite different in London, you know,’ he told her softly.

She looked up at him, her dark eyes a little sad. ‘Will it? I doubt that. We might be able to disguise my relationship to the working class initially but it will come out. And so it should,’ she added, rather fiercely, ‘for I refuse to be ashamed of my past!’

He grinned at this. She sounded like a tigress when she was riled. ‘I might come and see how you are managing whilst you are slaying the old tabbies,’ he observed lightly. ‘I think it will be edifying.’

‘You will come to London?’ she said hopefully.

‘I must do so. One of my sisters will be enjoying the Season and I have promised to attend her birthday.’

‘Oh yes, so you said. It must be very pleasant, having sisters. It is the one thing I have always regretted, not having siblings.’ She shot him an impish look. ‘Perhaps it would have been good for me?’

He smiled, but refused to be drawn. ‘Growing up with siblings has its moments,’ he agreed. Most of them were very pleasant moments. Blessed with a pair of excellent parents – particularly his mother – the four Hathaways had enjoyed a delightfully bucolic start to life. It was a pity it had all gone awry, but nothing could remove the bond that stood between them.

‘I would like to see you very much, if you happen to come to London,’ she said quietly, and the look she gave him made him think that Johanna Claybourn had something other than another waltz in mind and he gave an inward grimace.
Best go carefully for she is definitely interested, old man
. But it wasn’t so surprising. Her pool of romantic possibilities was severely limited. He would have to be a fool not to realize that he had made an impact. But she would forget him fast enough when she encountered the dizzying delights of London. The foppish dandies, the swells in their extremely fashionable jackets and neckcloths and the Corinthians, as suave and as confident as their elegant set dictated. Hopeful beaus would besiege the girl and she would wonder why she ever wished to remain in the wilds of Yorkshire.

Curiously enough, the thought sent a pang of regret through him. Would she change for London or would she make it change for her? It would be a pity if she lost her courage and exuberance and was tamed into a proper little miss.

A moment’s reflection convinced him that there was very little danger in that. What he really hoped was that she would not be too cast down by the many rules that rigidly governed Polite Society. To lose that delightful spark… well, that would be a tragedy. There were too few originals to be found. The world needed the likes of Johanna Claybourn.
And
his sister Millie.

‘Do you know, I feel as if I am being reviled by most of the men in this room?’ he observed lightly.

‘Not most of them but some, certainly. While I,’ she murmured, ‘am being envied by most of the ladies. I must say, Arthur never looked so well in those clothes.’

‘They are an excellent fit.’ So excellent that he’d been given no excuse to cry off due to a poorly fitting jacket. Mrs. Howeth’s Thadie had proved to be every bit as good as promised at making adjustments to recalcitrant garments. He’d had hopes of the boots being an issue – for no matter how good a quality, his were hardly fit for a ballroom – but Sir Antony’s feet were the same size as his own and the black shoes with their ribboned ties were perfectly comfortable and completely acceptable. All and all, every protest he might have been able to make had been dissolved in pleasant, unassailable logic.

Tomorrow I am leaving. I must leave, for the longer I’m in Yorkshire, the more the place weaves itself around me. The more Miss Claybourn weaves
herself
around me. Even if I were in the market for a wife, she would be a handful and I don’t need to make my life more difficult than it is. I cannot imagine what a girl like Johanna would do to a man’s sanity, if he was subjected to her over a prolonged period…

Try as he might to make this stick, prolonged exposure to Miss Claybourn sounded singularly enticing. The pleasure to be had from her conversation might very well be equaled by other, less innocent pleasures. The more time he spent in her company, the more aware he was of her; her scent, the tantalizing sheen of her skin, the soft, shadowy cleft between her breasts in that damned evening gown she was wearing. A woman’s evening gown was a dangerous thing if a man’s thoughts were lingering where they should not, he reflected bitterly. They should be made to wear unappealing bombazine from neck to toe, as opposed to the gauzy, delicate affairs they got about in at social functions such as these. Why was it acceptable for a female to bare so much creamy skin in the evening when during the day their gowns were as impenetrable as gorse bushes? Marcus had heard tales about rakes seducing females after luncheon and had occasionally pondered their dexterity and determination. He would have thought so many hooks and buttons would have frustrated the most ardent soul.

Evening dresses, however, were quite another matter. It would be the simplest matter in the world to slip the gown off one shoulder, which would, in turn, fall even further to reveal a curving, creamy breast…

He felt an unexpected tug in the region of his groin and a delicious tingle of heady warmth at the very idea and abruptly clamped down on the direction his thoughts were heading in. That was more than enough of
that
. He was not a hot-blooded young buck in the first flush of youth. He was no saint, God alone knew; there had been encounters, both at home and abroad. Quite a few of them, truth be told. His sisters had been forever teasing him about his love life, although it was never as lurid as Isabella had always suggested. But he had a healthy respect for women – with the females in his family it would have been impossible not to have – and his dalliances had always been lighthearted affairs with ladies who knew exactly what they were about. Such was the way of Society.

Johanna Claybourn was another matter entirely. For all of her boldness, she was as innocent as the proverbial lamb in the field and he was damned if he would be the big bad wolf. With such tumultuous, disturbing thoughts in his head, he greeted the end of the dance with some relief; he needed a place to regroup before he encountered the girl again. Instead, he guided her off the floor, into the small crowd of eager males who were patiently waiting their turn. Marcus surrendered her, if not with enthusiasm, at least with relief.

No, he thought grimly as he made his way into the refreshing coolness of the terrace to better cool his overheated body, he
had
to put some distance between himself and Johanna Claybourn. Every moment spent in her company was a snare that might well become a torment.

Tomorrow morning, before breakfast, at the break of dawn if need be, he would leave, just as he had meant to leave this morning. Slipping away in such a fashion would be a shabby way of thanking Sir Antony for his hospitality but he suspected that if he stayed, something else would come up and then there would be another thing and another and… well, another week would have passed and he would still be here, swimming in dangerous waters where the greatest danger to his future wellbeing was a beautiful eighteen year old heiress with great, dark eyes. If he encountered Miss Claybourn and her father in London he would apologize profusely and claim mental instability.

If battle had taught him anything at all, it was that sometimes it was better to turn tail and run if one wanted to fight another day.

The trick was, Johanna reflected ruefully, to find a place that was well away from prying eyes, no small feat at a well-attended dance. Her plan, if you could call it that, was simple enough. She wished to find the opportunity to kiss Lord Hathaway. Or at least, entice him into kissing
her
. She had caught a promising flash of something in those brilliant blue eyes when they were dancing, something heated and altogether
un
gentlemanly that had caused a shiver of delightful anticipation to ripple though her, along with a thrill of triumph.

He is not at all indifferent to me. If he kisses me and enjoys it, might that not mean that he will wish to kiss me again?

She was not sure what might come after these pleasurable kisses but she had high hopes of discovering more.

While it was not exactly a
warm
night – it was quite chilly, actually – the earlier rain had cleared enough to make the terraces a possibility. Terraces had accommodatingly dim corners, or so her friend Delia had mentioned that they could be employed to good effect. Of course, Delia was a shocking flirt and quite the authority on convenient places to enjoy a discreet tryst. Little wonder her poor mama had been so relieved when the girl had got engaged two months earlier. Johanna had always been fascinated by Delia’s stories but had had no inclination to follow in her daring footsteps… until tonight.

While she accepted invitations to dance, she went through the motions almost automatically, head busy as she considered one scheme or another. She could always wait until they were in the coach going home, of course. They would be private and it would be dim and the journey took a good twenty minutes. But for some reason, the idea of kissing his lordship at the Leythams’ dance exerted a certain allure that she could not ignore. Did not
want
to ignore, she corrected herself with an inward sigh. Time was running out. She knew that she had kept him at Cloverton Hall far longer than he had intended to stay. Her impulsive nature demanded that she act sooner, rather than later.

One way or another, she would kiss Marcus Hathaway tonight!

The solution to her problem came in the form of a small salon she discovered when her last dance partner had gone in search of a cooling glass of lemonade. She was wondering if there might be a door that led off the adjoining drawing room onto the terrace outside when, by dint of sticking her head through various doors, she found exactly what she was looking for. It was probably a small retiring room for the lady of the house for a basket of embroidery stood beside a chair and a fire burned cheerfully in the hearth. It was a cozy, intimate little room. Whatever its purpose, it was mercifully, blissfully empty. Better than that, it seemed unlikely that anybody would disturb them if she managed to lure Marcus Hathaway inside.

The question was… did she dare?

Walking across to a mirror over the mantel, she tweaked her curls a little nervously. ‘Fortune favors the brave, Johanna,’ she told her reflection firmly. Her reflection did not look convinced but she knew that if she did not act soon, Lord Hathaway would ride out of her life and that would be the end of that.

She did not want things to end in such a fashion. Not before…
Oh just do it! Stop thinking about it and do it. What is the worst that can happen? You shock him by being so forward? He runs shrieking from the room?
The thought made her lips twitch. It would almost be worth the humiliation, seeing a man who was so very confident run screaming from her.
Almost
worth it but perhaps not completely.