One Tempting Proposal (11 page)

He'd begun the evening determined to refuse Kat, manage a single waltz without bruising her toes, and return to Wrexford House. He had plenty to do and none of it involved dancing or strutting around a ballroom. Only halfway through decoding the estate's ledger books when they departed for London, he'd insisted on bringing them along. The daunting pile of correspondence that seemed to breed on his desk at Roxbury had somehow followed him to London, and an unfinished paper he was due to present to the London Mathematical Society awaited a final polish.

“She's a beauty.”

The barking volume of the man's voice disturbed Seb nearly as much as turning to find Lord Ponsonby looming by his side. For a bulky man, he approached with surprising stealth.

Seb crossed his arms, ignored the man's question, and cast Ponsonby a wary glance. His tone as he spoke of Kat's beauty, and the creeping way he trailed his gaze over her as she moved across the ballroom raised Seb's hackles, and he resisted a moment before shaking the man's offered hand.

“Wrexford, is it? Ponsonby, though I suspect your aunt has already told you my name. She offered to make an introduction, but she's no doubt orchestrating a match between some chit and her swain or overseeing a naval treaty or some such. Busy woman.”

“She is indeed.” Although Kat had gone in search of his aunt, he could now see no sign of either lady in the ballroom.

“I acquired a Rembrandt last week, Wrexford.”

Seb was familiar with the Dutch master. His mother had been fond of art and made sure her children had a passing knowledge of art history. How the man's acquisition related to their stunted conversation, Seb hadn't a clue.

“Well done.” Seb offered the accolade lightly as he reached up to straighten his waistcoat, preparing to take his leave of the rambling Ponsonby and go off in search of Kat.

“The seller refused my first three offers, but I wasn't daunted. Once I've fixed on my prize, I'm not a man to be easily dissuaded.”

Seb focused on the wall sconce in his line of vision, gaslit, and with four crystals dripping from its gilded base. He worked to steady his breathing as he watched Ollie and Lady Harriet moving past him in the ballroom. She wore the same flower as Kat had in her hair. Ten waxy white petals framed by two glossy leaves. He flexed his fingers, but held the rest of his body still, resisting the urge to turn and tell the one pompous fool at his elbow just what to do with all his bluster.

The older man cocked his hip and leaned on the silver-­handled cane under his right hand. He'd been watching the ballroom as he spoke, never quite meeting Seb's eye. Now he swiveled enough to gaze up at him.

“She is not on offer, Ponsonby.” Seb turned to face the nobleman as he said it, enunciating every word so there could be no doubt as to his meaning.

“Nonsense, Wrexford. She's only refused me three times, and her resistance now will only make my eventual victory sweeter. Indeed, her refusals make her the only woman in this ballroom worth having.” The man's hard gaze didn't match his jesting tone.

She's mine.
A possessive impulse rushed Seb like the burn of single malt Scotch, a delicious fizz in his veins. Never mind that it was false. Never mind that it was temporary. Kat wouldn't be marrying this irritating nobleman, and that was a victory worth savoring.

“Perhaps you should take the lady at her word and accept her refusal.”

Not that accepting a woman's word always made for a happy ending. Alecia had taught him that lesson well. Yet Seb wasn't foolish enough to expect dishonesty from all women any more than he expected honesty from all men.

“Ha! You've much to learn, Wrexford. Lady Katherine refuses all her suitors. That's her game.” Ponsonby's barking chortle was as annoying as his booming voice.

The notion that Kat liked to play games with men and their emotions set the muscle in Seb's jaw ticking. Perhaps it was true. Was he not a player in her latest scheme?

Seb and Ponsonby glared at each other a moment, taking the other's measure, and then the elderly viscount snapped his head, sniffing the air and searching the ballroom as if he sensed Kat's approach.

She glided toward them and offered the nobleman a slight grin, but the corners of her mouth fell when she met Seb's gaze.

“Lord Ponsonby, has Wrexford not told you our news?”

The man's forehead furrowed and he stacked his hands on the head of his cane, leaning toward Seb with a menacing glint in his eye. “He has not, my lady.”

She'd been unstoppable in her determination to blurt the news to Alecia, and yet now Kat stood watching him, slim arms crossed.

An echo of that liquor-­heat rush of victory welled up again, especially when she attempted to glare at him and only one eye truly narrowed, as if she was winking at him instead. Then his eyes locked on the beauty mark, the one at the corner of her mouth.

Kat pursed her mouth, drawing his gaze to her lips.

Lips he'd tasted, and wanted to kiss again.

A clicking sound set his teeth on edge and he turned to find the cause, only to realize it was her foot, slapping the parquet floor and flicking the edge of her dress.

“We're to be married.” She blurted the words as unenthusiastically as he'd ever heard any news imparted.

Ponsonby's jowls began to quiver. “Impossible. I spoke to your father just this evening at the club. He said nothing.”

Seb cut in. “I have yet to speak to Lady Katherine's father, but I am confident of his consent.” At his only meeting with her father, Lord Clayborne had all but demanded Seb propose to Kat. Surely the marquess would be pleased to hear the news.

Ponsonby hung his head a moment and his shoulders sagged with defeat, but then he pushed against his cane and straightened. “Who gave you a title? You cannot even ask for a woman's hand properly. What kind of a gentleman are you?”

Kat moved as if to intervene, but Seb stepped forward to stand between her and Ponsonby.

“I am the gentleman she didn't refuse.”

Kat stepped back, away from Ponsonby's gaze, but she clasped her hands in front of her, as if locking herself off from conversation or contact. Ponsonby nearly toppled forward to get a glimpse of her before sketching an awkward half bow and stomping toward the refreshment room.

Seb wasn't certain whether he pitied Ponsonby more for believing he'd ever had a chance to marry Kat, or himself for being the fool who'd be stuck by her side for weeks before being snubbed just as decidedly.

 

Chapter Eleven

W
AITING IN
C
LAYBORNE'S
sterile drawing room to ask the man for Kat's hand in marriage was far worse than pacing the halls had been as a first-­year Cambridge student before a test. Seb rapped his knuckles against the arm of the chair and then began counting the polished studs at the edge of upholstery. He'd stolen a few moments in the morning to work on his paper for the Mathematical Society, and read a bit of Boole's
The Laws of Thought,
but anticipation, a sort of Ollie-­like giddiness, had plagued his efforts to indulge in algebraic logic or any sort of useful thinking at all. Even now his pulse jumped in his throat and he couldn't keep his fingers from tapping the arm of the chair. He tried for a Fibonacci sequence—­might as well have some order even if he couldn't achieve it in his mind—­but lost count and had to start again.

It was ridiculous. Their whole engagement would be a ruse.
Nothing to be so damned pleased about, man.

The only numbers that truly mattered now were the days until he could put the scheme behind him. A month, perhaps two? After Ollie's wedding, there'd be no reason to remain in London. A broken engagement with a marquess's daughter wouldn't earn him many invitations to balls and dinner parties. He would close up Wrexford House early and return to Roxbury. The grand estate still didn't feel like home, but he'd accepted it as his future, and his responsibility.

“Grab her! Get Persephone before Wiggins does.”

Kat's voice rang out, high-­pitched and panicked, and Seb shot up from his chair. Moments later, a blond girl bounded into the room, head down, arms pumping, and stopped just short of barreling into him.

She appeared to be about nine or ten, and her honey blond hair and green eyes reminded him so much of Kat that he deduced the girl was her younger sister, who he'd yet to meet.

As he studied her, the child planted a hand on each hip and speared him with a withering glare.

“Are you Persephone?” If he'd been told the name of Kat's youngest sister, he couldn't recall it.

“No, I'm Violet, and you're in my way, sir.” As she spoke, her eyes darted around the drawing room floor. “Have you seen her?”

“Seen who?” The room had been empty from the moment the maid ushered him in and asked him to wait for Lord Clayborne.

The girl huffed out a sigh and rolled her eyes. “Persephone, of course. Haven't you been paying attention?”

When he didn't immediately answer, the child stepped around him and crouched down to look under a table. “Aha.”

Her satisfied exclamation, like Sherlock Holmes finding the mystery-­solving clue, intrigued him.

“You've found her?”

The girl pointed to the legs of an end table and Seb squinted at the polished wood before finally glimpsing the tip of a fluffy gray tail flicking against the rear left leg. Stepping back, he could make out the whole ball—­all gray fluff except for two lime green eyes.

“Persephone's a cat.” Stating the obvious didn't impress the girl, and she twisted her mouth at Seb as if he still had it all wrong.

“She's my kitten, but she's also a Greek princess who lives under the world.” She frowned a moment. “Not my kitten, of course. She's English, not Greek. And she's not a princess.”

Then the child who'd treated him with such gruff indifference began cooing lovingly at the ball of gray fluff. “Are you, Persie? Are you a princess?”

“Where is she?” Kat rushed into the room and skidded to a halt at the sight of her sister crawling under the table to retrieve the kitten. Then she noticed him.

“Wrexford. You're early.”

“Sebastian.” He reminded her to use his given name.

“Violet, come and bring that little mischief-­maker.”

“She won't come out.” Violet straightened and looked down at her kitten with the same irritated glare she'd given Seb.

Kat crouched slowly, clearly trying for stealth, to retrieve the kitten.

“So you're the man Kitty's going to marry?”

In that moment, with her chin tilted high and one eyebrow arched, Violet reminded him more of Lord Clayborne than Kat.

“She did say she would.” Seb watched Kat as he said it. Her long skirts had pooled around her as she knelt down and reached out to retrieve the recalcitrant kitten.

“Then she will. My sister always does what she says she will. That's why she couldn't accept any of the others.” Violet leaned toward him and whispered, “And because they were all odious.”

Kat drew back and stood with a gray ball of fur tucked in her arms. The kitten blinked up at each of them accusingly.

“I should introduce the two of you properly.”

“Your Grace, may I present my sister, Lady Violet?” Violet stepped in front of him at Kat's pronouncement and bowed a graceful little curtsy.

“Violet, the Duke of Wrexford . . .” Seb straightened his back and bent to offer the girl a chivalrous bow. “He's not at all odious, as far as I can tell.”

“Such high praise, Lady Katherine.” Seb cast his feigned betrothed a wry grin.

“Let's hope you don't prove me wrong.”

Before he could offer another retort, Kat turned to her sister. “I've made a place for your kitten in the conservatory. Shall we take her?”

The girl nodded and gazed up at Seb expectantly. Apparently, it was her way of inviting him to come along.

“Don't worry, Persie. We'll hide you so that Wiggins will never find you.”

“Who's Wiggins?” In for a penny, in for a pound. If he was to be a part of this cat-­hiding mission, he might as well have all the facts.

“Our butler,” Kat called back over her shoulder.

“He said he'd eat Persie,” Violet insisted.

“That sounds rather extreme.” He'd teased Pippa mercilessly when they were children, but he could easily imagine how well even a jest about eating one of her pets would have been received.

Kat turned back and lifted a hand to pat Violet's arm. “He was teasing you, sweet. You know Wiggins isn't fond of pets.”

Slowing her pace as they approached the conservatory, Kat looked back and forth to make sure none of the housemaids or other staff saw them enter. Once inside, she led Seb to a corner near the edge of the glass wall that extended into the town house's outdoor garden. The morning sun had already warmed the spot, and as soon as she began to lean forward, Persephone jumped down and onto a plush pillow arranged near a dish of water.

Violet hunched beside her kitten and began stroking its fur into order while rambling through a series of questions. How did Persie like her new home? Was she frightened of Wiggins too? Would she like a treat before supper? Unless her languid blinks were a kind of cat Morse code, the kitten seemed disinclined to answer.

Kat drew close and whispered. “I don't think he'd do the kitten any real harm, but she'll be safe in here. The conservatory makes him sneeze and other staff rarely come in here.”

“That puts my mind at ease.” Seb grinned but didn't look at Kat. Both of them focused on Violet as she fussed over her kitten. “You've allowed me into your conservatory twice and claim I'm not odious. One might almost think you're growing fond of me.”

He hoped his light tone might ease the tension between them, but Kat remained stiff and quiet at his side.

Then finally, without turning to look at him, she said, “Don't get ahead of yourself, Wrexford.”

Seb turned to study her profile, but Kat ignored him and continued to stare ahead, watching her sister.

“Your father is expecting me. May we have a word after I meet with him?”

“I'll wait for you in the drawing room.” Though she spoke agreement, the sharpness in her tone sounded like resistance to Seb's ears.

He leaned toward her and lowered his voice to a whisper. “You do still want to carry through with this?”

His question earned him a glance before she turned back toward Violet. “Yes, of course.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Violet.”

The child lifted a finger to her lips. “Not so loud, Your Grace. Persie's almost asleep.”

Seb took a deep breath, steeling himself for his performance with Lord Clayborne. He'd yet to tell his sister or Ollie about their plan. He hadn't lied to anyone yet. Kat had taken the initiative of telling Alecia and Ponsonby and he'd stood by mutely, lying by omission. But now he'd face the marquess alone, and he was the kind of man Seb suspected could spot a liar from across a room.

As he exited the conservatory, he frowned at the sound of lighter footsteps trailing his own. He turned and Kat reached out to grasp his upper arm.

“When you meet with my father, please don't mention the kitten. My sisters and I have learned that, in some cases, the less my father knows, the better.”

He glanced over her shoulder. Violet had found a book and held it up for perusal with one hand while resting the other on the gray fluffball's steadily rising and falling back.

“Let's distract him with planning a wedding instead.”

It was their one objective. The good that could come of all their subterfuge, and the reminder of it finally seemed to chip through the chill between them. Kat almost grinned. Seb hadn't realized how much he craved some sign of pleasure or camaraderie from her. He sighed, letting a bit of his anxiety about meeting Clayborne ebb.

As he gazed at her, Seb recalled the first time he'd found her in this green space. That studious, unfashionably dressed woman fascinated him, and he didn't like how much he looked forward to getting a few more glimpses of her over the coming weeks.

“I'll be waiting in the drawing room.” Her practical tone drew him back to the matter at hand. “We have much to do.”

“Do we?”

“Yes, of course. We both want this over with quickly. In a short time, we must carry on a courtship, prevent our own wedding, and plan Hattie and Oliver's.”

Kat turned to retreat to her conservatory, but then she paused and gazed back at him over her shoulder. It was just what he needed to bolster him for the meeting with the marquess.

“Good luck, Sebastian.”

“M
ARRY HER?
M
ARRY
Katherine?”

Seb loathed the way her father said her name with a hard emphasis on the three syllables and an incredulous tone, as if he doubted any man could desire her.

“Yes, my lord.”

He'd said it twice, as clearly as he could. The direct approach seemed best. No use prevaricating or dragging it out.

The man was as confounding as his daughter. He'd all but insisted on a match with Kat the first time Seb met with him, and now he stared as if he thought requesting her hand meant Seb was bound for Bedlam.

The marquess seemed more interested in studying Seb than in giving due consideration to the request to marry his daughter. At first he'd glared from across the expanse of his desk, then stood and circled Seb's chair like a predator sniffing its prey, and now he'd positioned himself before the fireplace, a hand on each hip, starring at the back of Seb's head.

Not only could Seb feel the man's gaze boring into him, but thanks to an ornate mirror on the wall before him, he could watch Clayborne assessing him.

“Why?”

“Pardon?” Seb turned in his chair, but the furnishing was too narrow and damnably uncomfortable. He stood, stretching his muscles, and faced Clayborne.

“The season breeds matches and hasty ones at that, I'll allow, but you've known my daughter for the sum of three days.”

“It's a short acquaintance admittedly, but Lady Katherine . . . makes an indelible impression.” It wasn't a lie. From the moment Seb laid eyes on her, she'd been a tenacious presence in the back of his mind.

“And your friend wishes to marry her sister.”

Seb tried to grin or lift his mouth in the semblance of amusement, but his cheek spasmed instead. “A fortuitous coincidence, isn't it?”

“I shall consider Treadwell now, of course.”

Seb inhaled and it was easier than it had been a moment before. Anxiety lifted, like a fever leaving his body, and his pulse danced as it had the first time he'd spoken to Kat. It was worth it. The torment of growing close to a woman only to break with her publicly in a few short weeks. The guilt of lying to those he loved. For this moment and the prospect of seeing Ollie happily wed, it was all worth it.

Clayborne cleared his throat. “Don't count your winnings until the race is finished.”

Seb swallowed down joy as he nodded his head.

“Betrothals are well and good, Wrexford, but none of it matters until the ceremony. If Mr. Treadwell meets muster, perhaps we should consider a double wedding.”

“Yes, perhaps.” He and Kat had decided nothing further than this moment. Beyond the plan to end the ruse in as few days as they could, Seb had no real notion how they'd pull it off. Clayborne intended to see Kat married. How could they dissuade him? He'd feared the marquess might slap Ollie with a breach-­of-­promise suit, but now he could foresee a legal battle in his own future.

“Cigar?”

Seb never smoked. “No, thank you, my lord.”

“Well, sit at least.”

Rather than returning to his desk chair, Clayborne seated himself in front of his study's unlit fireplace before flicking a hand toward the opposite chair, indicating Seb should sit. Like his daughter, the man moved with precision, as if sparing energy for comfort or giving into slouching was against his philosophy of life.

“You have my blessing, of course. But tell me how you convinced her.”

“Convinced her?”

“To accept your proposal.”

His lips were dry. His mouth was a desert. And his mind was momentarily as uninhabited as the Sahara.

“She's refused six others.” Clayborne held still, watching Seb closely for a reaction.