Seducing the Rake (Mad, Bad and Dangerous Heroes) (16 page)

When she looked back out the window, her mysterious lurker had gone. If only all her
other
problems would disappear so fast, she thought bitterly.

 “You are
impossible!
I can’t imagine
what
lunacy made me consent to this.”

The white-haired Duchess of Cranford sat stiffly, her eyes keen on Lord Morland’s face as his carriage sprang into motion.

“You didn’t do it because you fell victim to my rakehell charm?” The Earl of Morland gave his elderly companion a self-mocking smile. “Don’t tell me you mean to dash my pretensions, Your Grace?”

The duchess studied her companion with a look that mingled exasperation and fondness. “You really are the worst sort of scoundrel, Tony Morland. Don’t think you fool me for a second.”

“I?
I wouldn’t dream of trying.”

The duchess’s blue eyes sharpened. “But since I have so unwisely committed to this rash course of action, you had better tell me about this female we are to visit. Cameron, did you say her name was?”

Morland nodded, wisely holding back a smile.

“Cameron … I knew an Arthur Cameron once. Ages, it’s been. The man was quite smitten with me, as a matter of fact.” The duchess’s lips curved up at some secret memory. “Of course, he was an out-and-out rascal, without a feather to fly with. A match was quite out of the question. I heard he sailed to America to make his fortune, leaving behind a string of broken hearts from Southampton to Scarborough. I wonder if he could be any relation.”

Very likely,
Morland thought.

“Speak up, boy.”

“Er—quite unlikely, Your Grace. The Camerons are an old and respected family. Holdings to the north, I believe.” The lie came very smoothly.

The duchess stared intently at Morland. He was looking remarkably handsome this morning. His frock coat of dark blue superfine had the superb fit that pronounced it the work of Weston, while his waistcoat of gold damask added the ideal hint of color. His cream-colored pantaloons were perfection itself.

Of course, the duchess did not tell him this. “Humph. One thing I’ll say, you always could tie a neckcloth to perfection. Nothing ham handed about you. Even my poor departed Bartholomew, bless his soul, never could aspire to the Oriental.”

Her head angled forward as she studied the exquisite folds of Morland’s crisp linen. “Or is that the Mathematical?” Her eyesight was not as good as it once was, but she refused to make any concession to her advancing age.

“It’s a design of my own creation, actually,” came the lazy reply. “It has been dubbed ‘the Langford,’ I believe.”

“Humph. And a Corinthian to boot. It is time you put those talents of yours to better use. Setting up a household, perhaps.” She shook her silver-handled cane for emphasis. “And a nursery, while you’re at it, young man. It’s high time you wed.”

Morland raised one lazy blond brow. “Your Grace had someone particular in mind? Or is this duty of mine to be exercised upon a nameless abstraction?”

The duchess planted her cane and gave way to reluctant laughter. “Oh, I could name you half a dozen eligible females who would have you in a second. And there must be a hundred more giddy but entirely ineligible females who’ve set their caps on you even as we speak. But no, you exasperating boy, I have no
particular
candidates in mind right now.”

“If you did, I would most certainly know it,” Morland said dryly.

“The problem with you, Tony Morland, is that you’ve had too
many
giddy females with more hair than wit trotted out for your inspection in the last five years. It’s hardened you. When you look out at Almack’s now, you might as well be eyeing the horseflesh at Tattersalls.”

Morland gave a faint shrug. “But my dear, I
never
go to Almack’s anymore. Too endlessly fatiguing.”

“You see? There it is. The whole business has gone to your head.” The duchess’s cane struck the carriage floor for emphasis. “But let me tell you this, young man, if I ever
do
find the right woman, never doubt that I’ll set her at you like a cat to cream, and I’ll not stop until I see you leg-shackled, you young jackanapes!”

“You deprive me of speech, Your Grace.”

“Rubbish! You were
never in your life
speechless.” Abruptly the duchess chuckled. “So what’s the female like? An out-and-out harridan, no doubt? Totally unmanageable, I should imagine. And why are you taking such an interest in the gel?”

Morland smoothed his immaculate doeskin morning gloves. “Which question would you like answered first, my dear? I believe that makes three.”

The duchess’s blue eyes glittered. “The
last
one.”

“My interest in Miss Cameron is in the nature of a debt of honor. As I believe I informed you earlier, Miss Cameron is the daughter of an old and very dear friend. After her father saved my life—for the second time, I might add—in a fit of weakness I promised him whatever assistance I could in securing his daughter’s entrance into London Society.”

His voice was all bland sincerity.

You can use that story to great effect in Society, Tony Morland, but it won’t hold water with me,
the duchess thought.

The carriage drew up before a narrow townhouse on a street that was far from fashionable. The duchess frowned. “Here?”

“I am sure you will find Miss Cameron delightful. You of all people should understand the, er—charms of someone quite out of the ordinary way.”

The duchess gave a snort. “Don’t try to turn me up soft.”

The earl restrained a smile as he handed the fragile old woman down the steps. But the duchess’s eyes, he noted, were sparkling with an excitement he had not seen in months. And though her step was not quite steady as she leaned on his arm in ascending the marble stairs, her chin was high.

No one would ever think to look at her that she lived in continuing pain, he thought. Only he guessed, because he also knew the cost of holding a smile in the face of constant pain.

But she was not thinking of her infirm joints now. She was caught up in her matrimonial speculations., and Tony decided that the next few minutes should prove thoroughly amusing.
Almost
enough to compensate for the damnable discomfort of having given the two finest servants in London into Chessy’s employ.

He gave a faint shudder, trying to forget the sight of the burned toast and congealed eggs that had awaited him in the breakfast room that morning. He only hoped that Miss Cameron realized what a paragon she had in her new housekeeper.

When the door opened, Whitby appeared. “Your Grace. Your lordship,” the butler intoned. “If you will follow me.”

They passed down freshly polished corridors heady with the scent of lemon oil and beeswax. Morland nodded approvingly. Mrs. Harris was as efficient as ever.

He sighed, recalling the chaos he had left behind him at Half Moon Street, where the parlor maid had been busy quarreling with the valet, and the groom had been quarreling with both of them.

Yes, he truly hoped that Miss Cameron enjoyed her treasures…

Whitby held open the door to a small, sunlit rear parlor. “Miss Cameron will attend you shortly. Would you care for refreshment while you wait?”

Morland glanced at the duchess, who shook her head. At the moment she appeared too interested in the room’s contents to think of eating.

Morland couldn’t blame her. The room’s wooden shelves boasted a row of striking curiosities. Idly Morland ran his fingers across a ceramic teapot worked in the shape of a peach, complete with leaves for a lid and a twisting stem for a handle.

Beside the teapot stood an exquisite goddess in rare lavender-colored jadeite. That single statue alone, Morland estimated, would have netted Chessy the cost of hiring an army of servants and all the coal she could use in a lifetime.

He could only respect her good taste in refusing to part with such a treasure.

Beneath the sculpture stood two blue and white porcelain bowls decorated with peonies. Morland guessed them to be early thirteenth century. They were the finest he had ever seen.

The salon door opened. Beside him the Duchess of Cranford stiffened. One hand tightened on her silver cane. Morland wondered if the climb from the carriage had been a greater strain than he had realized. Quickly he moved to take the old woman’s fingers and tuck them into the crook of his arm. Only then did he turn back to Chessy.

His eyes widened.

She stood on the threshold, luminous in a gown of lavender muslin with darker violet ribbons. The silk perfectly matched her eyes, Morland thought dimly.

And her hair
…

Something tightened in his throat.

Instead of curling and frizzing her hair into the ringlets so favored by
ton
beauties, Chessy had pulled back her hair in a violet bow that allowed the dark, glossy mass to cascade straight down her back.

She should have looked juvenile and countrified. She should have looked awkward and harsh.

But she did not. At that moment she looked to Morland like Beauty incarnate, with all the grace of a Grecian goddess.

He felt his body tighten from chest to groin, stabbed by desire. A pressure on his arm called his attention back to reality. He bowed smoothly. “Ah, Miss Cameron. You look ravishing today. I trust you will forgive my impertinence in bringing by a good friend to meet you. May I present the Duchess of Cranford.”

He looked down at his companion, frowning when she did not move. Could it be that she was in greater pain than he thought?

“I-I think I must sit down,” the duchess said faintly. Morland started to move toward an armchair beside the door.

But Chessy was before him. “Of course you must sit. How very rag-mannered you must think us!” With a cool grace that Morland found remarkable, Chessy took the duchess’s hand and led her to a cut-velvet wing chair beneath a sunny window. “Whitby will be up with tea directly, but if you’d prefer something stronger…”

The duchess slowly regained her color. “No need to fuss, my dear. It’s just—you have the look of someone I met many years ago, and it’s taken me quite by surprise. Strange how time and memory play tricks on us. Twenty years gone.”

The duchess closed her eyes, patting Chessy’s wrist. “How I run on. You’d be quite right to think me a hen-witted old fool. I don’t usually behave this way. Morland will vouch for that.”

The earl propped one broad shoulder against a newly polished mantel crowned with a vase of daffodils. “Oh, she’s right about that. Miss Cameron. The Duchess of Cranford is a most terrible dragon. The whole
ton
lives in dread of her slightest setdown.”

Chessy’s eyes crinkled. “Indeed? Then I must remember to be on my best behavior.”

“What nonsense the boy speaks.” The duchess shot Tony a quelling look. “Ignore him, my dear. I’m not half so black a figure as he paints me.”

Chessy smiled. “I think I
shall
ignore him.”

Morland was saved from a response by the arrival of the imperious Whitby bearing a silver tray.

“Thank you, Whitby. On the lacquer table, I think.”

Morland watched appreciatively as Chessy sat down and began pouring tea. Every movement had an innate grace, h
e
thought, watching the exquisite care with which she shifted each saucer, centered each cup, and then tendered them to her guests.

For some reason the sight made him think of her performing the same service for him.

In his home.

In his parlor.

As his wife.

When Chessy held out a fine, gold-rimmed teacup, some devil made Morland brush her fingers lightly with his own. He felt her instant tremor, saw her lovely eyes widen.

Now they were darkest purple, he thought dimly, nearly forgetting the teacup clutched in his fingers.

Like spring lavender.

Like violet damask, which was exactly what he would wish her to wear when she served tea from thin-walled porcelain cups in his sunny parlor facing Half Moon Street.