The Dangerous Viscount (9 page)

The last had turned out to be impossible. For weeks he’d alternated between burning rage and rank misery: rage at her treachery and misery that he would never possess her. When he’d striven, for his own sanity, to forget her, he found he could not. Of all the unacceptable options before him, never seeing Diana again was the least palatable. Finally he had his emotions under control and his plans for the future in place.

But now, for a minute or two, he determined to enjoy a warm room and the company of friends. There could be no better place in the world than this, designed for the amusement and enlightenment of an exclusive coterie of young bibliophiles. Especially since women were not allowed to set foot in the premises, let alone belong to the club.

He noticed that Cain held a volume. “What’s that?” The whole point of the Burgundy Club was to discuss books.

“The Baskerville Virgil.”

“Very nice.” Sebastian examined the binding before opening the volume to look at the elegantly printed pages. “Nice big copy. I love blue morocco. Where did you find it?”

“My wife spotted it.” That was the one problem with Cain. He’d actually proposed his wife for membership of the Burgundy Club. Sebastian, as the new
club’s duly elected president, had quashed that notion in a hurry. Though, he had to admit, as women went the new Lady Chase was quite knowledgeable about books.

“You won’t believe the things Cain’s bought for his collection this summer, with Juliana’s help,” Tarquin said. “She has a magpie eye when it comes to spotting the best books in unpromising circumstances.”

Juliana! Tarquin had gone over to the enemy. As far as Sebastian was concerned the former Juliana Merton was Lady Chase; he would never accept an invitation to address her informally. Beware of women who offer the use of their Christian names, Sebastian thought darkly. He only hoped Cain wouldn’t have cause to regret his marriage.

“You are correct in giving Juliana all the credit,” Cain said. “But we buy things together for our collection.” Sebastian was nauseated by the uxorious sentiment. “She persuaded Banks to part with his Jacobean drama collection,” Cain continued, oblivious to Sebastian’s disgust. “I think he fell a little bit in love with her. Who can blame him?”

“Any luck persuading your mystery man to relinquish the Katherine Parr binding?” Tarquin asked.

While glad to change the subject from Lady Chase’s perfections (and her irritating success in landing a collection Sebastian would not have scorned), Sebastian had nothing happy to report about the prize he’d pursued hard for five years. “He wrote to me hinting he was ready to sell. Then I had to go north and by the time I got to him, just yesterday, he’d changed his mind again.”

“Annoying.”

“Yes. A man should decide on a plan and stick to it. I cannot abide indecisiveness.”

“Persistence, my boy, persistence,” Tarquin urged. “With book collectors or with women it’s the only way to win. Of course,” he added, “
you
don’t need advice when it comes to the so-called fair sex.”

Sebastian took a deep breath. “As a matter of fact I am looking for counsel in that area. I need some hints about how to woo a lady.” He waited for the expected explosion of derision and disbelief from his friends.

Tarquin obliged with a crack of laughter. “I always find offering more money works well.”

“I don’t think Sebastian’s talking about a demirep,” Cain responded softly. “He said it was a lady.”

“Never say you’re looking for marriage,” Tarquin asked, utterly incredulous.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sebastian hedged. No indeed. He’d put that folly behind him forever, but he had no wish to describe his humiliation to his friends. “I’m not sure of my intentions but I do wish to make an impression.”

“I never thought I’d see the day. You’d better talk to Cain. He’s the expert.”

The marquis regarded him from the depths of his chair. “I’m not sure my wife would approve of me giving you lessons in the art of seduction. She doesn’t like you.”

“Why should she ever know?”

“You don’t know much about marriage if you have to ask. You’ll find out.” He gave Sebastian a piercing look. “Or perhaps not. You aren’t by any chance contemplating the seduction of an innocent?”

“What would I want with an innocent?”

“I don’t know, but people do marry them. Unfortunately they sometimes ruin them, though that’s never been my line, nor I think Tarquin’s.”

“Heaven forbid,” Tarquin said with an eloquent shudder. “I like a woman who knows what she’s doing.”

“The lady in question,” Sebastian said, “knows what she’s doing.” On that score he had no doubt.

Tarquin beckoned to the club servant. “Go to White’s and ask them to bring up a bottle of the 1795 Lafite and have it ready for dinner. We’re going to celebrate,” he explained to his friends. “Are you going to tell us who she is?”

“Better for the moment if I keep the lady’s name out of it.”

Tarquin looked at Cain. “Married,” he said.

Cain nodded. “Married. Careful of jealous husbands, Sebastian.”

“And Cain knows what he’s talking about,” Tarquin said.

“Those days are behind me, but only because I survived to tell the tale. I wonder if I ran afoul of this one?”

“There’s no husband,” Sebastian said, unreasonably annoyed.

“Hmm. A widow then. Splendid. There’s nothing like a widow for dalliance, especially if she’s rich. Who do you think it is, Cain?”

Sebastian interrupted before his friends could discuss every widow of their joint acquaintance. “I don’t see what money has to do with it.”

“A wealthy widow,” Tarquin explained, “is less
likely to be set on marriage and I can’t say I blame her. Why surrender fortune and independence to the power of another husband?”

“For love?” Cain suggested.

“Thus speaks the newly married man.”

“Your cynicism is tragic, Tarquin.” Cain turned back to Sebastian. “Are you in love?”

“No!” Sebastian almost yelled. His heartbeat accelerated and his breath shortened in horror at the notion he should suffer such a mawkish sentiment.

“Sebastian in love,” Tarquin said. “Now that would be an interesting sight.”

“May I remind you that I asked for help? Never mind. Forget I ever mentioned it.”

His two friends united in protest, enjoying themselves far too much to miss the treat of contemplating Sebastian Iverley in pursuit of a female.

“How shall I start?” Sebastian said, controlling his rapidly fraying temper. “How does one attract a woman?”

“First of all,” Cain said, settling down and giving the question serious consideration, “is she even aware of your existence?”

“Definitely,” he replied, trying not to sound grim.

“Does she know you are interested?”

“I believe she may have some idea.”

“Excellent. First of all you must, in a delicate manner, make sure you have her full attention.”

Tarquin nodded his approval at Cain’s recommendations. “Go where she goes, attend the same affairs. Appear frequently in her vicinity. You might even brush against her in a crush.”

“But do not,” Cain chimed in, “at this stage address her with more than common politeness.”

“Does Sebastian even know what common politeness is?” Tarquin asked.

“Hold on,” Sebastian said, extracting the small notebook and pencil he kept in an inner pocket. “I need to write this down.”

The marquis gave him a look of exasperation but waited till he was ready. “Pique her interest—that’s P-I-Q-U-E—but keep her guessing as to whether you are attracted. It’s not a bad idea to pay some slight attention to another woman.”

“Perfect!” Tarquin said. “Flirt with her best friend.”

Cain shook his head. “If she’s the kind of women who’ll steal her friends’ admirers you don’t want anything to do with her, except on a purely commercial footing. But make up to her enemy or rival and you’ll arouse her competitive instincts. Especially if she feels you’ve been ignoring her.”

“Brilliant, Cain,” Tarquin said. “You’ll drive her mad with subtle neglect. Then it’s time for a grand gesture.” He looked to Cain for confirmation.

“Exactly.”

Grand gesture,
Sebastian wrote. “I have no idea what that would be,” he said.

“Sweep her into a waltz and refuse to take no for an answer,” Cain suggested.

“Buy her a gift. Diamonds.”

“Commonplace. Emeralds or rubies are better.”

“Or sapphires.”

“Or a pet. A dog works well.”

“Rescue her from an awkward social situation.”

“Or a runaway horse.”

“Or footpads.”

“Hire the footpads if necessary!”

“She’ll be ready to fall into your arms.”

“And whatever it is you do,” Cain elaborated, “make sure it’s exactly what she wants or needs at that moment.”

“And good luck knowing what that is.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty coming up with something.”

Sebastian finished scribbling and held up a hand. “Stop!”

The others fell reluctantly silent.

“There’s one difficulty. These plans involve meeting the lady in question at … places. You mention a ball. I don’t attend such events. Even if I wanted to I’m never invited.”

“Sebastian,” Tarquin said patiently. “Let me explain something. You are a peer. Better yet you are a twenty-six-year-old, unmarried peer. You walk without a limp and have all your teeth. And let’s not forget the huge coal mine. If you want to be invited to any event you have only to let it be known and an invitation will arrive. In fact they’ll probably arrive without any effort on your part. I have every confidence that the London hostesses will be able to discover the direction of your house.”

The image of a marauding pack of women beating on his door with cards of invitation beset Sebastian. Could he really be contemplating this stratagem? Was it worth it, even to have Diana Fanshawe begging for his attentions?

There was only one answer to that question.

He swallowed hard. “I’m not very good at making myself agreeable in company,” he admitted humbly.

Tarquin doubled over with mirth. “The first step to reform is to acknowledge its necessity,” he said, when he’d finally recovered. “Luckily you couldn’t have a better tutor than me. I shall teach you to cultivate address.”

Sebastian nodded.

“And don’t grunt at me.”

“I do not grunt.”

“It’s your principal method of communication,” Cain said through his laughter.

“That grunt has to go,” Tarquin pronounced. “Ladies prefer to be addressed in identifiable words. Better yet, complete sentences.”

Sebastian said nothing. Then a warning look made him realize he had, in fact, grunted again. “Yes, Tarquin,” he said meekly. “Then what?”

“Then we shall go into dinner and get roaring drunk.”

“Why?” Sebastian might not know much about ladies, but he’d always had the impression they deplored insobriety in men. He had a faint recollection of his mother weeping when his sire staggered home reeking of brandy.

“Think of it as a last supper. Tomorrow I’m taking you to my tailor.”

Tarquin’s tailor delivered the first lot of new clothes a fortnight later.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Sebastian observed in some surprise. “I always thought tight clothes would be uncomfortable.”

“Of course they aren’t,” Tarquin said, who’d come to Sebastian’s house to render judgment. “Do you think I spend my life in a state of misery? Really Sebastian, you have the most ridiculous notions. Is that why you’ve dressed like a scarecrow all these years?”

Sebastian shrugged, still slightly surprised he could move in a coat that had taken considerable effort to get into. He pivoted at the waist, startled by the breadth of his shoulders and chest. “I always dressed for ease. But I don’t feel bad, even though this coat is so tight.”

“It is not tight. It is well cut and made to fit you by a master in the art of tailoring.”

“It’s rather inconvenient, not being able to dress without help. Not that I’m sorry to have you, Simkins,” he added politely to his newest servant. Tarquin had exercised considerable persuasion, not to mention a large bribe, to lure Simkins away from his former employer. Apparently Simkins, like Sebastian’s new tailor, was a master and needed to be addressed with respect.

Paying a valet an annual salary equivalent to the cost of a book printed by Caxton wouldn’t ever have occurred to Sebastian, but Tarquin assured him it was worth it. And Sebastian meekly assented. He was bringing his full concentration to the task of transforming himself into a man of fashion, the same single-minded effort he once applied to mastering a horse. He’d been driven to become a skilled horseman by the scorn of his cousin Blakeney. His current quest was, at bottom, spurred by the same thing.

When Sebastian wanted something badly he spared
neither trouble nor expense. And he always got it.

“I look good,” he said, after a careful examination of his reflection in the cheval glass. The full-length mirror was another new acquisition, arriving the same day as the valet. Apart from the coat in dark gray superfine wool, he wore a waistcoat of paler gray heavy silk, discreetly figured in silver, and thigh-hugging trousers of soft doeskin that disappeared into almost knee-high black boots. The new footwear was in his opinion particularly fine, the scent of the butter-soft leather reminding him of his collection of book bindings. He also liked the feeling of the shirt in finest linen cambric against his skin. Less agreeable was the neck cloth, starched as stiff as thick Dartford paper, which Simkins had wound around his neck and tied in a fancy knot according to Tarquin’s directions. He had a notion the confection might wilt after a few hours of normal movement.

“You have to change your linen several times a day,” Tarquin said, echoing his thoughts.

Good God, this dressing business was work!

Sebastian looked over at his closest friend, sitting in a casual pose with one leg crossed over the other. He’d always treated him with affectionate scorn for his devotion to his appearance. He knew Tarquin had achieved his ambition of being acknowledged as London’s best dressed man, and on some level he was glad for his success. Now he felt an inkling of respect for the amount of effort that success had required. He turned back to the mirror and made a discovery.