The Wedding Chase (10 page)

From the first he had been intrigued by her contrasts. Who was Zel Fleetwood? Bold reformer or shy girl, passionate pianist or naive bluestocking, dashing courtesan or frightened virgin? Wolfgang yanked a dark green jacket, striped waistcoat, and buff breeches from the armoire. Where were his damn linens?

By all the denizens of hell! A gnawing in the pit of his stomach told him he had made a mistake of gigantic proportions. The passionate responses to his kisses and touch were certainly real, but they were not the schooled rejoinders of an experienced woman. The dashing courtesan was a role performed for the masquerade with naive enthusiasm. Zel pretended at flirtation, having no inkling what the stakes were. Wolfgang knew this, had known it from the beginning, but had chosen to ignore it last night. He had chosen instead to believe that as a radical thinker and avowed fortune hunter, she must also be a fallen or eager-to-fall woman.

Finding a clean neckcloth and shirt stuffed in the bottom drawer, he shook out the worst of the wrinkles and laid them on the bed. Jenkins would refuse to take another holiday if the efficient valet ever saw the condition of his wardrobe.

Walking to the window, he parted the curtains a sliver. The sun rode high in the sky. He would seek Zel out and declare himself all manner of fools and villains, throwing himself on her mercy. She would have to listen. She would have to agree to remain his friend. His friend? Damnation, what he wanted from her, even after a black eye, had little to do with friendship.

A scratch at the door announced the arrival of his hot water. Wolfgang bathed quickly, ignoring his throbbing eye. He dressed himself, then hurried downstairs, still buttoning the waistcoat under the uselessly dangling cravat.

No sign of her in the breakfast room, music room, or library. He sidled up to the stolid, sour-faced butler.

“Has Miss Fleetwood come down yet?”

“Miss Fleetwood, my lord? She was up and off hours ago.”

“Off?”

“Yes, my lord.” The man looked through him in proper, irritating, butlerish form. “She took a ride with Lady Ashley. She must be halfway to London by now.”

“The devil and his demon spawn!”

“Pardon, my lord?”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing.” Satan take the infuriating female. What was she thinking, turning tail and running back to London? Miss Grizelda Amadea Fleetwood couldn’t even stay put long enough to receive his apology. He’d make a proper call, and she’d bloody well allow him in her salon and hear him out. She’d probably glare at him, stiff as all hell, perched on the edge of a chair, her spine never nearing its high back. Wolfgang smiled grimly. Or maybe she’d scream at him and blacken his other eye.

“Late breakfath before the trip back to London?” Melbourne was developing the most aggravating habit of appearing at inopportune moments. “Gadth, man, your eye!”

Wolfgang pushed Melbourne aside, scowling into his stupid, grinning face, then grabbed the butler’s rigid arm.

“Send for my horse. I’m leaving now!”

“Oh dear, it could not have been so horrible.” Aunt Diana nibbled on a cold slice of roast beef, pushing the tray to Zel.

“It was much worse than horrible.” Zel scooted her high-backed chair closer to the sturdy mahogany table and played with a piece of ham. “What am I going to do?” She inhaled deeply, the dining room smelled more of beeswax and lemon than of cold meat. It was one of the most used rooms of the house, and Aunt Diana kept its dark furniture shining, its drapery and carpeting spotless and bright. The silver, crystal, and china were, of course, impeccable. Dinner
guests would never reconcile it with the shabby parts of the house only the family saw.

“I have already responded to invitations and several gowns are ready. It is not like you to lose your … courage,” Aunt Diana murmured. “What happened?”

“Aunt Diana, I cannot talk about it.” She looked down, slipping a piece of beef to her dog. Remus swallowed it in one unchewed gulp and rewarded her with a wet nose in her palm.

“Zel, what happened?” Zel fell silent a moment, but she knew she was not about to elude her aunt’s questions. “Are you feeding that dog under the table again?”

“No, Aunt Diana.”
That
dog licked her hand, begging for more. “There was a man. I, ah, had a little flirtation.”

“A little … flirtation? You do not flirt, dear.” Her aunt’s stare caught and held her. “What happened?”

“I allowed him to kiss me. He thought …” Zel paused, remembering clearly what he thought and what he did, then blurted out. “He came to my bed and I hit him, in the eye and stomach.”

“Oh, Lord … for goodness’ sake!” Aunt Diana chewed hard on a piece of meat. “No one saw … did they? Did anyone see?”

“No, I am sure no one saw.” Zel was surprised to hear her aunt sigh loudly.

“Who was it?” Aunt Diana asked, a little too eagerly. “Anyone I know?”

“Do you know the earl of Northcliffe?”

“Northcliffe!” She choked, trying for a delicate swallow, but a grin spread over her face. “You hit Lord Northcliffe?” The grin broke into a chuckle. “You refused Northcliffe … hit him?” The chuckle grew until her aunt clutched her stomach, rivers of tears running down her cheeks.

“This is not funny.” Zel’s voice sharpened in amazement at her aunt’s reaction. “I was nearly assaulted, my reputation may be in tatters, and you are hysterical.”

“Zel, dear, I am so sorry.” Aunt Diana regained a modicum of her composure. “Lord Northcliffe is a rake of legendary proportions. Women throw themselves at him. He must be quite beside himself to be refused … in such a manner. He is not marriage material, but I believe he is not a gossip either, so I doubt you will be ruined. As long as you were discreet.”

“I behaved with the utmost discretion.” Zel felt her cheeks heat with her lie, and she looked down at her hands.

Her aunt chuckled again. “Well, at least now you have some, ah … valuable experience, and we can go back to our schemes to land a husband. The worst-laid schemes of rats and men, no, not rats, mice.” She scratched at her chin. “What a strange saying. Why would mice be scheming with men, even badly?”

Zel smiled warmly at her aunt, muttering under her breath. “Robbie Burns be rollin’ in his grave.” Remus barked softly.

“Did you say something, dear?”

“Only that we should finish our luncheon and attend to my wardrobe, which I hope to be a better part of our schemes.”

“I’ll ring for Sally and we’ll undertake a fitting now, before I go out this afternoon. Are you sure you will not come with me?” Zel shook her head and her aunt continued, “You will be amazed at the gowns.… They turned out ever so much better than I dreamed. You will make quite the dash, a leader of fashion. And you will let Sally cut your hair.” She ignored Zel’s horrified look and went on reassuringly. “No, no, not one of those awful bobs. They are not the thing anymore. But your hair is so long and heavy and it falls so shapelessly. When you don’t have it pulled back in that dreadful knot. Just a little off around your face … a few curls around your forehead and temples, then a loose cascade at the crown.”

“The ultimate sacrifice for my brother.” Zel grimaced.
“I suppose I will not expire from a few curls, but no ringlets.”

“Most certainly not, my dear.” Aunt Diana patted her arm approvingly. “The Mattinglys’ ball is tomorrow night.”

“I shall begin, in earnest, my search for the weakest and wealthiest representative of the male animal in the British Isles.” She smiled with false gaiety. “Then I shall proceed to marry him and pick the guineas and sovereigns from his pockets.”

Remus licked at Zel’s hand, then bounded to the doorway and stood attentively looking back at her.

Robin’s raised voice carried through the closed door. “Damn, Father. I said I’d take care of this my own way.”

“And I said to drop it.”

Zel grimaced at her aunt. “They are at it again.” She pushed past Remus and flung wide the door. “Father, Robin. Come in and get a bite to eat.” She ushered her father to the empty chair beside Aunt Diana, motioning Robin to take the seat across the table. “What are you two bickering about now?”

“It’s nothing that should concern you ladies.” Sir Edward glanced at Zel, then flashed a warning look at Robin.

Sparing only a slight frown for her father, Zel sat beside her brother. “Robin, what are you taking care of your own way?”

“Lay off, Zelly. It’s not your affair.”

“I expect it is, or soon will be.”

Father jumped in before Robin could respond. “He’s still after that man who took his money at Maven’s. He’ll get killed.”

“Maven’s? The gambling hell?” Zel grasped Robin’s arm. “For once Father is right. Let it go, Robinson. I would much rather be married to an ogre than have you dead. Besides, you don’t even know the man’s name.”

Robin stared at her, his face set in hard lines. “Made it my business to find out.”

Sir Edward pulled the cold meat tray before him. “Don’t tell her, she’ll only interfere. Make it even worse.”

“All of you leave me alone.” Robin jerked away from Zel and stood. “I’m dealing with this myself.”

“Robinson Crusoe Fleetwood. Do not do anything foolish.” Zel reached for him again but he was almost at the door.

“He’ll find out he’s not trifling with a fool.”

“You’re a total mess, Captain, if you don’t mind me saying so.” Jenkins walked around the lacquered dressing table, tripping over the huge charcoal-gray furry object sprawled on the floor. “Blasted cat.”

“And when did my minding ever stop you?” Wolfgang bent to pick up the cat and grinned at the tiny, white-haired man. It was good to be back at Hardwicke Hall where Jenkins could take care of him.

An answering smile cracked the leathery face, lending a touch of the absurd to the ragged features. Jenkins’s rough youth lived on his face, his oft-broken nose, his crooked jaw, his uneven eyes, his missing earlobe. But his teeth, by some miracle, had endured, straight and radiant white.

“Hecate, did you miss me?” Wolfgang scratched the cat’s fluffy head, then ran his fingers lightly over the offered throat.

Jenkins brushed more dirt off Wolfgang’s jacket. “It won’t take but half an hour to repair you right.”

“I don’t have half an hour. It’s long past the proper hours for making calls now.” Wolfgang took a quick glance in the glass. He looked like the wind had blown him in, and indeed it had. He had riden Ari hard, leaving his groom to bring in the phaeton. And his eye. Let her see it and feel bad, guilty, maybe even sorry for him.

“Then make your call tomorrow.” Jenkins assumed his
tone of propriety. “Your eye might look a bit better by then.”

Jenkins hadn’t shown the least surprise over his eye, and Wolfgang found himself more than a little irritated. He was no longer a little ruffian fighting his way through Eton. And when he did fight, he was skilled enough to rarely be injured.

“It can’t wait. By Mephistopheles! I can’t wait.” Stalking into the bedroom, he pushed aside the nearly sheer bed hangings and sat on the silken cushions of the low, wide bed. He extended his legs to allow Jenkins access to his boots, with Hecate still draped indolently across his arm.

“What scrape are you in now?” Jenkins’s voice changed to piously indulgent, as he brushed the dirt off the black Hessians.

“Why I allow you to talk to me like this I’ll never know. Do you realize no other employer would permit the liberties I do?” He continued to stroke the rumbling throat of the giant feline, purring back into her ear. “Would he, little witch?”

“But Captain, you’re not any other employer.” The boots were nearly back to their usual mirror shine.

Wolfgang laughed, deep in his chest. Jenkins had been with his family over thirty years, through childhood and youth, military career and marriage. It was not an exaggeration to admit that without Jenkins’s wisdom, courage, and unusual skills, he would never have survived childhood, let alone the later years.

“Jenkins, I need to call on a lady. A lady to whom I have given grave insult.” Wolfgang frowned, toying with the tassel dangling from the pillow beside him. Hecate batted at the tassel with a deceptively quick paw.

“Can we expect her family’s seconds to call?” Jenkins’s tenor voice was firm and steady, he didn’t miss a stroke as he brushed off the dusty breeches.

“From what I know of her family, she would be more
likely to fight a duel for them than vice versa.” His lips twitched. “But I am the villain of the piece and I must apologize to her today. If I leave it for tomorrow, she’ll never speak to me again.” He set down the complaining cat and pushed up from the cushions. “My phaeton won’t arrive for hours, so I’ll take the town coach. Could you see that it’s ready while I raid the kitchen?”

Minutes later Wolfgang jumped into the coach for the short ride from his elegant graystone mansion on Berkeley Square to the little brick house on Brook Street. He could have walked, but the call warranted the coach with the earl’s crest. She wouldn’t be impressed, but maybe her family would.

The speech he’d rehearsed on the neck-or-nothing ride to London seemed increasingly inadequate the closer he got to her home. How in hell did one apologize for attempting to bed a woman and at the same time soften her up for the next attempt? In all his experiences with women this was a new one for him. If he had a shred of decency … Lucifer’s misbegotten! He’d been over that argument before. No, he wanted Zel Fleetwood. And she wanted him. Those kisses in Lady Selby’s garden were proof of her desire. The coals had been stirred in that banked fire. All he needed now was to add more fuel, and he’d have a roaring blaze.

And if he didn’t have her soon, she could easily become an obsession, a symbol of unattainable passion, that he would be compelled to covet. The best way to kill the hunger was to taste the fruit. And this particular hybrid promised flavorful fruit, but just fruit all the same.

The town house seemed smaller than he remembered from the night he brought her brother home. The knocker was up and no one was in sight. As he stepped down from the carriage, the front door was opened by the short, round man who had escorted him up the stairs to Fleetwood’s bedroom. Wolfgang handed the man his hat and card, watching as
recognition spred over the ruddy Face. “I would like to see Miss Fleetwood.”