Three Weeks With Lady X (4 page)

Chapter Four

June 17

40, Hanover Square

London

I
ndia was happy to see that the Duke of Villiers’s eldest son lived in a spacious town house built of white marble, its pillars the perfect size and shape to support its portico. There was nothing she liked more than to be given
carte blanche
in her renovations, and from all appearances, her client had the funds to do so.

But the moment she and Adelaide entered his library and Dautry rose from behind his desk to greet them, she realized she had made a grave miscalculation.

He walked toward them with the effortless confidence of a man who is formidable in every respect, even though he wore no coat or cravat, just a white linen shirt and breeches that stretched over his thigh muscles. Stubble darkened his jaw, and his hair was neither pulled back in a neat queue nor covered by a wig.

He looked like a farm laborer.

Or a king.

India would guess that he dominated any group of men in which he found himself. Birth hierarchy would be displaced by a more primal hierarchy of maleness. He breathed a power brewed from masculinity and intelligence, not from an accident of inheritance.

Still, his bones were knit together with a fineness that spoke of his father, of the Duke of Villiers. In fact, she could see the duke in Mr. Dautry’s every lineament: in his high cheekbones, in the brutal turn of his jaw, even in the white streak that punctuated his black hair.

To her horror, India realized that all that maleness had kindled a sultry warmth in her stomach, and her pulse was thumping to a disgracefully erotic beat. She was both shocked and surprised by her body’s reaction. She was decidedly not a woman who turned weak-kneed over a man.

The feeling, however, was decidedly not mutual. Indifferent eyes flicked over her, and he turned to her godmother. “Lady Xenobia,” he said to Adelaide, bowing, “it is a pleasure to meet you.”

Adelaide giggled, a girlish sound that India had heard only once or twice. “Mr. Dautry, I fear you are quite mistaken. I am Lady Adelaide Swift. May I introduce you to my goddaughter, Lady Xenobia?”

No sooner had surprise flashed across his face than it was gone. “I am honored, Lady Adelaide,” he said smoothly. He turned to India. “My apologies, Lady Xenobia. I assumed you were Lady Adelaide’s companion, judging you far too young to have accomplished the miracles that the Duchess of Villiers credits you with.”

His reference to her youth—welcome though it might have been—did not make up for his assumption about her status. The only thing that made her feel better was that she was almost certain that proper grammar would require “
with which
the duchess credits you.”

Mr. Dautry bowed to her, though with none of the flourishes that men generally produced when introduced to the daughter of a marquess. Even those who knew something about her father—that is, that he had been as daft as a chicken in the rain—paid obeisance to her title. Yet this man didn’t even bother to brush his lips over her glove.

“It is a pleasure, Mr. Dautry,” she murmured, wishing that she was wearing a gown that would bring a man to his knees. Irritatingly, that image just sent another streak of heat down her legs.

Of course, her godmother tumbled back into speech. “I could never accomplish any of darling India’s miracles, I assure you! Why, when we were at your father’s home . . .” Still talking, Adelaide trotted over to a sofa and happily accepted an offer of refreshment. India followed, watching as Mr. Dautry jerked his head at the butler, sending him off to fetch tea.

As Adelaide talked on and on, scarcely pausing for breath, Mr. Dautry’s face took on a faint air of boredom. India adored her godmother, although she sometimes found herself dazed by Adelaide’s prattle. But that was for
her
to feel, and no one else was allowed to exhibit the slightest hint of ennui in her godmother’s company. She gave Mr. Dautry a narrow-eyed glance that said without words that his expression was an impertinence.

He just raised a brow, not a bit abashed.

Once the butler returned with a tray, Adelaide engaged herself pouring tea—a ceremony that she took extremely seriously—and there was finally a moment of silence in the room.

“So, Lady Xenobia,” Dautry said, “my stepmother assures me that you are quite proficient at renovating houses.”

Proficient
? Eleanor would never have damned her with such faint praise. Clearly, this man was not going to be as easily managed as most of her clients.

Temper was ever her failing, and sure enough a spark of it kindled at his insult. “She has informed me that you are
desperate
to refurbish a country house,” she replied.

Next to her, Adelaide’s brows drew together. There was nothing that Adelaide disliked more than rudeness, and India’s tone had been slightly impolite—as had Mr. Dautry’s.

He settled back in his chair and gave India the smile with which a tiger greets a gazelle. “Yes, that’s accurate. I hate to wait, you see. I am easily bored.”

He probably never waited—not for a carriage, nor for a woman, nor for anything.

“I was very pleased to hear that you are planning to marry,” Adelaide said, jumping into the charged silence. “Darling Eleanor confided that you have met an irresistible young lady.”

India was watching Dautry carefully, and she saw a flash of irony in his eyes. This man found no woman irresistible.

“I have indeed been lucky enough to meet a lady whom I hope to make mine,” he agreed. “But, of course, I must first ensure that my house provides a suitable setting for such a treasure.”

The man was impossibly arrogant. He deserved to be taken down a peg or two, if only for his condescending reference to Lala as a “treasure.”

But that was not her responsibility, India reminded herself. She merely had to be civil long enough to fulfill her promise to Eleanor. She leaned forward and gave him her “approval smile,” the one that promised she liked him, that said she thought he was marvelous. Men loved that smile.

Dautry’s mouth tightened and his gray eyes became distinctly cold. She sat back abruptly.

All right. That didn’t work.

“What would you like to have done to Starberry Court, Mr. Dautry?” she asked, pitching her voice toward crisp authority.

“I should like it to be habitable in a fortnight.”

“I assume the house is in excellent condition? A fortnight is an exceedingly short period of time.”

“I have no idea,” Mr. Dautry said, draining his teacup in one swallow.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I sent a man around to ensure that it was structurally sound before I bought it.”

She and Adelaide stared at him.

The irritated look crossed his face again. “It’s a house,” he stated. “In the right location, with a quite large estate attached to it. I was assured that this house is just what a young lady would desire—or perhaps the better word is
require
. That is where you come in, Lady Xenobia.” He put down the cup. “By the way, is that truly your name? ‘Xenobia’?”

India knew perfectly well that people often thought her name extremely odd, but they rarely said so. For one thing, the name was recorded in
Debrett’s
. And for another, anyone who had met her father was unsurprised by her name. She considered herself fortunate that she had not been christened “Moonflower.”

“Yes, it is,” she said evenly, and immediately returned to the topic at hand. “Do you truly mean to tell me that you have no idea of the house’s condition?”

He answered her with a look. Apparently, he was not a man who chose to repeat himself.

“My dear sir,” Adelaide cried, “you can’t possibly think to have the house habitable in a fortnight. From what I’ve heard, it served as a veritable brothel in the last years of its occupancy.”

“I fail to see why Jupp’s activities, no matter how unsavory, should affect the condition of Starberry Court. There are brothels that are as elegantly appointed as ducal mansions.”

India had no doubt that the man had seen the inside of many a brothel. “Lady Rainsford is an extremely fastidious woman,” she said. “She judges her behavior above reproach and insists the same of others.”

Dautry raised an eyebrow. “I see. Are you well acquainted with her?”

“Her virtues are widely known,” India said, leaving it at that. “If you wish to marry her daughter, not a hint of ill repute can be attached to your estate. Even if the walls and furnishings are in decent repair, it will be well-nigh impossible to achieve the correct tenor in a mere fortnight.”

“Tenor
?” He looked as if he was about to start laughing.

His expression sent pure irritation up India’s spine. “Given your circumstances,” she said, “your house must be not only charming, but also impeccably refined.”

He looked as if he was about to say something derisive, so she added, “Another way to put this, Mr. Dautry, is that every detail must speak to your father’s family, and not to your mother’s.”

At that, his eyes narrowed in a scary way, and Adelaide put down her teacup with a sharp click. “India, dear, there are ways to communicate one’s opinion, and I would beg you to be more respectful.” She rose, wrapping her lacy shawl around her shoulders. “Mr. Dautry, would you be kind enough to bring me to your butler so that I might powder my nose?”

India knew that by leaving the room, Adelaide hoped to bring an improper subject to a close. But Dautry returned from escorting Adelaide, walked straight back to the sofa, sat down, and said, “I gather you are trying to inform me that Miss Rainsford is above my touch?” His tone still held a hint of mockery, and the last of the simmering heat India had felt on first meeting him dissipated. This man was breathtakingly arrogant and quite dislikable.

“I think we can both agree on that point, Mr. Dautry.” Since he was setting her teeth on edge, she gave him a deliberately patronizing smile. “You have made an excellent choice, but your social deficit means that you face obstacles in winning the lady’s hand.”

He folded his arms across a chest that was far broader than it should have been. He had to be fifteen stone, and all of it muscle. “I’d be grateful to know what considerations
you
think make the lady such an excellent choice,” he said. “I suspect that our reasons differ.”

Dautry couldn’t have made it more obvious that he was prodding to see whether she was too missish to speak the truth aloud.

“It scarcely matters, does it?” India asked, stalling.

For his part, Thorn was reconsidering his conviction that ladies were tedious. This one, in particular, seemed to have a fiery temper that matched Vander’s. And she became even more beautiful as her color heightened and her eyes sparked with irritation.

“One might say I fell in love at first sight,” he said, quite untruthfully. “I met Miss Rainsford in Kensington Gardens and was so enchanted that I cannot imagine marrying another. But that doesn’t explain why
you
consider her such an excellent choice.”

She raised an eyebrow, revealing patent disbelief in his declaration of love. But he had managed to goad her into an answer. “Your birth presents an obvious and unavoidable challenge: you cannot marry just anyone. At the same time, your father is a duke, which means that your children—
if
you marry well—will be accepted in society by all but the most rigid sticklers.”

“Good to know,” Thorn said dryly.

“I fail to see why you are feigning naïveté,” she snapped.

“So Miss Rainsford is of birth sufficient to paper over my ‘deficit,’ as you termed it? I generally think of it as bastardy, but I know there are some ladies who do not care for the word.”

Lady Xenobia didn’t even flinch. She was dressed in a white, fluttering thing that made her look impossibly young, but it was becoming increasingly clear that, whatever her age, she had a steel backbone. No wonder Eleanor liked her.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, Lady Rainsford served as a lady-in-waiting to the queen. Yet her daughter is not pretentious in the least. Hopefully, she will not mind your disheveled appearance . . . much.”

“I gather it does bother you,” Thorn said, letting his amusement show.

The lady ignored that. “Insofar as Lord Rainsford is not well off, and you have no need for a large dowry, this is an ideal match. I suggest we meet in two days to assess the condition of Starberry Court. I would estimate that the work will take from one to two months, depending on the state of the plumbing.”

She was clearly in a temper. Her eyes had turned squinty, which paradoxically just made her more attractive. It was hard not to wonder what all that passion would be like in bed.

When Lady Xenobia had first entered the study, Thorn had noticed her figure and her mouth—no man alive would ignore that mouth. But he had been thinking of this as a cursory interview with a faux-titled charlatan who would demand a great deal of money for beautifying Starberry Court.

Now, though, he had a strong suspicion that if he checked
Debrett’s
, “Xenobia” would appear, likely engraved in gold.

His indifference had evaporated. Something about those furious blue eyes was giving him an erection. A very unwelcome erection, since he hadn’t bothered to put on a coat when the ladies were announced.

Damn it, there was a reason men wore coats, and his reason was getting bigger every moment. Thank God they were sitting down. He had to get his body under control before Lady Adelaide returned and he was forced to stand.

“That was a very enlightening assessment, Lady Xenobia. And I appreciate your approval of my chosen spouse.”

Her eyes flashed again, and Thorn felt an answering throb in his cock. Damn it. “But inasmuch as you are unable to refurbish my house in a fortnight,” he continued, “I am forced to reconsider.”

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said no.”

“You seem not to understand me. I’m sure I can find someone to smarten up the house within the next two weeks. I’m grateful for your advice, and I will certainly instruct whomever I engage to remove any trace of debauchery they may find.” He couldn’t stop himself. “Swinging chairs or a mirrored ceiling, for example.”