All's Fair in Love and Scandal (4 page)

Douglas handed over his coin. “Hard to come by, are they?”

“Quite!” The man chuckled. “Nigh impossible! It’s been a fortnight since that one was published, and there’s been nary a new issue in sight. I could have sold twice as many.”

“Is that so?” Douglas took the package and studied it curiously. “How many did you sell?”

“A great many,” said the shopkeeper happily. “It’s been very good for business, sir,
very
good.”

“Hmm.” He slipped the package into his pocket. “Good day.”

As soon as he reached his house in Half Moon Street, he tore off the paper. He was still certain it was some overwrought nonsense that appealed to romantic girls, but damn it, he was curious. Someone had offered a bounty for the authoress’s name. It made his sister blush fiery red. And it was making that shopkeeper in Madox Street rich. What the devil was this story? Douglas pushed open the door to his sitting room, propped one shoulder against the window frame as he opened the plain, prudish cover, and began to read.

By the end of the first page his eyebrows started to rise.

By the end of the second, his mouth was hanging open.

And when he reached the last page, he no longer cared about Spence’s wager or the bounty on Lady Constance’s head or what Burke was thinking to let Joan read this. If Madeline Wilde had written this—even if every word sprang solely out of her imagination and not from her experience—he wanted to get to know her much, much better.

C
HAPTER
F
IV
E

M
adeline was mildly surprised to see Mr. Bennet head her way two nights after their first meeting. She was a little irritated; a man of his size and looks drew attention, which was the last thing she wanted. He had his eyes fixed on her the whole time, as if he didn’t care who knew he was seeking her out, which was also annoying since it made everyone who had turned to watch him swivel around to look at
her
. She kept her faint smile in place, knowing there’d be another rush of rumors about the two of them before dawn tomorrow. Mr. Bennet was proving difficult to put in his place.

Still, as he drew nearer, the crowd now parting in front of him as if to give her a good look, a little jolt of something else shot through her. Not irritation, not annoyance, not surprise. She supposed she wouldn’t be a woman if she didn’t get a shock of . . . awareness. That was it,
awareness
, not interest or even worse, attraction. He had adopted the strictest fashion and wore all black except for his waistcoat and cravat, and the effect was quite devastating. It highlighted how very trim and athletic his figure was, broad shouldered and fit. He’d combed his thick auburn hair back from his face, banishing the mussed romantic appearance of the last time she’d seen him. And his hazel eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that ought to have irked her but somehow, instead, made her heart skip a beat.

“Mrs. Wilde.” He bowed when he reached her.

“Good evening, sir. What have you wagered this evening?”

“Nothing,” he said easily. He plucked two glasses from a footman’s tray and handed her one. “As you guessed when first we met, I lost last time, and I hate losing. Tonight I’ve only come for my own pleasure.”

She arched one brow. “With no thought to mine?”

“No, I thought a great deal about your pleasure as well.” His eyes warmed, but he didn’t steal a glance at her bosom, as so many men did. He seemed fascinated by her face. “About our mutual pleasure.”

Madeline took a sip of champagne to hide her flinch. She was fairly disgusted with herself for letting him have any effect on her, let alone such an overtly physical one. “Perhaps my pleasure does not involve you at all. Perhaps my pleasure is for you to go away and leave me in peace.”

“So you can stand here and watch in solitude?” He shook his head and propped one shoulder against the pillar beside her. “Where’s the pleasure in that?”

She didn’t attend balls for pleasure. She attended to hear the latest gossip and the freshest scandals, which were vital to her work for Liam. If she danced and drank, she’d never keep the rumors straight, and besides, a reputation for aloofness seemed to lead to more invitations, not fewer. Tonight she barely knew the host and hostess. Madeline supposed she was invited because she was an enigma: a fashionable woman with connections, but also with a whiff of scandal clinging to her. An independent woman who lived a comfortable life with no apparent means of support. There were never enough wealthy widows to satisfy the penniless rakes and rogues who prowled the drawing rooms of Mayfair in pursuit of fresh prey.

“You have no idea what gives me pleasure,” she told him. She had no doubt his attentions were focused on getting her into bed and little more.

“But I’m here to learn,” he said, flashing his heart-stopping grin. “We can begin from the beginning.” He smoothed his cravat and cleared his throat. “Good evening, ma’am. Are you enjoying the party?”

She had to smile. “Tolerably.”

“Tolerably!” He frowned. “What a poor comment on our hostess’s taste. Is it the music? I like a good reel myself, none of this quadrille. Who dances the quadrille anymore? It always brings to mind my grandmother, who was the most accomplished quadrille partner I’ve ever known, although it would have pained me to admit it at age twelve, when she patiently taught me the steps.”

“Perhaps you have forgotten how seductive and romantic a quadrille can be.”

He paused, with a distant expression, then shook his head. “No, I really saw nothing seductive or romantic about it. The fact that I remember my grandmother as my favorite partner proves that.”

“A reel is hardly more so. It allows no time for conversation or intrigue.”

“No,” he agreed with a laugh. “But it’s a rollicking good time, and I like that about a dance. If one wants to talk, it’s better to find a quiet moment to focus all one’s attention on the other person.” His admiring gaze moved over her face again. “Such as now.”

Madeline told herself he was just flirting, but it was hard not to enjoy it. Even though he was distracting her from her object—from her livelihood—she couldn’t bring herself to be cold and withering. “But we have nothing to talk about,” she said gently. “You have no wager, I have no interest in dancing. After we discuss the weather, we’ll have nothing else to say and this quiet moment, as you call it, will grow awkward and tiresome.”

“That’s unfair. How do you know I haven’t got a list of things to discuss with you?” He nodded at her start of surprise. “I learned it early: Never approach a lady without some prepared topic of conversation. It eliminates the risk of that awkward silence. And if things should progress to a more natural and easy conversation, so much the better.”

He was making her want to laugh. “I see. What topics were you prepared to discuss with me, then?”

“Dancing, obviously,” he said. “That bit about my grandmother is absolutely true. She was bent on teaching me proper dances and rapped my knuckles when I tried to dodge the lessons. Once, to punish me, she let my sister watch.” He shook his head, looking grim. “It was a lasting humiliation.” Madeline found herself smiling, and quickly took another sip of champagne. He sighed and gave a shrug. “Do you not dance out of choice, or are you unable?”

She choked. “Unable?”

He nodded seriously. “For all I know, you’ve got a peg leg. That would make it dashed hard to waltz about or skip through a reel.”

“I have not got a peg leg!”

He seemed oblivious to her indignation. “Or perhaps you don’t know how. It’s not a sin. In fact, it’s more likely to be a sin to enjoy dancing, so not knowing might be counted a virtue.” His engaging grin flashed again. “But I wouldn’t know; virtue isn’t my strength.”

She had to cough to cover her laugh this time. “Mr. Bennet. I know very well how to dance, thank you, and I have all my limbs in good health. Choosing not to dance with the scoundrels and rogues who ask me is a perfectly sound decision, and not reflective of virtue or vice.”

“Ah . . . I see. So which am I: scoundrel or rogue?”

“Pardon?” She blinked.

“I asked you to dance and you refused.” He nodded once. “Therefore I must be a scoundrel or a rogue, by your estimation. I was curious to which camp you assigned me.”

“I—” She pressed her lips together. “Rogue.”

His eyes lit up. “Rogue! May I ask how you determined it?”

“Scoundrels are dishonest at heart. Rogues are merely careless of others’ feelings and sensibilities.”

Instead of being offended, he clapped one hand to his chest and gave a great sigh. “I’m so relieved. Scoundrel has such a bad air about it, doesn’t it? Rather like a fellow who would ask a woman to marry him and then not arrive at the church, or some such thing. A rogue, though, sounds very dashing. I imagine he has a splendid pair of horses and drives a smart phaeton around the park, tipping his hat to the ladies—
all
the ladies, mind you.”

“You seem well informed about the species.” Madeline realized she’d finished her champagne. Pity; she only allowed herself one glass a night, and she barely remembered sipping this one.

He nodded. “I have a great many friends, and most of them are scoundrels or rogues.” He took the empty glass from her hand, neatly switching it with a fresh one on a footman’s tray. He handed it to her without a word. She knew she should protest, but somehow didn’t say anything. “I never quite knew how to categorize them until now, and for that I thank you.”

“I am sure it’s kept you awake at nights.”

“One or two,” he said with a long-suffering expression. “A night of dancing, though, always sends me right to sleep.” Again his sly, coaxing grin. “If you should change your mind about dancing, I would happily oblige.”

She gave him a wry glance. “Perhaps I refused because I simply didn’t wish to dance with you.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he exclaimed. “I’m a cracking good dancer, I’ll have you know.”

“How could I know that?” She gestured with one hand. “Dance with someone else and I shall see for myself how accomplished you are.”

He leaned a little closer to her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that was a ploy to get rid of me.”

“Ploy?” Madeline opened her eyes very wide. “I thought it was only a shade more subtle than saying, ‘Please go away, Mr. Bennet.’ ”

“Just a shade.” He turned and surveyed the ballroom. “What will it earn me if I dance with someone else? I’ve no real desire of my own to do it, so you must convince me.”

“Surely you can’t wish to remain in this lonely corner with me,” she said lightly. “A handsome gentleman of good fortune who is an excellent dancer? Do not let your talents languish in obscurity, sir.”

He shook his head almost regretfully. “The very fact that you admit I’m handsome makes me want to stay here all the more. Try again.”

She let out a breath of amused frustration, and took a sip of champagne. “You may find someone more interested in your charm.”

“Now I sense a challenge. You think I’m charming.”

Madeline’s gaze narrowed. “Please go away, Mr. Bennet.”

He laughed. “Enough with politeness! Very well. I will go away and dance with every woman here who’ll have me, if only . . .” He propped his arm against the pillar above her head, angling even closer. Madeline took a fortifying breath to keep herself from leaning back, away from the heat and scent of him. “If you let me drive you home tonight.”

“I don’t need—”

He put one fingertip on her lips, stopping her retort. “Who said anything of need? Agree that I shall drive you home tonight, and I’ll leave you in peace the rest of the evening. And before you doubt my intentions, I promise on my grandmother’s memory that I shan’t even think of entering your door. I will see you safely home and go on my way. I’m a rogue, remember, not a scoundrel.” He winked, which combined with the intimate smile on his face to make her knees feel a little weak and her heart skip a beat.

She tried to calm her irrational reaction and think of her own interest. No one would bother her if he escorted her home. If he tried to charm his way inside, Constance would be waiting with the pistol. And it was a short drive to her house from here. She could endure that in exchange for a respite from his overpowering presence for the rest of the evening. “Done,” she said in a low voice.

His eyes darkened. “We have a pact.” He caught her hand and raised it to his lips, barely brushing her knuckles. “Signal me when you are ready to leave. Until then, madam, farewell.” He released her hand and sauntered away without a backward glance.

When he left, the temperature around her seemed to drop several degrees. She told herself that was good, as she’d felt increasingly hot and flustered by his proximity, but she still tipped her glass to her lips and washed down the rest of her champagne. With a mental shake, she put the glass on a nearby table and tried to clear her mind. She had work to do tonight, and so far the evening had been a total loss because of Douglas Bennet.

Well . . . not, perhaps, a total loss. She watched him move among the other guests, chatting easily with men and bringing simpering smiles to the faces of the ladies. After several minutes, he led out the widowed Countess of Farnham. Madeline pressed her lips together; the countess was a beautiful woman, and her blond hair looked very striking next to Mr. Bennet’s auburn head. She caught a glimpse of the woman’s face as they moved through the bagatelle. Lady Farnham was very pleased to be in his arms, and unless Madeline missed her guess very badly, she’d be glad to stay there all night long.

With great effort she looked away.
The infamous Mr. B, long a favorite of the ladies of London
, she mentally composed.
But this night he devoted himself solely to one lady.
That would serve him right for walking away so quickly, she thought, and then wondered why she was jealous. She’d told him to walk away.

She tried not to watch him for the next two hours. True to his word, he never came near her. She was only able to glean a few tidbits of gossip—everyone here seemed determined to be wretchedly respectable—but she also noticed that Mr. Bennet danced with six ladies. Three were widows, two were unhappily married, and one was a rather lovely heiress. Madeline hesitated to insert the name of any unmarried lady into her writing without ironclad proof of scandalous behavior, but she was very tempted when she saw Miss Margaret Childress, only child of a wealthy banker, in his arms, smiling with less than her usual coyness.

When Madeline was ready to leave, she raised her hand. Although he was still dancing with Mrs. Powell, a general’s wife with a roving eye, Mr. Bennet gave her a brief nod. At the end of the dance, he escorted his partner from the floor. From where Madeline stood, the lady didn’t seem eager for him to leave her; she maintained her grip on his arm, leaning closer and tilting her head in unmistakable invitation. Her eyelashes fluttered as she spoke to him. And he smiled back at her, laying his hand over hers on his arm.

Well. Surely that released her from their bargain. She wasn’t even sure why she’d considered herself bound by it at all. She’d have done much better to leave while he was distracted by Mrs. Powell’s impressive bosom. Madeline stalked toward the door. She certainly wasn’t going to stand around waiting while he arranged his rendezvous for later. In the hall she asked a servant to bring her cloak, telling herself the pounding of her heart was from relief at the reprieve she’d just been given and not from any lingering desire to hear his footsteps behind her.