Gallant Scoundrel (26 page)

“Then may I say that you wear a secondhand gown better than most ladies wear the costliest creations from the finest modistes.” Harry poured them each a glass of sherry from the sideboard and moved to sit on the sofa.

Ignoring her glass, Xena moved to a chair that was near, but not too near, him. “What are you playing at, Harry? You know better than most my opinion of flattery.”
 

Rather to her surprise, he chuckled. “I wasn’t certain whether you still felt the same. I’ve heard any number of men heaping you with praise this week without having their ears pinned back for it.”
 

She couldn’t suppress a smile. “I’ve wished to do so on several occasions but stifled the impulse to avoid giving offense. It would seem most gentlemen of the
ton
find it safer to lavish empty compliments upon a lady than to attempt actual conversation with her.”

“To be fair, I’ve known hardened battle veterans, brave enough under enemy fire, to cower in the face of your incisive discourse on certain topics. These pampered London dandies wouldn’t stand a chance.” His hazel eyes twinkled as they used to during all their spirited discussions of her unorthodox opinions. Discussions she’d quite enjoyed…and missed.

“It is difficult to give them any reason to cower when they never ask my opinion on anything weightier than the state of the weather or the cut of their coats. Speaking of which, you look rather fine for a dinner at home. Do you have other plans for later?”

“None whatsoever. Who deserves my best, if not my wife?” he replied with a hint of a wink.
 

She might have asked that exact question, had he not deflected it so neatly. Vaguely unsettled by the look in his eyes—one she remembered rather too well—she changed the subject.
 

“Were you able to deal with your business this afternoon?”

Still smiling almost—but not quite—suggestively, he nodded.
 

“Merely a meeting with friends at my club, whom I’d been neglecting. Lord Foxhaven and his wife are back in Town—you met him at Wellington’s do, I believe?”
 

There was a slight edge to his tone when mentioning the Duke’s name, though if what Lady Mountheath reported overhearing was true, she couldn’t think why.

“They intend to host a dinner and perhaps a small ball once they’re settled in and would like us to attend, if our schedule will allow.”

“He is one of your closest friends, is he not?” she said, glad to be on safer ground. “I’m certain we can arrange to be there. However, as we are neither of us particularly fond of dancing, I rather hope it will only be dinner.”

Those two dances with the Duke of Wellington had rather dimmed her enthusiasm for balls. In fact, it was partially to avoid encountering him again tonight that she’d decided to decline the Jellers’ invitation, for he’d commented in passing at the previous evening’s rout that he looked forward to seeing her there.

“Did you never attend balls in Yorkshire?” he surprised her by asking then.

“I, ah, no. I rarely mingle with the local gentry, as we have little in common.”

“You spend all of your time at home, then? On your estate?”

Was he digging for information as to the extent of her property? Property that, according to the law, was now his…
 

“I have plenty to occupy me there, as I’ve been able to afford few servants,” she replied cautiously. “This year’s harvest was poor after such a cool summer, which has had an effect on rents from the tenant farms.”

He nodded, though his expression was too knowing for her comfort. “Surely you must do something for amusement? You used to enjoy fencing…among other things.” Again, a ghost of a wink, reminding her of just how much she—they—had enjoyed those “other things.”

Swallowing, she glanced away. “I tend my herb garden and teach those of the village women willing to learn which ones are most useful, and for what ailments. And I read, of course.”

“Of course. What of your fencing and shooting? I’d hate to think you have neglected those, given your previous level of skill.” His smile suggested he was recalling other skills as well but she refused to blush.

“I occasionally still shoot, as I can devise targets. Fencing is more difficult without proper opponents, though I’ve recently begun to teach—” She broke off. Great heaven, she’d nearly said Theo’s name! “—some of the local village lads,” she continued after a too-long pause.
 

One raised eyebrow proved he’d noticed her hesitation. “Only the lads?”

“I, ah, haven’t been able to persuade any of the girls’ parents to let them learn,” she improvised, still rattled by her near-slip.
 

“Pity. The world might be a better place if more shared your enthusiasm for experiences outside their normal sphere.”
 

There was no mistaking his meaning now. Longings Xena had believed long buried began to stir—longings she dared not indulge. Did she?

To her relief, a footman appeared just then to announce dinner. Instantly, Harry was at her side, his arm gallantly outstretched.
 

“Shall we?”

*
       
*
       
*

As they went down to dinner, Harry chided himself for attempting flattery to win Xena over, for she’d never been one to have her head turned by pretty speeches. Clearly he would do better to continue engaging her on other topics that might subtly remind her of what they once were to each other—and try to discover all he could along the way.

When they entered the dining room, he was pleased to see that, per his instructions, the two place settings were indeed at right angles to each other at the head of the table rather than at opposite ends. At Xena’s questioning glance, he grinned down at her.

“I thought this would be cozier and make conversation rather easier. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Of…of course I don’t mind.” Her tiny hesitation implied he’d flustered her a bit with his earlier allusions.
 

That was all to the good, as it might cause her to reveal more than she intended, as he suspected she’d nearly done a few moments ago. Was she perhaps teaching fencing to local gentlemen, as well as boys? He pulled out her chair before seating himself practically at her elbow. Unstoppering the decanter before him, he poured the ruby liquid first into her glass and then his own.

“My favorite vintage,” he commented, raising his glass. “A fitting one with which to salute you.”

One brow skeptically raised, Xena saluted him as well, then took a small sip of the excellent wine. “It’s very good,” she admitted.

“I’m glad you like it. You see, we do still have a few things in common.”

She took another small sip, now avoiding his eye. “Our mutual dislike for dancing, for example.”

“That, too.” He let his amusement show in his voice. “Though I must say that for one so disinclined to dance as you claim, you carry off the necessity famously. I’ve meant to compliment you upon it.”

At her frown, he quickly added, “A compliment is only flattery if untrue, you know.” It was an argument he’d used more than once in his defense in the past—most particularly after an enjoyable session of lovemaking. She obviously recalled that circumstance as well, for she looked suddenly conscious, her protest dying on her lips.
 

“Who knows?” he continued. “With a bit more practice you may come to quite enjoy dancing. I have rather a better excuse for avoiding it, alas.”
 

“Yet your dancing is far more polished than mine, when you give yourself the trouble,” she retorted. “Indeed, you do an excellent job of making one forget your injury entirely. I’ve been…extremely impressed by how well you’ve adapted.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to be discomfited by a compliment. “I, ah, suppose I am beginning to, at any rate. In the early days my attempts were quite laughable, I assure you. I’d no idea how many tasks require both hands until I was forced to make do with one. The simple act of tying a bootlace is still completely impossible.” Forcing a laugh, he tossed back the rest of his wine.

“Still, it is clear you have worked hard at it.” Her expression was both admiring and sympathetic. “I knew more than one soldier who simply…gave up after a loss such as yours. Poor Private Miller became so despondent he put a pistol to his head. A terrible pity, for he was otherwise quite healthy—and so young.” She sighed sadly.
 

“Won’t say I wasn’t tempted to do the same early on,” he startled himself by confessing, as it was something he’d never told a soul. “If it weren’t for Pete and Jack—Lord Foxhaven now—I likely would’ve. They pulled me through the worst of it.”

“I’m happy they were there for you,” she said softly, the sympathy in her eyes deepening to something almost like pain.

Harry refilled his glass, glad of an excuse to look away. He was well on his way to becoming maudlin—not at all what he’d intended for tonight. As the soup was brought in, he reverted to their previous topic.

“As there are doubtless more balls ahead of us, perhaps we should devise a strategy that will get us both out of dancing.”

To his relief, the pity left her expression. “I’d be quite relieved if we could come up with an acceptable ruse that will not offend our hosts. What do you suggest?”

“I generally use the card room as a refuge if one is provided, but that would leave you on your own—unless you’d care to join me there?”

Xena regarded him uncertainly. “Ladies don’t, do they?”

“Not that I’ve noticed, but are you so very concerned with observing the proprieties? You never used to be.”
 

Instead of responding, she took a hasty spoonful of soup, a faint flush creeping up her throat.
 

Harry pressed his advantage, leaning in a bit closer. “We could always look for an unused room or corner and get up a game on our own, well away from prying eyes. ’Twas a skill we both excelled at, once upon a time.”

Though she pinkened further, she now met his gaze squarely. “I presume you are not referring to cards now? Though that might solve the problem of dancing, I should think it would create others. I’d not wish to risk embarrassing or insulting our hosts, should we be discovered—particularly the Foxhavens, as he is such a close friend.”
 

“Jack’s in no position to object after a certain story I heard on my return from Vienna,” Harry said with a chuckle, remembering the tale of Jack and Nessa inadvertently displaying themselves
in flagrante
at a prominent ball. “Besides, he was the one who—” He broke off with a cough. No, Xena did
not
need to know what Jack had suggested earlier. Not yet, at any rate. “Ah, well, I suppose we needn’t decide until the problem next arises, eh?”

He refilled his glass—it was somehow empty again—and planned his next assault on Xena’s defenses, which he was almost certain were starting to crumble.

U
NSETTLED
BY
Harry’s innuendoes—or, rather, by her body’s response to them—Xena finished her soup in silence. Harry did the same, though his was accompanied by a deal more wine. Already he’d lowered the level of the initially full decanter well past the halfway point.

A fresh decanter of white wine was brought out with the fish course and Harry proceeded to make heavy inroads into that as well, while asking a few more questions about her home and habits in Yorkshire. Xena limited herself to a single glass, reasoning that she’d best keep her head clear tonight if Harry was determined to drink enough to impair his judgment.
 

When the pheasant was served, Harry again shifted topics. “I know you don’t much care for compliments, but I can’t help noticing what a very fine string of pearls you are wearing. I suppose new jewelry was necessary for your entree into Society, as well as dresses?”

He’d already seemed curious—even suspicious—about the new gowns she’d worn this week. And not completely without cause, as it turned out. Unlike the dresses, however, the pearls she could explain without blushing.

“They were my mother’s. My father presented me with what little jewelry had been hers on my sixteenth birthday. As you might imagine, I had no occasion to wear it on the Peninsula, so left it in Yorkshire.”

“Ah. I presume their sentimental value prevents you attempting to sell them as you’ve done with your father’s artifacts?”

Though in fact the thought had once crossed her mind after her initial lack of success at the latter, she nodded. “I have little else to remember her by.”

“Yes, I recall you lost her at an early age, while in India. I…remember everything you’ve ever told me about yourself, Xena. It is why I am now striving to fill in a few details of these past few years.”

Had she misjudged him? Was it possible that, instead of a mercenary or suspicious motive, his curiosity was sparked by a gentler impulse? Not for the first time, she wondered whether Yamini was right and that she was doing both Harry and Theo a disservice by keeping them ignorant of each other.

She had not exaggerated when telling Yamini about his drinking, however, for he’d nearly emptied the second decanter now.
 

“What say you we have the sweetmeats served in the library, where we can sit at our ease?” he suggested as the last course was cleared away.

Though his unusual mood tonight made her a bit uneasy, Xena offered no objection. Perhaps it would be as well if no servants were at hand to hear whatever he might say next, as Harry seemed well on his way to becoming drunker than she had ever seen him. Likely he’d begun while at his club earlier.

He escorted her up to the first floor, the footman following with a tray of confections. As soon as the servant left, Harry closed the library door. “Private, as I said.”
 

Smiling seductively over his shoulder, he again poured two glasses of port, carrying them both in one hand to where she stood near the fire. “This is better, is it not?”

“I…ah…yes.” To her disgust, her voice came out higher than she intended. She was a woman grown and a mother, not some green girl to be flustered by a man’s attentions—especially a man she happened to be married to!