How To Vex A Viscount (9 page)

“Oh.” He looked pointedly around the long shed. “I see no one else here, so unless you have a mouse in your pocket, I have to assume you intended for me to hear you.”

“You might assume so if I’d known you were there.” He’d donned his shirt once again, but hadn’t buttoned it properly. A deep vee of dark skin showed at the base of his throat. Daisy looked away from him. “Honestly, for a large man, you’re quiet as a cat when you wish to be.”

“Or perhaps you were deeply absorbed by something.” He leaned over her shoulder and looked at the painting of lovers that had so captured her imagination. “Ah! Yes, quite . . . inspirational. I see why you didn’t hear my approach.”

She pressed her lips together in a tight line. “It’s still very rude to eavesdrop on someone else’s conversation—even if it’s only with themselves.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Someone else said something very like that to me recently.”

Blanche.
Surely he wouldn’t connect the two of them solely on the strength of that one tiny gaffe.

“Well, whoever it was, milord, they were right.”

“No doubt she’d agree with you,” he said with a laugh. “Unfortunately, I’m expected for tea with Lady Brumley and her daughter, and I can’t greet them covered in grime, so I need to clean up a bit. I would ask you to join me, but—”

“I’m not in need of a bath at present,” Daisy said primly. Why did he feel himself at liberty to make such outrageous suggestions to her? At the same time, the thought of Lucian’s warm skin and slithering soap bubbles left her slightly light-headed.

He snorted. “What a charming imagination you have. I meant join me for tea.”

“Oh.” Her belly writhed like a bucketful of eels. It was an honest mistake. Hadn’t he . . . She squinted at him. She suspected he wanted to see if he could catch her with his craftily worded non-invitation to tea.

“No, thank you. There’s too much work to be done here for me to stop for tea and silliness. No need to trouble yourself on my account, milord.” The last thing she needed was to have to watch Lucian dance attendance on Miss Brumley. “Besides, I know both those ladies and they me. If your father should join the party . . .”

“Our little charade would be at an end, Miss Clavenhook.” Lucian took her hand suddenly, all traces of teasing gone from his expression. “Thank you for understanding.”

He truly was worried about his father, she realized. Daisy had been quite young when she lost both her parents, but she still had the loving support of her aunt and uncle and her four sisters. And her great-aunt Isabella, of course.

Lucian had only his father.

“It’s all right. But you might send out a pot of tea and a biscuit or two,” she said. “We who are about to die of hunger and thirst might salute you, but we won’t be able to continue to work without a little sustenance. And I’d like to keep working here.”

The teasing grin returned. “Ah, the Clavenhook curiosity. Long may it wave.”

Some of the images Daisy saw that afternoon explained a number of mysteries; others created even more questions in her mind, but she couldn’t discuss the disturbingly erotic art with Lucian. In fact, she tried mightily not to even think about him while she sorted and arranged and fit pieces together into startling pictures.

But she did anyway. He rose in her mind’s eye unbidden. It was as if Lucian were still peering over her shoulder.

Perhaps it was because she was now seeing depictions of the adventures of the flesh she’d only read about in Blanche’s journal. Perhaps it was because the men in the artwork were all blessed with hawkish dark good looks, an echo of Lucian’s Mediterranean heritage. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that she’d be giving him lessons in kissing that evening as Blanche.

Her insides twisted in confused circles.

She turned away from the pottery to the stack of wax tablets. Lucian had skimmed over them, hoping for a reference to the missing Roman pay wagon, but he hadn’t done detailed translations of them. Household accounts and bills of lading seemed safe enough. She settled to the work, taking another sip of the tea Lucian obligingly sent out to her.

She kept “Rowena Clavenhook’s” steel-rimmed spectacles at hand in case Lord Montford should make an unexpected appearance.

A distant rumble warned of an approaching shower. Daisy decided the shed would offer enough protection for her to remain at work. But after only a short time, the Latin etched on the tablets began to blur as if she were actually wearing the ill-fitting glasses. Daisy’s concentration kept wandering to the Montford parlour, where Lucian was courting Lady Clarinda.

What on earth would Lucian find to talk about with Clarinda Brumley? The girl was useless. She gave new definition to
shallow.
Surely Lucian couldn’t be taken with her.

Clarinda was appealing enough, Daisy supposed, in a plump, German-partridge sort of way. Or perhaps what drew Lucian’s interest was her dowry, which was reportedly even more ample than the girl’s shapely bosom.

Men married for money all the time, exchanging their name and title for fresh infusions of cash or lands. Even Daisy’s uncle Gabriel had set out to do it once, but he fell in love with a penniless girl and couldn’t bring himself not to marry her. Daisy hated the way money intruded on what should be a matter of the heart.

Quite often, it was painfully obvious in well-moneyed matches that the transaction was purely financial, and yet the world didn’t call the men involved whores. Daisy frequently complained of the inequity. But Isabella, who’d been called many things, simply reminded her that butting her head against that particular wall would only produce a headache without any effect on the wall whatsoever.

Still, it seemed weak-minded for Lucian to court a woman for her money. Even though the world in general would heartily approve, she couldn’t imagine why he allowed himself to be bullied into it. After all, he was a man who wasn’t afraid of manual labour—an activity fashionable folk
would
frown upon—and he was stout-hearted enough to pursue his dream even when the Society of Antiquaries laughed him from their halls.

If Lucian had to marry for money, why not marry her?

The thought startled the quill right out of her hand. She’d nearly set herself to the idea of never marrying. The long march of days alone stretched ahead of her now. She might enjoy her freedom in the sunshine of her youth, but the light patter of rain now plinking against the shed’s roof reminded her that life was not always fine. Dark days of illness or loss might rise to meet her. And to go through those times alone was not a pleasant prospect.

Still, a woman must have scruples.

No,
she decided as she bent to retrieve the fallen pheasant feather. If she had to purchase a husband, she’d do without.

Besides, if Lucian wouldn’t accept her funds for his project, he’d never accept her fortune for his name. Not so long as his father hated her family.

With a sigh, she turned back to the tablet she was translating. Her eyes flared when she recognized a name.

Caius Meritus. The ancient thief.

She bent over her work with absorption. Lucian must have missed this one. Her quill flew across the page. If she could translate it quickly, she might be able to dash up to the manor house before the rain began in earnest.

And before Lucian could seriously court Clarinda Brumley.

“When one marries solely for financial considerations, one is exchanging one’s body for the sake of mammon. In what respect is this different from harlotry?”

—the journal of Blanche La Tour

CHAPTER NINE

“And so you see, my dear Lord Rutland”—Lady Brumley punctuated her speech with an aristocratic sniff—“you simply must come to the Duke of Lammermoor’s masquerade next month. Everyone who is anyone will be there and I know for a fact you received an invitation because the duchess is a particular friend of mine. She assures me you were included, as a favour to me, you understand.”

“Thank you, Lady Brumley,” Lucian said with resignation. The rain lashing the tall windows ensured that his digging was at an end this day, but he might have spent the afternoon more profitably engaged in organizing his finds alongside his new assistant.

“It will undoubtedly be the event of the Season,” Lady Brumley proclaimed, then leaned forward confidentially. “They say the king might even be in attendance.”

That meant debutantes lined up like a row of tulips, each scheming mama preening her own bud to best advantage, and an opportunity for him to trot out his threadbare best.

Not a chance in hell.

“If my schedule permits,” he said evenly, “I will certainly avail myself of the duke’s hospitality.”

He understood why his father was promoting this match between him and Clarinda Brumley. The money was the least of it. Lady Brumley’s family was well connected to the Crown, having been elevated to the peerage when King George I came to the throne. Lady Brumley had worked tirelessly to shed her Hanoverian accent, and now she wanted to ally her daughter with the scion of an old English house. Lucian could trace his Beaumont ancestors back to the Norman Conquest, and his Italian roots were well regarded as highly romantic. A venerable English earldom and a nouveau riche fortune. A match between Lucian and Clarinda made perfect sense for both parties.

But it still made his gut wrench.

“Well, of course you’ll be there,” Lady Brumley affirmed. “Dear Clarinda would be highly disappointed if you weren’t.”

Which meant Lady Brumley would be highly disappointed, and the lady’s public rages were the stuff of legend. Her daughter dimpled prettily and loosed a simpering giggle, as if on cue. Clarinda’s one virtue, aside from her impressive bosom and even more impressive dowry, was extreme shyness. The girl hadn’t said two words since they began this interminable tea.

Politeness dictated a smile, so Lucian gave her one, which resulted in such a deep blush, he wondered if she’d burst a blood vessel or two. As heir to Montford, he knew his duty was to wed and breed sons, but he shuddered to think what sort of tongue-tied male children Clarinda might bear.

Yet his smile seemed to loosen her floodgates. Miss Brumley began prattling on about her ball gown for the fete, undoubtedly the most cunning bit of French artistry yet to grace the British isle. Then when she’d exhausted her string of superlatives about her gown, she launched into an unprompted diatribe on who was coming to His Grace’s ball and who was too deeply disgraced by some social faux pas to dare show their faces—metaphorically speaking, of course, since this was to be a masked ball. Lady Brumley smiled at her daughter indulgently.

Lucian vowed silently never to so much as quirk his lips at her again. Her words flowed so fast and furious, it didn’t seem that she had time even to snatch a breath. Lucian wondered if Clarinda breathed through her ears when her mouth was busy.

His
ears were saved by the unexpected arrival of his man-servant at his elbow.

“My lord, Miss Clavenhook is waiting without,” the ever sedate Avery said. “It appears she may have found something of interest among your Roman antiquities.”

“Has she?” That was fast. And perfectly timed, too. If Miss Clavenhook hadn’t been in reality Daisy Drake, Lucian could have kissed her. He stood with alacrity. “Your pardon, ladies. It seems my presence is required elsewhere. Most pressing. No help for it, I fear.”

Lady Brumley’s lips pursed sourly. “And just who is this Miss Clavenhook?”

“My assistant, madam. Expert in Latin translation, a rather bookish sort, frightfully near sighted, but most helpful. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He bowed over each of their offered hands. “Thank you for coming. Lovely to see you. Avery will show you out.”

He finally made good his escape, but not before being obliged to reiterate his intention to attend the duke’s blasted ball two more times. When he closed the parlour door behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Daisy was waiting at the end of the long corridor, clutching something to her chest. She had those ridiculous spectacles perched on her nose.

He hid his smile behind a cough and strode toward her. It was deucedly thoughtful of her to keep up her Miss Clavenhook disguise in case his father should happen along. But no one would mistake her for a wellborn heiress at present.

A small puddle of rainwater pooled at the hem of her sodden, mud-speckled skirt. Her blond hair, which had been artfully curled, now hung in limp, wet strands. Her lips had a blue tinge, and she was drenched to the skin.

But her smile was radiant.

“What have you found?” he asked.

“This.”

She thrust the tablet toward him. He’d bet his fortune, if he had one, that she didn’t have a clue how transparent wet muslin became. The thin fabric of her bodice clung to the tops of her breasts and followed the curves into the sweet hollow between them. Her flesh was rosy and glowing beneath the oatmeal muslin. Her corset was made of sterner stuff, confining and concealing the bottom half of her breasts. Her nipples were shielded from his gaze, but the slightly darker skin of part of one areola winked at him.