Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman (7 page)

Time to stop indulging in—and tantalising himself with— Miss Neville's company before he grew too fond of it. What better way than to remind them both of his present position?

Halting with her in front of the French doors leading back into the house, Greville said, ‘A most enjoyable stroll, Miss Neville, but now I must let you return to your duties. By the by, do you think I might find someone who could string a
hammock in my bedchamber? I do miss some aspects of being at sea.'

There it was again, that flash of alarm, followed by irritation when she realised he was playing with her. ‘I can certainly enquire,' she said frigidly, clearly not appreciating his teasing at her expense. ‘Thank you for your escort, sir—and I will count upon your word as a
gentleman
in dealing with my cousin. Good day.'

She turned to stomp off, her posture as stiffly upright as a ship flying downwind under full sail. He chuckled, thinking it would only serve him right if he returned to his chamber this evening to find his bed removed and a hammock swinging gently from the overhead.

‘My pleasure, Miss Neville,' he called after her.

How he wished she might be, he thought wistfully, watching the sway of her trim posterior as she walked through the doorway into the house. He could vividly imagine luring her to his chamber, burying his face in the scent of her golden hair while he pulled the strands free of their pins, loosing the ties of her bodice…

He could obliterate the pain of the past and uncertainty of the future with simple, all-consuming lust.

But that was the old Greville's favourite way of avoiding what he didn't wish to face. He was going to have to find a new way of handling difficulties.

Still, he thought with a sigh as he relinquished the tantalising image of Miss Neville in his bedchamber, despite knowing that he would doubtless end up a much better man for making the change, there were parts of being the old Greville he really, really hated to give up.

Becoming respectable, he acknowledged as he walked into the house and headed for the stairs, surreptitiously adjusting his suddenly restricting trouser flap, was turning out to be a deal more difficult than he could have imagined.

L
ater that evening, Amanda left the kitchen and took the back stairs up to the first floor. Though she'd previously gone over the week's menus with Mrs Pepys, she'd felt driven to check one more time on tonight's dinner, pressed by an inexplicable compulsion to make doubly sure that their guest, if he in fact joined them this evening, would find nothing amiss.

It was ridiculous, the glow Mr Anders had ignited in her with his compliments about her management of Ashton Grove. Why should his approval matter? He was simply, as he seemed to take delight in reminding her, a lowly sailor.

She sighed. He was also, however, unmistakably a gentleman, by birth, speech and, teasing aside, usually behaviour. What was she to make of him…and the unprecedented, powerful attraction that had flooded her on the terrace this morning? For a moment, even knowing her destiny lay elsewhere, she'd nearly succumbed to a desire to kiss him!

And whatever had possessed her, burbling out all her thoughts, hopes and plans like a toddler visiting an indulgent grandmama? Her unusual loquaciousness merely underlined
how starved she was for a sympathetic soul with whom to share all those details, from important to trivial, she used to confide to her mama.

Mr Anders certainly was not that…though he had been an attentive and sympathetic listener. A nearly instantaneous rapport seemed to spring up between them, so easy and natural that she'd not felt a moment's qualm about speaking to him like a close friend of long standing, rather than a near-stranger she'd just met. A rapport he'd felt, too, she was certain, as he'd certainly felt that flash of…something, heat and need and desire…that ignited between them once they were alone.

Before he'd put her back in her place. Strange, though
he
was the social inferior,
she
was the one who felt dismissed. The abrupt termination of their seductively intimate interlude had left her feeling…bereft.

Very well, she needed a friend and confidant. Soon she would have Lady Parnell. In the interim, since she wished neither to be the butt of his little jokes nor to subject herself to the disturbing allure of his company, best that she just avoid him.

With that conclusion, she turned down the hallway and walked towards the salon. On physician's orders, Papa took a glass of sherry there each evening before leading her in to dinner. Although if Mr Anders did join them, she suddenly realised, it would be her duty as hostess to go in on
his
arm.

So much for avoiding the man, she thought. At the image of his hand covering hers, another of those little shivers she seemed unable to either prevent or suppress trembled through her.

Trying to shake off the feeling, she turned her mind to the problem of Althea. After her too-intimate chat with Mr Anders on the terrace, she'd put him firmly out of mind, which perhaps hadn't been wise. Though she'd not seen him the rest of the day,
she hadn't seen her cousin either. Had Althea managed to run their guest to ground after her ride?

Unsettled as their guest's teasing had made her, for some inexplicable reason she felt that Mr Anders would do Althea no harm. None the less, since he was a gentleman entirely unrelated to them and a stranger to the neighbours, she probably should have checked on them. To keep loose tongues from wagging, in the servants' hall if nowhere else, she must ensure that they were chaperoned during any walks and drives they took together.

Where the girl's reputation was concerned, it wouldn't do to trust any man, especially one as undeniably charming as Mr Anders.

She sighed. By the end of
their
walk, before he'd set her at a distance with that absurdity about hammocks, she'd been almost as won over by Mr Anders as her cousin. His sincere-sounding compliments, combined with the devilishly appealing trait he had of seeming to focus his entire attention on what one said, made him very hard to resist.

Adding to that, the handsomeness of his person—for a moment, she allowed the image of that tall, upright figure, the handsome face and arresting green eyes to play through her mind again—made him a vastly attractive gentleman.

Given how tempted she, who knew how indiscreet it might be, was to befriend the man, it was likely to be even more difficult than she'd initially anticipated to pry Althea away from him.

Perhaps, after dinner tonight, she'd have an opportunity to mention her concerns to Papa, much as she hated to burden him with any further cares. Althea had clearly found Amanda's presence during her excursion with Mr Anders an unnecessary interference. Papa was both the one ultimately responsible for Althea's well-being and the only one who might be able to
point out the need for prudence without inciting a scathing response.

Even if Papa intervened to safeguard her cousin from falling into some impropriety, it was likely that Amanda would still have to continue supervising the two. This would mean abandoning, before she'd even begun to act upon it, her new-minted intention to avoid Mr Anders.

Unfortunately, the prospect didn't alarm her nearly as much as it ought to.

Which should've put her on her guard. Not only was she as vulnerable as Althea to having her reputation damaged by an over-close association with that gentleman, she'd had a potent lesson on the terrace in just how easy it was to fall under his spell. Tantalising as she—still, alas—found the notion of kissing him, it would be dangerously easy to be lured into improper behaviour.

Intriguing Anders might be, but after waiting so long to begin pursuing it, she had no intention of throwing away her lifelong dream of becoming a brilliant political hostess by compromising herself with a landless gentleman who possessed little more than a fine pedigree, a well-made body and a beguiling smile.

So she would just
have
to resist him. Upon that firm conclusion, she entered the parlour to find Papa finishing his sherry. Beside his chair, sipping a sherry of his own, stood Mr Anders.

Another of those annoying thrills rippled through her.

Willing it away, she noted he was properly attired in plain black evening dress, with a white-figured waistcoat beneath a modestly intricate cravat. With an inward smile, she recalled their discussion of Beau Brummell. Though his garb was simple, it was well cut and obviously of superior quality—and on him, elegant simplicity looked splendid.

She realised she was staring yet again and jerked her gaze
away. Just then, the door opened and, in a flurry of apologies for her lateness, Althea hurried in.

‘As you see, our guest is finally able to join us this evening,' Lord Bronning informed them as she bent to kiss his cheek. ‘Amanda, I trust you've instructed Cook to prepare something worthy of the occasion. Mr Anders, you've met my daughter, Miss Neville. Allow me to present my niece, Miss Holton, who always dines with us, although she is not officially out. As you see, we don't stand on formality among family.' His genial smile faded a bit. ‘After the events of last summer, we treasure those still left to us.'

‘It's I who am honoured, my lord, at being included,' Mr Anders replied.

Bows and curtsies exchanged, Amanda was about to take Anders's arm when, to her surprise, her brother George strolled in. She felt a pang of both resentment and concern to see how Papa's expression brightened upon realising that his son and heir had deigned to dine with them.

Fortunately, she was relieved to note, along with bestowing upon them that honour, George taken the trouble to remain sober, don fresh, crisply starched linen and wear proper evening dress, rather than show up still in riding breeches, as he had on several previous occasions.

It was Althea who offended propriety, dashing over to seize Mr Anders's arm and claim his escort into the dining room. Not wishing to reprimand or argue with her—though Mr Anders would know as well as she did that, as the highest-ranking lady present, it was
her
responsibility to escort in their guest— Amanda gritted her teeth and took her father's arm.

Her irritation over Althea's lapse was mollified by observing her brother's surprisingly good behaviour. Instead of remaining silent, staring moodily into his wineglass, as he had on the handful of other evenings he'd chosen to dine at home, George roused himself to enquire of his father how he had spent his
day, then followed up by asking several quite intelligent questions about the state of the fields and cattle. Her heart twisted anew to observe how eagerly Papa responded to just the slightest indication of interest from his heir.

Poor Papa, who'd worked so tirelessly to exact a good return from a thin begrudging soil, deserved to turn over his acres to someone who loved them as he did, she thought, an angry tightness in her chest.

Still, the feeble interest George was now displaying was greater than she could remember his evincing upon any other recent occasion. Had her jobation of the other evening provoked some results after all?

Whatever the cause, George had definitely set himself to be pleasant. After speaking with Papa, he took a few minutes to tease Althea, who couldn't seem to decide whether to be flattered or annoyed by this unexpected interest, before turning to Mr Anders to politely enquire after his health and add a compliment about his recent naval service.

‘You're to report to the Coastal Brigade station?' George was asking. ‘Will you be working with the revenue cutters based there?'

‘I'm not sure what my duties will be. I'm still not hale enough to man a tiller or haul a sail, but once I've recovered sufficiently to be of more use, I would expect to be assigned some duties. Although I understand Lord Englemere is working to obtain my release from the service, so I may not be here long enough to lend much assistance to the Navy in hampering the local trade.'

‘I'm sure the Gentlemen will be happy to hear that,' George said. ‘Though the men hereabouts know every rock and inlet of this coast so well, not many cargoes are hampered by the excisemen's presence.'

To Amanda's surprise, her normally genial father frowned at his son. ‘And how would you know about the local trade?'

George shrugged. ‘Everything about the Gentlemen is common knowledge hereabouts. The Devon coast has been a hotbed of smuggling since the days of the ban on wool trade with Flanders.'

‘Though the wool is used locally, too,' Amanda pointed out, trying to steer the conversation away from a topic that seemed to distress her Papa. ‘The Axminster Carpet works nearby recently began weaving floor coverings of exceptional beauty, some of the fibre in them from Ashton Grove sheep.'

Her father smiled at her. ‘We've built up quite a good herd. Devon soil is often poor; corn planting alone cannot always earn the tenants a sufficient income, especially with the fall of agricultural prices since the war.'

‘Although Papa encourages them to adopt the newest methods of enriching soil, rotating crops and planting new species,' Amanda continued, with a jerk of her chin at George, trying to silently key him to continue the conversation.

Though she failed to catch her brother's eye, Mr Anders joined in. ‘I've not yet had a chance to see the fields and flocks, but I did walk a bit about the terrace today. The house and grounds are exceedingly lovely, Lord Bronning. I understand from Miss Neville that their pleasing arrangement was the work of renovations undertaken by your wife.'

Anders could scarcely have hit upon a better means of delighting her father than by praising the lady he'd loved so dearly. Even if he were not the most attractive man she'd yet to meet, Amanda could have kissed him.

She almost forgave him spending time as a common sailor.

‘Thank you, Mr Anders,' her father was replying, a smile of genuine delight lighting his face. ‘The renovation project was the consuming passion of my dear wife. The magnificent court and gardens you enjoyed today are her legacy to every
succeeding generation of Nevilles. Only the children she bore me are dearer to me.'

‘'Tis a legacy every observer must cherish,' Mr Anders said—and focused on Amanda such an potent, heated gaze she felt scorched right to her stays.

Surely he wasn't saying he wanted to cherish…
her
, was he? Rattled by the intensity of his eyes, she tried to shake off that disconcerting, and surely erroneous, conclusion. Indeed, she
must
be mistaken, for no one else seemed to find anything untowards about his statement. Oblivious to any undercurrents, her brother continued, ‘What type of ship were you on, Mr Anders?'

‘The
Illustrious
was a two-decker, 74-gun ship of the Common Class.'

‘How well would she sail, compared to the Coastal Brigade's revenue cutters?'

‘Since I've not seen the vessels yet, I couldn't say. The 74-gun is considered a good sailor for a line-of-battle vessel, well proportioned and weatherly. I understand the cutters, with fore and aft and square sails on a single mast, are quite swift. And very busy, if the county is as favoured by smugglers as I've heard.'

‘The cutters might be busy,' George replied with a laugh, ‘but they aren't usually successful, according to the sailors at the Sloop and Gull.'

Her father frowned. ‘The Sloop and Gull isn't the best place to honour with your custom, George. It's known to be frequented by free-traders—dangerous men, many of them.'

‘Really, Papa, I'm not a child. The sailors there are just drinking and lazing about. As for dangerous, “Rob Roy” and his men have never harmed anyone that I've heard of. Such wonderful stories of his exploits are told in the pubs in Beer. Besides, I wouldn't be too pious about disapproving of the
trade. I'll wager there wasn't any duty paid on the brandy in our cellars.'

To Amanda's indignation, her father flushed. ‘True, there's always been trade, and Rob Roy has been an honest dealer. But lately others, more ruthless than he, have been contesting his control of the coast. There've been some ugly skirmishes, I've heard.'