The Rake (4 page)

"A ... afraid of?"

"Oh, yes. Lord Dare is famously difficult."

"Yes, he is. Sometimes I think he means to propose to me, and then he'll twist the conversation around until I don't know whether he even likes me or not."

"You do expect a proposal, though?"

"He keeps saying that he needs to marry, and he
dances with me more than any of the other girls, and he took me on a drive through Hyde Park. Of course I expect him to propose. My entire family expects it." She sounded almost indignant that Georgiana might have any doubt regarding Dare's intentions.

"Yes, I should think that's quite reasonable." Georgiana stifled a scowl. He'd done the same with her, six years earlier, and she'd expected the same thing. All she'd received, though, was ruin, a stolen stocking, and a broken heart. "And in that case, I have something to confide in you."

Amelia wiped at her eyes with a pretty embroidered handkerchief that matched her dress. "You do?"

"Yes. Lord Dare, as you may know, is the dearest friend of my cousin, the Duke of Wycliffe. Because of that, I have had numerous opportunities over the years to observe the viscount's behavior toward females. I must say that without exception I have always found it appalling."

"Exceedingly appalling."

So far, so good.
"And so, I have decided that Lord Dare needs to be taught a lesson about how to comport himself toward the gentler sex."

Puzzlement showed on Amelia's innocent face.
"A lesson?
I don't understand."

"Well, I happen to be staying at
Carroway
House for a short time, to help Lord Dare's aunt recuperate from the gout. I plan to take this opportunity to demonstrate to
Dare
just how poor his behavior toward you has been. It may look a bit strange. It may even appear for a
short time that Dare is fond of me, but I assure you that my only purpose is to teach him a lesson which in the end will both encourage him to propose to you and will make him a better husband."

It sounded logical—to her, anyway. She watched Amelia's transparent expression to see whether the girl thought so, as well.

"You would do that for me? We don't even know one another."

"We are both females, and we're both appalled at Dare's behavior. And it would give me immense satisfaction to see that at least one man has learned how properly to treat a lady."

"Well, Lady Georgiana," Amelia said slowly, going back to fiddling with the bright roses, "I think if you could teach Tristan a lesson that would convince him to marry me, that would be a very good thing." She paused, a small frown furrowing her brow. "Because we are being honest with one another, I have to admit that he confuses me very often."

"Yes, he excels at that."

"You know him better than I, and you are closer to his age, so I suppose you must be wiser, as well. So I am glad if you can teach him this lesson. The sooner the better, because I have my heart set on becoming his
viscountess
."

Ignoring the insult to her advanced age, Georgiana smiled. "Then we have an agreement. As I said, at first things may seem a bit strange, but be patient. Everything will work itself out in the end."

Georgiana hummed as she and her maid climbed back into her hired carriage and returned to
Carroway
House. Dare wouldn't know what had hit him until it was far too late. Once she was finished with him he would never even
think
of lying to vulnerable young ladies about his feelings, or of stealing stockings from them while they slept. After this, he would be glad to take Amelia Johns for a wife and never even think of looking elsewhere.

"So,
Beacham
, tell me your news."

The solicitor looked ill at ease as he took a seat opposite Tristan at the office desk, but Dare didn't consider that a bad sign. He had never seen
Beacham
when the fellow
didn't
look nervous.

"I have done as you requested, my lord,"
Beacham
said, thumbing through a stack of papers until he found the one he wanted. "At last report, in the Americas barley was selling for seven shillings more per hundred pounds than it does here."

Tristan did some quick figuring. "That's 140 shillings per ton, with shipping costs at what, a hundred shillings per ton? I hardly think it's worth the time or the effort for an overall profit of twelve pounds,
Beacham
."

The solicitor grimaced. "That's not the precise fig—"

"
Beacham
, we're moving on now."

"Ah. Yes, my lord.
To where are we moving, my lord?"

"To wool."

Beacham
removed his spectacles, wiping the lenses with a handkerchief. Spectacle removal was frequently a good sign. "Except for Cotswold sheep, the wool market is quite sluggish."

"I breed Cotswold sheep."

The spectacles returned to the bridge of his nose. "Yes, I know that, my lord."

"We all know that. Get on with it.
My entire summer yield to the Americas, less expenses."

The spectacles didn't come off this time, and Tristan reflected that he'd spent far too much time wagering, looking for his opponents' weaknesses and give-away signs. On the other hand, over the past year he'd made more money for the estate through wagering than by regular means.

"I would anticipate a profit of approximately 132 pounds."

"Approximately."

"Yes, my lord."

Tristan let out his breath,
then
caught it again as a feminine figure in yellow-and-rose muslin crossed in front of the open office door. "Good. Let's proceed, then."

"Ah, it
is
still a risk, my lord, once time and distance are figured into the equation."

With a brief smile, Tristan pushed to his feet. "I like risk. And yes, I know it's not enough to make any difference at all in my situation. It will look as though I'm making money, though, which is at least as important."

The solicitor nodded. "If I may be blunt, my lord, I
could wish your father had had as keen an understanding of income."

They both knew that his father had spent where he should have saved yet had pinched pence on small, insignificant items, which had served only to alert and alarm both his creditors and his peers. The result had been an unmitigated disaster.

"And I appreciate your being the only solicitor in Dare's employ not to spread rumors." Tristan headed for the door. "
Which is why you're still in my employ.
Prepare the correspondence, if you please."

"Yes, my lord."

Tristan caught up with Georgiana at the music room door. "And where did you go, this morning?" he asked.

She
jumped,
guilt obvious on her pretty face. "None of your business, Dare. Go away."

"It's my house." Her reaction intrigued him, and he changed what he'd been about to say. "I have a coach and a curricle. Both are at your disposal. You don't need to hire hacks."

"Don't spy on me. And I do as I want." Georgiana hesitated, as though she wanted to go into the music room yet didn't want him following her in there. "I am assisting your aunts as a friend. I am not in your employ, and who, where, when, or how I go anywhere is up to me. Not you, my lord."

"Except in my home," he pointed out. "What do you want with the music room? My aunts aren't in there."

"Yes, we are,"
Milly's
voice came. "Behave yourself."

To his surprise, Georgiana took a step closer. "Disappointed, Dare?" she breathed. "Did you anticipate being able to torment me longer?"

He knew how to play this game. "Any 'anticipation' where you're concerned, Georgiana, had already been satisfied in my case, hasn't it?" Tristan reached out to finger one of the soft golden curls framing her face.

"Then I'll give you something else to anticipate," she said, her jaw clenched. He barely had time to note that she carried a fan before it cracked across his knuckles.

"Damnation! You little minx," he grunted, snatching his hand back as the broken ivory and paper fluttered to the floor. "You can't go about hitting gentlemen."

"I have never hit a gentleman," she sniffed, and disappeared into the music room.

Tristan stalked back downstairs, refusing to rub his smarting fingers. Now he would have to cut short his luncheon at White's to go purchase her another blasted fan. He gave a grim smile. Slender as his purse was, buying fans for
Georgie
was one thing he refused to give up. Nothing annoyed her quite
so
much as his gifts.

Tristan looked at the herd of young, single ladies gathered at one side of the
Ibbottson
ballroom. The not-quite-so-young part of the herd stood closer to the refreshment table, as though nearness to food would render them more enticing to the circling pack of male wolves. He had yet to see Georgiana stand anywhere
near that meat market, unless she happened to be conversing with some poor unfortunate who'd joined it.

What he would never be able to imagine even in his wildest dreams was the Marquis of
Harkley's
golden-haired daughter reconciled to the hopeless spinster section. The idea that she might be forced there because of his actions six years ago was ridiculous. Georgiana was intelligent, well educated, witty, tall, and beautiful. She was also fabulously wealthy, which in and of itself was enough to entice most suitors.

Hell, if he'd known at the time in what poor condition his father would be leaving the Dare properties and title, he might have—would have—made a more serious play for her affections. If she hadn't discovered the idiotic wager and convinced herself that was the sole reason he'd been in pursuit, they might have found their present circumstances vastly altered.

"Isn't that your Amelia?" Aunt Edwina said from beside him.

"She isn't
my
anything. Let's please make that clear." All he needed was another misunderstanding coming between him and a potential spouse. With his money woes, he was on the verge of becoming
unmarrigeable
himself. In fact, he was more likely to end up beside the punch bowl and the sweetmeats than Georgiana was.

"So you've settled on a different one?" His aunt wrapped her fingers around his arm and perched up on tiptoe.
"Which one?"

"For God's sake, Auntie, none of them.
Stop being such a matchmaker." She looked downcast and he sighed. "It'll probably be Amelia. I would like a chance to browse the entire fruit bowl before I select my peach, though."

She chuckled. "You are becoming reconciled to marriage."

"However can you tell?"

"Last month, marriage was apothecary shops and poison. Now
it's
fruit bowls and peaches."

"Yes, but peaches have pits."

A wheeled chair rolled onto his toe and stopped there.

"What has pits, dear?"
Milly
asked.

Milly
Carroway
was a substantial woman, and her weight combined with that of the chair was enough to make him see spots. The chair's driver smiled at him, her eyes alight with green devilment. Keeping his gaze steady on hers, he wrapped his fingers around her hand and the back of the chair, and pushed.

She flinched as though he'd struck her, but the wheel rolled back off his toe, and he could breathe again. He would have supposed her treading on his feet was better than being attacked with fans, but that didn't take into account large aunts and large wheeled chairs.

"Peaches do," he said.

"And what does that have to do with anything?"

"He's going to marry a peach," Edwina offered. "He's just afraid of pits."

"I am
not
afraid of pits," he retorted. "It's just a matter of wisdom."

"So a woman is a piece of fruit?" Georgiana broke in. "What does that make you, Lord Dare?"