Lords of Notoriety. Kasey Michaels
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in funereal black, should look dull, or silly, or boringly unimaginative, or, at the very least, depressing. So why did he look none of these? Why did he look like his muscular torso had been carefully poured into his formfitting coat, his, in this instance, black satin breeches lovingly painted on? Why did his black-on-black embroidered waistcoat call such unladylike attention to his flat abdomen, his snowy cravat show to such advantage against his deeply tanned features, his equally white stockings delineate muscular calves that owed nothing to the sawdust stuffing so many men felt forced to use to supplement what nature and a sybaritic life had left lacking?
“I’m waiting, Miss Lawrence.”
The sound of Lord Rule’s low, husky voice jolted Mary from her musings and surprised her into looking directly into a pair of the deepest, darkest eyes she had ever seen. “W-waiting, my lord?” she stammered, irritated for allowing a tremor to slip into her voice. “Whatever for?”
Tristan cocked his dark head slightly to one side. “Why, for you to commence flirting with me, what else? You flirt with every man you dance with—every man save me, that is. After weeks of standing up with you only to have to propel you woodenly, and silently, round yet another endless ballroom, I have decided to take the initiative. Please, feel free to bat those outrageous eyelashes at me. I’m stronger than I look, I can take it.”
Mary nearly tripped over her own feet as she stood stock-still for a moment, in mingled shock and outrage, while Tristan kept on dancing without missing a beat. “Me? Talk to you—the Great Sphinx? Flirt with you—the Great Stone Man? Why should I so lower myself as to try to converse with you when you’ve never so much as asked me if I thought the weather was tolerably fine? Besides, I’d rather flirt with portly old Prinny than waste even a moment’s time searching my brain for anything civil I’d wish to say to you.” Believing she had succeeded in making her position crystal clear, Mary lowered her head and went back to staring a hole in his cravat.
“You can’t flirt with pudgy old Prinny, Miss Lawrence,” Tristan returned conversationally, “unless, of course, you wish to incur the wrath of the pudgy old Marchioness of Hertford, who is our Royal Highness’s current favorite. In any event, the Regent is otherwise engaged these days, with he and his brother, the Duke of York, indulging once more in their favorite pastime, drinking each other under the table. Pity, though,” he ended facetiously, “as I do believe it would be a sight not to be missed.”
Feeling the heat of his left hand through her gloved fingers while sensing the steel in the hand that held her waist so firmly, Mary fought the urge to break away from the man, knowing that he was just obstinate enough to refuse to let her go—causing a scene of no mean proportions right in the middle of the ball. “Why, my lord,” she settled for saying, “I do believe your cousins to be entirely wrong about you. They have hinted on more than one occasion that you were a secret, valuable tool of England’s war effort. Wouldn’t they be crushed to learn that in reality you are nothing more than a spiteful, gossipy old woman?”
A slight tick appeared along one side of Lord Rule’s finely chiseled square chin, but he refused to allow this infuriating chit to bait him into unleashing his legendary temper. Let her continue to believe he was harmless, it would be easier to learn what he had set himself to discover if she continued to underestimate him. “Ah, Miss Lawrence,” he returned, smiling, “you have found me out. But then, what else is there to do now that peace is here but tear up our contemporaries behind their backs? It is a prerequisite of anyone claiming to be of the British upper class.”
“Bah? You British—” Mary began, then just as quickly ended. “You British men are all alike. You make a vocation out of refusing to take anything seriously. Why, Sir Henry has even said that English lords go to war with much the same enthusiasm as they approach grouse hunting, except that they don’t tend to regard war quite so seriously.”
The waltz ended, and Tristan put a hand under Mary’s elbow and steered her toward a door to the first-floor balcony without her ever realizing their destination. “Sir Henry is absolutely correct, Miss Lawrence,” he supplied smoothly as he helped her over the raised threshold and out onto the flagstones. “I’ve heard it more than once that we English believe all foreigners to be deucedly poor shots. Yet, be that as it may, we vain, arrogant English have succeeded in winning the war.”
“Have we?” Mary countered, seating herself on a low stone bench and watching as Tristan eased himself down beside her. “My uncle mutters that the only change thus far in Paris is that the newspapers and pats of butter are now imprinted with fleur-de-lis.”
Tristan berated himself for noticing how intriguingly Mary’s clear complexion captured the moonlight and added, “But that is not the worst that is being said, Miss Lawrence. Although I cannot claim to know anything about it, I have heard that it was English money used to bribe Napoleon’s generals that won us this war, just as it has done down through history, and that, in truth, Napoleon is very much Wellington’s superior.”
“As they have not faced each other across a battlefield, I believe that last to be a moot point, my lord,” Mary replied, wondering why her answer had brought a thoughtful frown to Lord Rule’s face.
“Then you have no preference between Napoleon and the duke? Surely you must have an opinion?” Tristan pressed.
“I must?” Mary shot back, suddenly realizing that she had somehow allowed herself to be isolated with a man she thoroughly detested. “Why? Surely a woman is not expected to have a head for war or politics. All that concerns me is that we are now free to visit Paris and investigate all the latest fashions.”
“And yet you are still here in London,” he pointed out, much to her chagrin. “I find it hard to believe you were not off to the Continent the minute Napoleon’s abdication was declared.”
This subject was close enough to Mary’s heart to cloud her earlier suspicions. “And I would have been, if not for Sir Henry’s summons,” she blurted before getting a belated hold on her tongue. Why was she feeling like a butterfly pinned down to a table for examination? Why did this seemingly innocent conversation seem so contrived, so full of probing questions? Why was she sitting here in the moonlight with a man she thoroughly abhorred in the first place? Rising to her feet with more haste than grace, she told Tristan that she had been absent too long from the ballroom and must return.
Tristan rose with her, once more taking firm possession of her elbow. “We wouldn’t want the tongues to wag, now would we, Miss Lawrence?” he agreed, just as if she had voiced the notion that the two of them were becoming thought of as a couple. “Besides, I do believe I heard another waltz beginning. I should be pleased to partner you.”
That stopped Mary in her tracks. Wheeling to face him, she gritted, “Are you mad? Two waltzes? Add that to our disappearance from the room and the whole world will have us betrothed.”
Tristan, who had decided to intensify his campaign with Mary by sticking as close as a barnacle to her side until he made up his mind about her once and for all, only smiled—causing Mary’s hand to itch to slap his handsome face. “Yes, they would, wouldn’t they? Ah well, I daresay Sir Henry won’t mind—he’s always seemed to like me a bit. Do you wish a long engagement?”
CHAPTER THREE
LISTENING TO TRISTAN’S WORDS, then whirling about to look into his disgustingly handsome, smiling face, caused Mary to spend the last coin of her self-control. “Marry you!” she shrieked, causing more than one interested head to turn in her direction. “Why, I’d rather be the sole woman on an island inhabited by shipwrecked sailors!”
Rule barely stifled an appreciative smile, which only served to incense Mary all the more, and bowed deeply from his waist. “And here I thought we were getting along so well,” he said, making a poor attempt at looking crushed by her words. “I stand corrected, madam.”
“Only until I knock you down, sirrah!” Mary retorted, trying to disengage her elbow, which he had maddeningly taken in his grasp. “Which I promise you I shall do shortly, if you do not release me.”
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