6
In all, Benedick had been perversely pleased with his day’s work. He’d paid back the interfering Lady Carstairs in full. The expression on her face was such unflattering horror that he’d almost laughed out loud, and she’d taken her bevy of reclaimed doves out of the park at something close to a run. Sir Thomas Carstairs must have been even more of an ogre than was generally suspected, to give her such a disgust of men.
He wondered if she forced the girls to sit through endless sermons, poor things. She’d marry again, despite her disdain for his sex. She was too plump and luscious not to, and sooner or later someone, probably another fortune hunter, would overcome her scruples and pay dearly for it. She’d probably make him pray before he bedded her, lights out, nightgown lifted primly to her waist in the darkness.
Though chances were, the Honorable Miss Pennington might not have been much better. At least Lady Carstairs had compassion for her gaggle, if not for the male half of the world’s population.
Clearly he needed to set his sights on someone younger, more amenable than Miss Dorothea Pennington. He ran the risk of being cuckolded, he supposed, though with no false modesty he counted that unlikely. Women had an unfortunate tendency to love him. Unfortunate, as they tended to die.
Even Barbara had loved him in her way. At least someone like Dorothea Pennington wouldn’t mourn him overmuch—she was much too practical.
But that glimpse into her ice-cold soul in the park that day had been more than sufficient, and in the following weeks he had cast his eye around the ton, sorting through the eligible maidens and discarding each one, though he found any number that would have done for Brandon. Not that Brandon ever made an appearance at any of the functions created to parade nubile and marriageable flesh in front of jaded male eyes. In truth, his stray comment, meant to enflame, had struck close to the truth. The marriage mart wasn’t much better than a brothel, he mused, staring into the fire one rainy afternoon. Lady Carstairs ought to direct her energy there, preserving the virgins from a life of sexual indebtedness. There might be more freedom in being a whore.
He watched the flames, abstracted. So far, each of the contenders for the role of Viscountess Rohan had failed for one issue or another. One was too pretty, another too plain. One was too lively, another too drab. One had a shrill laugh, another had a vitriolic temper, yet another embraced too much religiosity. None of them would do.
He was having an equally difficult time with the more congenial form of feminine companionship. Despite Lady Carstairs’s best efforts there were still any number of available females eager for his attention, but so far the few who had managed to engage his interest for even a short amount of time were rare, indeed. Even Brandon might have noticed, had he ever been home. He was hollow-eyed, so thin a wind might blow him away, bad-tempered and mocking. His sweet, enthusiastic little brother was now an even greater cynic than he was, though in truth Brandon had more reason. He had seen death on a staggering scale; his body had been ripped to pieces in a foolish war, though Benedick was of the unpopular opinion that all wars were foolish. It was little wonder that Brandon appeared to be burning the candle at both ends, though God knew where he was doing so. Certainly not anywhere Benedick was aware of.
He’d come to the uneasy conclusion that he was not his brother’s keeper, and forced himself to stop worrying. It was no longer in his nature to fuss about his siblings. His brother Charles was so well settled into such a boring life in Cornwall that he had seemed to disappear, and as for his wild and brave sister, Miranda, she had married a man of such unforgivable treachery that his mind still reeled. He kept waiting for her call for help, and he was more than prepared to jump in a carriage and rescue her from the monster she’d married. Instead she kept popping out children and being blissfully happy, which annoyed him no end.
Not that he wanted her to suffer. He just wanted her away from the Scorpion.
Ah, but he wasn’t his sister’s keeper, either. He needed to concentrate on his own concerns, and he was having a devil of a time fulfilling either of his two objectives. The women were accommodating, the virgins were lovely, and he had no taste for either.
Indeed, perhaps he ought to go back to Somerset, where at least…
He heard the commotion at the front door, and he dropped his feet to the floor. Richmond and the footmen should be more than capable of dealing with any disturbance, particularly after their previous failure in letting Lady Carstairs storm into the house, but he was bored and in the mood for a fight. Perhaps he ought to see what was disturbing a gentleman’s peace.
He didn’t have to go anywhere. The door to his library was flung open, and the virago stood there, breathing heavily, her bonnet askew, her eyes blazing, and for a moment he wondered if she had had a brawl with his servants. A moment later an unruffled Richmond appeared behind her, announced in quite unnecessary accents, “Lady Carstairs,” and then closed the door behind her, sealing her in the room with him.
He rose—his mother had raised him to be a gentleman—and raised an eyebrow. It had been more than three weeks since he’d seen her in the park, and he had sincerely hoped she was plainer than he remembered. Unfortunately, the opposite was true. Melisande, Lady Carstairs, was a surprisingly pretty creature despite the dowdy clothes and shadowing bonnet. “What a charming surprise!” he murmured, the correct social lie. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Lady Carstairs?”
For a moment she looked nonplussed. Clearly she’d been expecting a battle, and instead found him on his best behavior. How delightful that being polite was even more upsetting to her than his customary rudeness.
But she was a worthy opponent, and her eyes narrowed, surveying him. “I’ve come to ask for your help,” she said abruptly. She was nervous, he noticed, which surprised him. She hadn’t struck him as the kind of woman to be afraid of anything or anyone.
“I would be delighted to be of service, Lady Carstairs, but if you think I would be of any assistance in persuading women to forego the pleasures of the flesh then I must tell you that you’ve chosen the wrong—”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “Aren’t you going to invite me to sit? I practically ran from Carstairs House.”
He frowned then. “You should have taken a carriage. There are some less than savory areas in between King Street and Bury Street. And I presume your abigail or your footman is waiting outside?”
“I seldom bother with the absurd trappings of convention, Lord Rohan, and I employ neither of them. Besides, I was in too much of a hurry.” She didn’t wait for his invitation, stripping off her bonnet and sinking down on the chair by the fire, fixing her fierce blue gaze on him.
He was, for a moment, startled. Lady Carstairs was prettier than he’d realized, with soft wings of tawny hair framing an oval face, a wide, mobile mouth, straight nose and those piercing eyes. Combined with her luscious body, the total of her assets caused him to mentally reevaluate his timeline. She’d be wed by the end of the season. Some wise man simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.
He realized he was staring at her, and he quickly pulled himself together. “The trappings of convention are there for a reason. If we are shut up alone together for any length of time people might surmise that I compromised you.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” she said. “I’m hardly the sort of woman who catches your eye. They’re more likely to think I compromised you, and I assure you, you’re safe from any claims on my part.”
“And I assure you, Lady Carstairs, that there are very few women who don’t catch my eye, and you underestimate your charms.”
She blushed. Charity Carstairs, the Virago of King Street, actually blushed, and for a moment he was enchanted. And then she recovered, fixing him with a stern gaze. “Don’t waste your time, Rohan,” she said, using the familiar form of his name simply to put him in his place. It didn’t work, he thought with amusement. “I’m beyond such flummery. And no, I’m not an idiot. I don’t want you anywhere near my girls—you’re far too great a distraction as it is. I have a far greater problem, and you have reason to share in the blame, given your family’s history.”
“I have no intention of taking responsibility for my father or grandfather. They were two of the finest rakes England has ever known, and I could never hope to equal their feats. They were like gods, I, merely a godling. I only take responsibility for my own debaucheries, which are many.” Though not as many as he could have wished, he thought dejectedly.
But she was undeterred. “And you’re proud of this?”
He was spared having to respond by the appearance of Richmond carrying a tea tray, lavishly outfitted with cakes and trifles as well as the best china, the set his mother had picked out for him and which seldom saw the light of day. Richmond must approve of Lady Carstairs, for some as yet unfathomable reason. He would hardly approve of her visiting a gentleman’s house, and Richmond had very severe standards. There must be something else to make him overlook such a shocking breach of etiquette and signal his approval.
She poured, of course, the ritual almost unconscious, and he was pleased to see she hadn’t forgotten that much in her devotion to good works. He took his with lemon only, and he sat back, holding his cup, as she filled hers with enough sugar and milk to destroy the taste completely. So Lady Carstairs had a fondness for sweets? Clearly she hadn’t given up all pleasures of the flesh.
She took a cake, nibbled it, then devoured it, her movements quick and nervous. He waited, entirely at his ease. This was the most interesting thing that had happened in weeks. In fact, since he’d run into her in the park. It was a shame Brandon hadn’t returned last night. Then again, there was no telling how the new Brandon would act.
The old Brandon would have been amused and polite, and probably defend her once she left. The new Brandon simply wouldn’t care.
No, it was just as well he wasn’t here.
Lady Carstairs took a second cake, not that he could blame her. He retained a most excellent kitchen staff, though he seldom paid attention to sweets. Apparently Lady Carstairs made up for his abstinence.
She must have realized he was watching her, for she finished the cake, sat back and took a deep breath. “It concerns the Heavenly Host.”