A Scandalous Connection, page 12
“I take leave to disagree. Now, shall I go through all your portmanteaus—Maria was obviously mistaken about their contents—or shall we cry quits and agree to share my greatcoat?”
Lady Raquel glared. The thought of Mr. Endicott opening all her luggage did not appeal. He was quite apparently without shame and would do it, she knew, in the twinkling of an eye. She blushed to think of the pantalets, bought on the spur of the moment and very infelicitously fast. Anders had had very prim fits, but Raquel, always the height of calm etiquette, had for once been defiant. It amused her to think that beneath her very proper skirts lay nothing but a few frills between her and flesh. It was all the rage in France, and she could quite see why. The pantalets were cool and did not incommode her nearly so much as the traditional swathe of petticoats. These, she thanked heaven, she was very properly wearing now. But Mr. Endicott’s unnerving smile told her he doubted it.
“Well? The horses are growing frisky. Personally, I would prefer rifling through your undergarments, but. . . ”
Raquel’s fingers clenched. “Very well, we shall share your greatcoat.”
“Good. Beautiful and biddable. Take care I do not fall in love with you.”
With this cryptic remark, Thomas stowed away the lilac corded portmanteau and took a few brisk strides up to the carriage door. The lady, he noted, was silent. She’d stopped calling him all manner of detestable things and was staring, stony-eyed, from the window. Thomas might have thought her indifferent to his last, flippantly made comment, but for the sharp intake of breath and the dwindling of her color to a satin pale cream. For an instant, he wondered whether he had goaded her too far. It was not his custom to bully young ladies, but Lady Raquel positively invited such treatment by her imperious, icy manner.
A sharp glance at the lady reassured him. Doubtless her silence indicated disdain rather than remorse. He hoped so. He was beginning to enjoy these spats. Besides, if it was remorse she was feeling, he might easily be led to comfort her. He was not sure he wanted to comfort the elegant Lady Fortesque-Benton. She was already wreaking far too much havoc with his self-control.
He nodded to the coachman, and with a swift, sleek movement, hoisted himself back into the chaise. It seemed much bigger, now that Maria was not taking up half the leg room. Still, for all its spaciousness, it was strangely intimate, and Raquel could not help the slight shiver that crept up her spine and kept her from peering out the opposite window as she had intended.
Mr. Endicott contemplated her quietly. Her hands lay still in her lap, and her back, though straight, curved a little at the arch. His thoughts were not pleasant, for while he had the most overpowering urge to take her in his arms and kiss away the cross pout and the arrogant incline of her chin, he had promised the duke of Darris that he would resist just these impulses. For the first time in his life, he cursed Demian. She was looking at him now, which made a change from her previous tactics. He wondered if it was boredom, curiosity, or something else that drove her. Her eyes were quite intoxicatingly blue.
“You are looking at me now. Does that mean you acknowledge me as a person?”
“Would you care if I don’t?” The words were softly spoken and slightly more whimsical than he would have expected. He smiled.
“Good technique, Lady Raquel. A question for a question. Always keep the opposition guessing.”
“Are you the opposition?”
More questions! He eyed her speculatively, all the while wishing he could take up the sudden challenge he detected in those heavenly eyes. Did that golden curl fall by accident or by design? It looked superb across her brow. He wished to thread his fingers through it. He cursed, wondering if she knew.
“I shall allow you to formulate your own opinion on that, my lady.”
She viewed him suspiciously, her blue eyes widening a little in thought. Mr. Endicott found her delectable when her icy manner flagged, as it did now. Cursing the duke, he had to clench his fists to retain his mocking demeanor.
“I think you are the opposition, for you disapprove of me.”
He cocked his brow quizzically, neither confirming nor denying her assertion. Disapproval did not rank highly in his thoughts, but then, neither did chivalry. The very honorable Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton would probably shriek and run ten miles in the snow if she knew what he was thinking. And so she should.
A flicker of amused frustration reached his eyes. How singularly trying that he should find this stiff-rumped shrew so intriguing. She was begging for a denial, but he would not give it. He did disapprove of her. More specifically, he found he violently disapproved of her in relation to a wife for Darris. The fact that she would make a well-bred, beautiful and appropriately regal duchess made things worse, not better. He kicked a tasseled Hessian against his elegantly crested door, then cursed.
Lady Raquel raised deliciously arched brows, which only made Thomas wish to repeat the offense. He didn’t, but his bearing became stiffer than usual and he almost resorted to staring out the window. Fortunately, his innate dislike of such stratagems came to the fore, so he settled on gazing at the lady in question with great beetling brows of his own.
She sighed. Mr. Endicott was being uncommonly restrained, but his very silence spoke volumes. Raquel was piqued. She found she did not favor being disapproved of. She answered his stare with a bold one of her own, though she feared it presented itself more as a flush than as cold scrutiny. Annoyed to find how much she cared about this arrogant, untitled man’s opinion, she nevertheless pressed on.
“Can you honestly deny you do not wish me to marry Darris?”
Thomas, who was at that moment wishing his good friend the noble duke of Darris to the devil, could answer promptly and most truthfully. His eyes, it must be said, never left the lady’s for an instant.
“No, my lady, I cannot. Decidedly I do not want you to marry Darris.”
Had Lady Raquel been used to receiving subtle rather than overt compliments, she may have dipped her eyes flirtatiously at this obvious double entendre. She was not, however, accustomed to such subtleties, the bulk of her suitors being ruthlessly unrestrained in their praises. Her fortune, after all, demanded it.
So she took the statement at face value and felt her face flame with mortification. Since he obviously did not regard her as marriage material, his odiously flirtatious manner must now be construed as insulting. Oh, he was a beast! A flagrantly attractive, heart-stoppingly handsome beast. He trifled with her merely to pass the time and divert her attention from Demian.
Raquel bit her lip and allowed her eyes to flicker to the silver carriage cushions. Impossible to avoid a glimpse of those elegantly clad knees, but at least she had avoided the broad, compelling chest and the unnerving stare she had endured for quite long enough.
Arrogant sapskull! She concentrated on this thought for quite two seconds before noticing the knees move a little. The silver cushions became more fascinating than ever.
She had never wanted, in all her life, to be kissed so much as she did now. Her color deepened even further, for the thought was decidedly unsettling. More annoying still, she doubted herself. It had become a habit to see herself as others did. The Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton, modishly dressed, always, in bonnets of prettily trimmed straw, was a diamond of the first water, a prize beyond compare. Now she saw herself as this nonpareil must: a passing beauty with a bad temper and a cold aspect. She felt bleak.
Mr. Endicott, watching her closely, divined some of these foolish feelings. He steeled himself against the crushing urge to kiss them away. Demian, he thought with wry humor, would probably not thank him for his concern.
Tears glittered in the delicate blue eyes. He could only just see them through the tangle of lashes. He wondered what it was about his silver squabs that was so fascinating. Perhaps, if he reclined her against them, he would know. . . . His jaw hardened.
And the haughty, cold Lady Raquel with her endless lists? She was at a loss to know why she felt so bitterly bereft. She couldn’t care a farthing for what plain Mr. Thomas Tyrone Endicott felt. He was merely a courier, after all. A courier charged with escorting her to her betrothed. She must be mad thinking of him as a nonpareil, just because his charm was effortless and he looked . . . oh, he looked beyond compare. He could not have the air of command she credited him for—he was not even a baron, for heaven’s sake! True, he had the ear of the highest in the land, and had commanded His Majesty’s tenth division of Light Brigades into battle, but that was not to compare with the luster of a duke! Oh, if only she had not been so hasty! Stepping into his chaise was the stupidest, most scatterbrained thing she had ever done in her well-ordered life.
He watched her unravel her thoughts, amusement vying with something else in that picture-perfect countenance. Raquel thought she could hardly bear to look at him, let alone interpret the glance. Nevertheless, she felt her lacings tighten as her body instinctively responded to . . . she knew not what. Mr. Endicott, after all, had not moved. Her imagination was playing tricks. But, in a rush of consciousness, she knew that Mr. Endicott, courier or not, stirred her with one mocking thrust of his jaw in a manner that the duke did not. She was never more annoyed—or flushed—or flustered—in her life. It did not help that the mocking smile widened as if it understood every fluttering cause of her confusion.
“You are beautiful when your eyes mist up.” Lady Raquel’s heart turned over as the words, smooth and silky, caressed her. There was a moment’s silence.
“Does it require a lot of practice?”
Lady Raquel took a moment to understand the insult. “Oh!” Her face flamed again, but this time with outrage. She did not have to lean far forward to bridge the gap between them. If the carriage had jolted forward, she would have been across those annoying knees. Fortunately, it did not. Very properly, it swayed from side to side. Lady Raquel was therefore able to lean forward and, with stunning aplomb, slap his mocking face. The sound reverberated between them in the closed carriage.
Lady Fortesque-Benton sat back in her seat. Two of the silver squabs landed on the floor in her haste. Neither picked them up. The sound reverberated between them, magnified out of all proportion by the tension of the moment.
Stunned by her momentary loss of poise, Raquel thought wildly that the slap must have been heard for miles. Breathless, she peeked out of the carriage. The coachman seemed not to have noticed, for though she could not see him for the horses, he was murmuring something gloomy beneath his breath. It was something inconsequential about the weather. Peaks of white drifted softly across her face. In a dreamlike state, Raquel noticed that her very breath was forming smoky wisps on the carriage frame. Patches of frost alternated with small, fragmented pools of water on the spokes. And her gloves were wet. Slowly, she stopped clutching at the frame and drew them inside again.
Eleven
Meeting his eyes was unavoidable. Mr. Endicott, nursing his cheek with a gloved hand, was curiously silent. Raquel’s heart beat all the faster. She was not so henwitted as to believe him indulgent, for he had already shown himself to be otherwise.
She therefore tilted her chin defiantly, noting with some alarm—and a good deal of satisfaction—that the singularly handsome face was streaked with red, fading, as she watched, to a dull pink. Her pulses raced. She did not feel nearly so icy as her reputation, despite the thrill of shivers that beset her.
Outside, the coachman watched the skies and slowed the horses down to a simple trot. The first flakes of snow brushed gently on the carriage roof before slipping silently to the ground. Neither person inside the gay, well-sprung chaise noticed. Regardless of the telltale signs of winter, both people were decidedly warm.
The carriage was cast in shadow, but Raquel could still see the mark she had produced on that amazingly virile countenance. She could only imagine at the consequences and sank back in her seat. It was hard without the squabs. The silver winked at her from the carpet of red, but she did not pick them up. Instead, as calmly as she could, she folded her arms and waited.
Thomas surprised her. He did not, as she’d half expected, retaliate with a stinging blow of his own. Neither, as she rather feared, did he take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.
She breathed a little sigh, half relief, half maddening disappointment. There was still a silence. Then she noticed the tilting of Mr. Endicott’s lips as though he were fighting back waves of laughter. She glanced quickly at his eyes and noted that they were twinkling with a sudden, quite glorious light. In spite of herself, Lady Raquel found her own graceful bow lips twitching quite infectiously. The next moment, both she and Mr. Endicott were laughing, though neither quite knew why. When they stopped, both were a little self-conscious, but a new understanding seemed forged between them. Thomas did not know whether this was good, or decidedly bad.
“You little vixen! I shall inform Demian to think carefully. He is doubtless marrying a shrew.” But his eyes smiled.
“I am only a shrew when the company is disagreeable.” Raquel flirted with her lashes. Mr. Endicott noticed, but did not succumb.
“I am only disagreeable when the company is a shrew.” He deftly turned the phrase to suit himself. Lady Raquel understood the insult a little quicker this time. “Oh!”
Thomas was alert. Lady Fortesque-Benton’s hand was already raised.
Their newfound amity appeared to evaporate like the mists.
“No you don’t!”
Raquel raised her brows, furious that her hand was being so forcefully held. She refused to allow herself to enjoy the sensation, as the faint, traitorous whisper in her being so tantalizingly demanded.
“Next time, you see fit to slap me, my lady, be warned. I shall answer in kind.”
“It is fortunate I am marrying into the peerage, Mr. Endicott. Gentlemen, I believe, do not slap ladies’ faces.”
“I said nothing about your face, Lady Raquel.” Thomas’s words were silky.
“No?”
Lady Fortesque-Benton looked puzzled, though her words challenged. Her hand was still a prisoner. Mr. Endicott leaned over, without warning, and in a single twisting movement pulled her forward and positioned her indelicately across his knee. His palm, warm and hard, lightly pressed itself against her pert day dress with its fathoms of petticoats and excellent French lace. Lady Raquel eyed the red velvet carpet and the gleaming black Hessians with misgiving. She refused to wriggle, but, despite her layers of fashionable undergarments, she felt excessively alarmed. Mr. Endicott’s meaning was now patently apparent to her. Her dignity did not permit her to scream, but she did manage an icy command.
“Let me go!”
Thomas laughed, admiring her spirit. No milk-and-water miss, this. “Certainly, my lady. I was merely making a point.”
“Well, you have made it, you brute. Now let me go.” But Mr. Endicott had already begun the process of tilting her upright and depositing her on the seat beside him. Raquel breathed a sigh of shuddering relief, though her dignity was as much offended as her derriere had been. Despite its unexpected reprieve, it tingled. She shifted, as if to return to the other side, but his gloved hands stretched out lazily. They prevented her, maddeningly, from doing so.
Lady Raquel summoned her most scathing of glances.
“Are you bent on compromising my virtue?”
Mr. Endicott appeared to consider the question as he propped her back beside him. Then he leaned over suddenly and retrieved the squabs. Raquel wondered if it was an accident that his thighs brushed against hers. She shocked herself by hoping not, for despite her protestations, she felt herself intolerably in Mr. Endicott’s tantalizing toils.
Now, he answered her question. She was annoyed that she couldn’t see his eyes without turning. She refused to do so.
He grinned, as if divining her thoughts. “How excellent! You neglected to add ‘beast,’ after those prettily spoken words. And to answer your question, the theory tempts me, but no, I am not. I have promised your virtue to Demian. See? Even I can be foolish.”
Raquel ignored the innuendo and the sudden gleam that accompanied it.
“His Grace should challenge you to a duel for the insults you have offered me.”
“He should, but he won’t. His Grace has a partiality for me, I fear.”
Raquel wished she could say the same. But, meeting Mr. Endicott had opened her eyes a little. Lord Darris did not look at her as if he wished to devour her, with burning dark eyes and a silky smile that refused to be banished. His Grace had been all that was proper, but nothing more. Casting her mind back, she did not think he had even commented on her ravishing looks—and they were ravishing, she’d been told so a million times—nor had he composed her a simple sonnet. But she was being absurd. Theirs was palpably a marriage of convenience. The duke needed funds and she needed a title. Which reminded her, of course, that Mr. Endicott, for all his airs and supreme address, was entirely ineligible. Perversely, the thought made her wish to slap his handsome face again.
“Perhaps he won’t be so partial to you when he knows you have taken liberties with his fiancée.”
“I have not taken liberties. I have not even begun to take liberties. Shall I, though? The idea is intriguing.”
Raquel was glad that he was not facing her, for she was flushing like a schoolgirl. It seemed a maddening coincidence to her that his thigh was again brushing softly against her skirts. Possibly, if it were not so unbearably well proportioned, it would not have mattered.
“I don’t take liberties with a libertine. Now let me return to my seat.”
“No, for the temperature is now approaching freezing, and though I am loath to remind you of it, we have a deal. You are to share my greatcoat.”
Raquel eyed the greatcoat with disfavor. It was being removed unceremoniously from Thomas’s shoulders, affording her a glimpse of broad muscles and a light, cream-shaded waistcoat. The fact that it emphasized his waist annoyed her, for this was no time to notice how obviously attractive he was, or that no tailor had been required to pad any of his many interesting areas of anatomy with lamb’s wool. Possibly if one had, she would have been able to muster up some kind of amusement, or even, better yet, contempt. Now, however, she kept wishing that the abysmal man would kiss her, and this caused havoc with her calm, ordered senses.
