Elizabeth Powell - A Reckless Bargain

He should really be more careful about what he wished for.

They were staring at her.

Every time Kit raised her head from her book she fancied that she saw one of the others look quickly away. Or was she imagining things? The Marquess of Bainbridge, at least, made no attempt to conceal his scrutiny. The first time their eyes met across the drawing room, his lips curved in a slight, intimate smile that sent gooseflesh racing over her skin. A bright display of color rose in her cheeks, and Kit wrenched her attention back to her reading, though the words on the page made little sense to her restless mind.

She had expected some condescension from the relations of the dowager duchess, but not such veiled hostility. During dinner, the duke and duchess asked her a number of pointed questions about her experiences in India, but their inquiry seemed to focus more on her late husband's dealings in trade than on anything to do with Calcutta or its many wonders. Lady Elizabeth Peverell, the duchess's sister, had sat next to her, and although on the surface her conversation sounded quite congenial, the lady made several insulting comments sotto voce to her, well out of the dowager's hearing. Kit frowned. And this was but the first battle.

She shifted on the Chippendale chair and tried to concentrate on her book, but Mr. Coleridge's sonnets had lost their appeal. She had never traveled in such exalted social circles, even when she made her debut; the penniless daughter of a reprobate baron received few invitations, never mind vouchers for Almack's. Perhaps that was why she felt so out of place.

It had started the moment she and the dowager had arrived. Although Kit had worn her best gown to dinner, the sight of the lovely raven-haired duchess in her dress of celestial blue silk and Lady Elizabeth in a creation of silver net over sea green satin was enough to make her compare herself to a crow that had inadvertently landed in a flock of graceful swans. Her navy blue gown, though well made, looked woefully plain by comparison. Now she knew why the dowager duchess had gone on about new dresses. Kit pursed her lips and turned another page.

Since they dined en famille, the gentlemen did not go to a separate room to enjoy their port after dinner, but rather the entire group had adjourned to the drawing room. At present, the duke and duchess sat on either side of the dowager on the long striped divan by the hearth. The marquess lounged against the ornate stone mantelpiece, a glass of sherry dangling from his strong fingers. Lady Elizabeth sat nearby and attempted to engage the marquess in conversation. Lord Bainbridge, however, did not appear to be drawn in by her sallies; he made but brief replies, his gaze never straying far from Kit's.

What part did this fellow play in the duke's scheme? Whatever it was, she was determined not to let him unnerve her. With a huff, Kit turned a deliberate shoulder to him.

There, that was better. She tried to find her place in her book.

Was he still…

Temptation got the better of her. She glanced over her shoulder.

Yes, he was.

Heat flooded her features for the umpteenth time that evening. Why did the man stare at her so, and why did it seem to affect her pulse so strangely? He was handsome, very handsome, but something about his demeanor disturbed her, and it was not just the fact that he felt inclined to stare at complete strangers. He had-there was no other way to put it-an almost deliberate charm about him, as though he went out of his way to bring himself to the attention of the fairer sex. And he paid almost no attention to Lady Elizabeth, the lovely unmarried daughter of an earl, in favor of her, a plain-featured widow.

As if her experience on the Marriage Mart had not been education enough, Kit's experiences in India had honed her ability to identify dangerous predators, and this man was definitely dangerous. She could see it in the confident set of his broad shoulders, in the calculated smile that curved his mobile mouth. He continued to regard her from beneath seductively half-lowered lids; she dared not look into those compelling sable brown eyes, or imagine brushing that lock of ebony hair away from his forehead…

She started. Gracious-what made her think such a thing? She had dealt with over a dozen such men in India, acquaintances of her husband who had not scrupled to solicit her affections, so why did this one have her behaving like a complete widgeon?

"Mrs. Mallory," called the duchess, "perhaps you would favor us with a piece on the pianoforte. I think you will find our Broadwood grand to be a superior instrument."

Kit now raised her head to find herself the focus of everyone's gaze. Again. She forced a polite smile to her lips. "I regret to say, ma'am, that my musical talents are indifferent, at best."

"Well then, I will play, and you can sing for us."

Kit recognized the gleam in the duchess's cool eyes. A prickling sensation spread across the back of her neck. "I fear my singing is little better, Your Grace."

"Oh, leave the girl alone, Caroline," reproached the dowager. "She is here as my guest and should not feel obliged to entertain you."

The duchess lifted a languid hand to her throat. "I was merely being polite, Grandmama. After all, we do want Mrs. Mallory to feel at home here." She turned to her husband. "Do we not, my dear?"

"Yes. Of course," agreed the duke, his mouth set in hard lines.

Kit's fingers tightened around her book. Did the dowager not notice the treacherous undercurrents of these words? Apparently not. That, or she was going to pick her battles. Kit hoped it was the latter.

"I confess I am astonished, Mrs. Mallory," added Lady Elizabeth. She shared a knowing look with her sister. "I thought every well-brought-up young lady knew how to play the pianoforte and sing. Your talents must lie in… other areas."

Kit's smiled turned brittle. "Quite so. I speak French and Italian tolerably well, although my German is only adequate. During my years in India I learned to speak fluent Hindi, along with a smattering of Bengali and a bit of Persian."

Lady Elizabeth appeared taken aback. "I… see. And your other accomplishments? Do you embroider or paint watercolors?"

"I have always wondered why society insists on measuring a lady by her accomplishments. If playing and singing and painting insipid watercolors are the sum of our potential, then we are dull creatures, indeed."

"I must protest, Mrs. Mallory," said the duchess airily. "Such refined skills are what separate genteel ladies from women of the lower classes."

"One might also claim that the ability to read serves the same purpose." Kit gestured to her book.

"Oho-a palpable hit. Good for you, child," cackled the dowager.

Kit smiled. The lady was indeed picking her battles.

The duke scowled.

The marquess cleared his throat, and Kit would swear that he was trying to hide a grin of amusement.

"Do you mean to tell us that you would prefer to be a bluestocking, rather than a proper lady?" Lady Elizabeth twittered.

"I do not understand why the two need be mutually exclusive," Kit responded. "And I have never considered myself as anything but proper."

Her Grace made a dismissive gesture. "I fail to see what use a lady has for the scholarly skills you espouse, Mrs. Mallory."

"Just as I fail to see why intelligence is deemed of lesser value than musical skill. Why may a woman be considered clever or witty, but no more than that? God, in His infinite wisdom, gave us each certain talents. Some of us were meant to play the piano, just as others were meant to study poetry and philosophy."

The duchess rose from the divan, her mouth pinched. "Well, if you ask me, all of that sounds rather… revolutionary. I declare, Mrs. Mallory, next you'll be telling us that you sympathize with the French! Come, Lizzie. I wish to play, and I will need you to turn the pages for me."

The two women crossed the room to the Broadwood grand, then sat down together on the bench in front of the keyboard and put their heads together in conversation. Pointedly ignoring Kit, the duke turned to the dowager with a question about her plans for the upcoming Season. And the marquess… The marquess detached himself from the mantel, crossed the Aubusson carpet, and sat down on the chair next to Kit.

He leaned toward her, his eyes on the book in her hands. Kit detected a faint hint of his cologne, musk with a trace of citrus, mingled with cheroot smoke and the smell of warm skin. George had always applied Imperial water with a rather heavy hand, claiming that it drove away the mosquitoes, and as a result the scent had never much appealed to her. The marquess's particular combination, however, was completely and utterly masculine. She swallowed hard.

"And which one are you studying now, ma'am-poetry or philosophy?" he inquired.

"Ah… poetry, sir," she replied when she found her voice. "By Mr. Hartley Coleridge."

"Coleridge? I do not believe I have heard his work. Would you consent to read some to me?"

His eyes were the color of chocolate, rich and dark. Strange, but never before had she found dark eyes so attractive.

"I would not think you a lover of poetry, my lord," she said, surreptitiously rubbing one damp palm against her skirts.

"You would be surprised at the things I find appealing," he murmured.

His devilish grin made Kit's heart give a strange, sideways leap. She glanced toward the pianoforte; the duchess had just launched into a spirited rendition of Mozart's "Rondo Alla Turca."

"I do not think it would be polite to ignore Her Grace's performance," she replied a trifle breathlessly.