“A fortune and tailored clothing are not prerequisites. He is an expert fencer and accomplished pugilist, and brawny enough to present a threatening presence. That is all I require.”

“You are right, of course. And a pugilist, you say. I suppose he bears many scars and healed broken bones. Pity.” Genevieve blew out a sigh. “I gather he is remarkably unattractive?”

Catherine’s fingers fidgeted with the velvet cord of her reticule. “Well, in all fairness I wouldn’t say that.”

“Oh? What would you say?”

That this conversation has taken a most unsettling turn. An image of Mr. Stanton, sitting across from her in the carriage flashed in her mind, his dark eyes steady on hers, a teasing smile playing about his lips. She cleared her throat. “While Mr. Stanton is not classically handsome in any sense, I can see where a certain sort of woman might find him… not unappealing.”

“What sort of woman?”

The living, breathing sort. The words popped unbidden into her mind, appalling her. Heavens, she was losing her senses. “I really wouldn’t know,” she said, much more stiffly than she’d meant to. “Perhaps the nearsighted sort?”

Unfortunately, Genevieve ignored her stiff tone. “Oh, dear. Poor man. What exactly does Mr. Stanton look like?”

“Look like?”

Concern clouded Genevieve’s eyes. “Darling, are you certain that bump on your head is not more serious than you thought? Your manner is most odd.”

“I’m fine.” She drew a deep breath. “Mr. Stanton looks like… he has…”Dark, compelling eyes that you must actually force yourself to look away from. A slow, engaging smile that for some insane reason makes my heart beat faster just thinking about. A strong jaw, and that lovely mouth that looks both firm and delightfully soft at the same time. Silky, dark hair, strands of which fall over his forehead in a manner that makes one’s fingers itch to brush the locks back into place-

“He has what, darling?”

Genevieve’s voice jerked Catherine from her reverie with a start. Good Lord, her thoughts had positively run amuck. Perhaps she had bumped her head harder than she’d thought. “He has dark hair, dark eyes, and a, um, rather nice smile.” Her conscience balked at the lukewarm description of Mr. Stanton’s smile as “nice,” but she firmly swatted her inner voice aside.

“So he’s just very ordinary.”

Ordinary? Catherine tried to attach that word to Mr. Stanton, and was spectacularly unsuccessful. Before she could think up a reply, Genevieve continued, “Well, that is just as well. He is here to protect you. If you were attracted to him, you might consider entering into a liaison with him, and that could lead to all sorts of complications that could distract him from his duties.”

“I can assure you that a liaison with Mr. Stanton-or anyone else for that matter-is the furthest thing from my mind.”

Genevieve smiled. “Then thank heavens you do not find him the least bit attractive.”

“Yes, thank heavens.”

Yet even as those three words passed her lips, her inner voice whispered three words of its own.

Liar, liar, liar.

Chapter 6

Many men feel disinclined to give a woman what she wants if she is bold enough simply to ask fir it. In addition, many men disregard superb ideas simply because they were suggested by a woman. Therefore, the most expeditious way for Today’s Modern Woman to get what she wants and to implement her ideas is to lead the gentleman in question to believe that it was his idea all along.


A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of

Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

by Charles Brightmore


Andrew leaned his shoulders against the white marble mantel in the drawing room and tried his best not to glare at the monstrous floral tribute that dominated the room. Clearly he was not entirely successful-either that or Spencer was clairvoyant-because the lad said, “Dreadful, isn’t it?”

He turned his attention to Spencer, who sat on an overstuffed brocade settee next to the fireplace. The boy’s attention was fixed upon the trio of fruit tarts remaining on the silver platter Milton had served with their tea.

“Dreadful,”Andrew agreed. “Whoever sent that bouquet must have emptied every flower shop in the district.”

“The Duke of Kelby,” Spencer said, plucking a strawberry-topped tart from the tray. “Horrendously wealthy, although I’m certain the flowers came from his private conservatory, not a local shop.”

Bloody hell. The quizzing glass sporting, carplike duke was horrendously wealthy. With his own damn private conservatory.

Before Andrew could comment, Spencer looked up at him with a worried frown. “Is my mother all right?”

Wariness skittered through Andrew. “What do you mean?”

“She seemed worried. Did something happen in London to upset her?”

Damn it, he didn’t want to lie to the boy, yet he couldn’t ignore Lady Catherine’s request not to mention the shooting. “I think the journey back to Little Longstone exhausted her,” he said carefully.

There was no mistaking Spencer’s relief, and Andrew felt like a cad of the first order for not being honest with the lad. God knows he’d uttered an uncountable number of lies over the years without so much as batting an eye, but being less than truthful with this young man did not sit well at all.

Anxious to change the subject lest he be forced to say something else less than truthful, he asked, “Tell me, what sort of man is this duke?”

“Don’t really know. But he looks like a carp. I’d say he belongs in your museum with the rest of the relics.” Spencer stuffed half the tart in his mouth with a huge, enthusiastic bite that had Andrew holding back a grin. He swallowed, then added, “But it’s not just that he’s carplike. He doesn’t care about my mother.”

“And how do you know that?”

Spencer jerked his head toward the flower monstrosity. “Because he sent her those. She hates large, ostentatious displays like that. If he knew anything about my mother, he’d know that she’d prefer a single bloom.”

Andrew made a mental note of that useful information, and, burying the guilt that pricked him at questioning Spencer, he asked, “What else does your mother like?”

Spencer screwed up his face, clearly giving the matter serious thought. “Girl things,” he finally said.

“Girl things?”

“Yes. You know, gowns and ribbons and flowers and such. But simple. Not like that.” He pointed toward the huge bouquet.

Hmmm. Not much help there. “What else? Jewelry, I suppose?”

Spencer shook his head. “No. Or at least not very much I don’t think, as she rarely wears any. Mum likes animals. Walking in the gardens. Tending her flowers. Taking the waters. And strawberries. She’s very fond of strawberries.” He popped the other half of the tart into his mouth and grinned. “Me too.”

Andrew smiled in return. “Me three.” He leaned down, to help himself to a strawberry tart, which he ate with only marginally less gusto than Spencer, eliciting a laugh from the boy.

“Well, I’m glad that the duke doesn’t know what Mum likes,” Spencer said, his expression sobering, “or any of those other gentlemen who are trying to win her favor. She doesn’t need them. We don’t need them.” His gaze wandered down to his misshapen foot, and his jaw tightened. When he raised his gaze, Andrew’s heart lurched at the thousand hurts he read shimmering in Spencer’s eyes.

“I wish I could make them all just take away their flowers and invitations and gifts and leave her alone,” Spencer said, a quiver evident in his fervent voice. “I wish I was strong and could fight. Like you. Then they’d leave her alone.”

“I fight gentlemen in the pugilist’s ring,” Andrew said gently. “I don’t make a habit of going about popping dukes in the nose-even if they do send horrible flower arrangements.” Of course, I could change my policy on that…

Spencer didn’t respond with the smile Andrew had hoped for. “Uncle Philip said you are also an expert fencer.”

“I’m passable.”

“Uncle Philip said you’ve defeated him, and he is an expert.” Before Andrew could reply, Spencer rushed on, “Who taught you to fight with your fists?”

“My father gave me some instructions-after I arrived home one afternoon with a bleeding nose, swollen lip, and two blackened eyes. The rest I learned the hard way, I’m afraid.”

Spencer’s jaw dropped. “Someone hit you?”

“Hit is an understatement for the thorough thrashing I received.”

“Who would do such a thing? And why? Weren’t they afraid of you?”

Andrew laughed. “Hardly. I was only nine years old at the time, and as scrawny as they come. I was walking home after a successful afternoon of lake fishing when two local boys set upon me. They were both about my age, but far less scrawny than I. After they blackened my eyes, they relieved me of my fish.”

“I wager they wouldn’t attempt such a thing now,” Spencer predicted.

“I’d certainly give them a better showing than I did back then,” Andrew agreed.

“Did they ever do it again?”

“Oh, yes. They waited for me every week, the same spot, on my way home from the lake. I changed my return route, but they quickly caught on to that ploy. They made my life excessively miserable for several months.” Memories swept over him, of his shame at returning to his father without the fish he’d been sent to catch. The humiliation of shedding tears of pain and frustration, in spite of his best efforts not to, in front of his tormentors. His father looking at him through shrewd, yet calm eyes. How many more times you gonna let those whelps beat the tar out of you and steal our dinner, son? Wiping his bloody nose with the back of his hand, fighting back tears. None, Pa. They ain’t gonna beat me next time. Show me again how to fight them…