How to Dazzle a Duke Page 9

  Cranleigh gave him a look and then said, “What about Mr. Grey?”

  “Lady Dalby’s brother?”

  “No, he’s too disinterested to even agree to take part. I was thinking of Mr. George Grey.”

  They both turned to consider the Indian, oldest of the three sons and Sophia’s nephew. It was a strange coincidence indeed that he was staring back at them. That seemed enough to settle it.

  “Done,” Iveston said. “Three days, starting now, Mr. Grey to pronounce. Shall I broach the subject to him or shall you?”

  “I shall. You have enough to do with Miss Prestwick, don’t you? Best get to it, before she carries Edenham out of the room over her shoulder,” Cranleigh said with a grin.

  “I thought that was your duty,” Iveston said mockingly, as it was now and forevermore a well-known fact that Cranleigh had carried his wife over his shoulder before she was his wife. Just look how well it had all turned out, if one wanted to be married, that is.

  “MISS Prestwick looks at you like a woman who wants to be married,” Tannington said.

  Edenham glanced at Tannington and did something with his mouth that was nearly a smile, but wasn’t. “Most women have that look. I used to believe they were born with it. Until I had my daughter. I now know it is a learned response that envelops a woman at a certain age,” Edenham said, setting his cup down upon the table nearest him. “At what age I cannot say.”

  “Shall I offer an opinion?” Sophia said. “It depends entirely upon the woman. Some women never reach it.”

  “Never?” Tannington said. “I’ve yet to meet a woman who hasn’t.”

  “You’ve met me,” Sophia said with the slightest degree of chill to her voice.

  “Yet you married,” Tannington said.

  “Yet without the requisite look, Lord Tannington, which is what I believe we were discussing.”

  “What look did you wear, Lady Dalby?” Lord Ruan asked.

  “I should think a most satisfied one,” she answered, “as is my habit.”

  “A most delightful habit,” Ruan said softly, standing between her and Tannington, Edenham at her side. Ruan did not mind Edenham’s presence as it was plain that he and Sophia were friends and only that. Tannington, however, was a threat, a predator to Sophia’s affections that he was not prepared to tolerate. It was supremely helpful that Sophia clearly had no use for Tannington, not that Tannington seemed to appreciate that fact.

  Lord Tannington was, by every description of him, a determined man to an almost ruthless degree. He wanted Sophia, that was plain and perfectly natural of him. He could not have her. If Sophia had not already decided that, and he would be shocked if she hadn’t, then Ruan had. Lord Ruan had danced around Sophia Dalby for nearly a month now and seen very little in the way of results. He was not going to allow Tannington to slow his momentum now, however paltry it was.

  “It was Dalby who wore the look then, if I remember,” Edenham said. “He was most determined to have you, wasn’t he?”

  Sophia turned so that Tannington was slightly behind her and out of her line of sight. She smiled at Edenham with all the warmth of an old friend. Ruan felt himself relax, slightly. Regarding Sophia, one was a fool to relax fully.

  “He said as much,” Sophia said.

  “How very peculiar,” Tannington said softly. “I was told he had you already, repeatedly.”

  Edenham didn’t have the chance to respond, no, nor Ruan either, though his mouth was already open to call the man out.

  “But darling,” Sophia said smoothly, her dark eyes shining in what could only be termed malicious joy, “there is such a difference between having what a woman parcels out to a man, drip by beggarly drip, and having all she is, never-endingly. But it’s quite obvious that you have no way of knowing that. And likely never shall. It was so good of you to drop by and pay your debt. I do so appreciate a man who knows how to lose.”

  Ruan wasn’t certain how it was arranged, but Fredericks and two footmen appeared to nearly surround Tannington, silently encouraging him to leave without making a fuss. He did. Both leave and not make a fuss. But he looked far from pleased about it. Who would?

  “There goes my best chance,” Ruan said under his breath, taking a step nearer to Sophia. She lifted her dark lashes and gave him an inquisitive look. “I was completely prepared to call him out and engage him in a nasty duel, which I would have won. You would have been most impressed. It was to have been my finest, most romantic gesture of the year. Now I shall have to wait for another opportunity to dazzle you. Can you wait, Lady Dalby?”

  “It seems I must, Lord Ruan,” she said, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “But I do confess some curiosity. What was your finest gesture of the previous year?”

  “I hate to boast,” he said.

  “Is that the gesture? How odd,” Sophia said, smiling fully now.

  He loved to see her smile. She was not miserly with her smiles, far from it, but this sort of smile, the sort that took her unawares and took her over, those were rare. He wanted that from her. He wanted nothing of the careful sophistication that the rest of the world saw from her. He wanted what no other man, or damned few, had seen. He wanted her joy.

  “I sang,” he said. “Under a window. In the rain.”

  “Did she let you in?” Sophia asked, grinning.

  “Immediately and completely,” Ruan answered. “I made quite a dashing figure.”

  “Even wet,” she said.

  “Especially wet,” he countered. “The wetter the better, has been my experience.”

  “Darling Lord Ruan, are you in the habit of making romantic gestures? How exhausting for you.”

  “I have nothing if not stamina,” he said. “Determination as well.”

  “Lord Ruan,” she said sweetly, “I do think you’ll need both.”

  “You are a severe taskmaster, Sophia,” Edenham said. “What would you have of him? Song?”

  “Oh, no, not song. I would not steal another woman’s victory,” Sophia said. “Which brings me round to Miss Prestwick, Edenham. You are, as you must certainly know, every woman’s dream of the ideal husband. It is entirely natural for Miss Prestwick to have formed a certain fascination for you, and indeed, it is quite obvious to even the most disinterested observer, though who that could be I have no idea, that she would very much like to attract your notice.”

  “I don’t like to boast,” Edenham said with a small shrug for Ruan. “Yet, I had noticed some small bit of something on her part.”

  “She’s a charming girl, a bit unusual, but that’s only to her advantage, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I might,” Edenham said slowly, studying Sophia.

  “Well then, what more is there to say? If you want her to be your fourth wife, she’s entirely at your disposal. The decision is entirely yours, Edenham. Do you want her or not?”

  “YOU want me to judge if she wants you or not?” George Grey asked. “Can’t you tell?”

  “Of course I can tell,” Iveston said. “It’s only that, for the purposes of the wager, an entirely innocent wager—”

  “Not entirely innocent,” Dalby interjected.

  “No harm will come to the girl,” Iveston said. “Surely you can’t think that simply talking to her at a few events would lead to her ruin?”

  “I’ve seen very little more lead to a girl’s ruin,” Dalby said. “My own sister, for one.”

  “As you were not in Town, and yet as I would say nothing to offend you or your family,” Cranleigh said, “there was slightly more to your sister’s situation than talking.”

  Dalby, a decade younger than Cranleigh and a full stone lighter in weight, did not look put off by either fact. Dalby took a half step nearer to Cranleigh and said stiffly, “How much more, Lord Cranleigh?”

  “Only slightly, Lord Dalby,” Cranleigh said softly. “As I have my own history with my wife to hobble me, I am hardly likely to cast a single stone at any woman, particularly a woman who is so
blissfully wed as your sister gives every appearance of being.”

  “My sister is not in Town,” Dalby said.

  “Hence, my conclusion,” Cranleigh said with a small smile. “As soon as an Elliot ship arrives in port, I will also escape Town with my bride.”

  “The Plain Jane should arrive within the month,” George Grey said.

  Cranleigh looked sharply at George Grey. “You know of the Elliots, and their ships?”

  “You’re surprised?” George countered. “How did you think Sophia got to England the first time? An Elliot ship took her.”

  “A merchant ship?” Cranleigh said. “Why?”

  “As a gift,” John Grey said, his dark eyes flat and hard. “At Sally’s insistence.”

  “My Aunt Sally?” Iveston said. How was it that this sort of information, information his mother and certainly his aunt had possessed for twenty or more years, had never been discussed with him?

  “Why would my aunt give Sophia a gift?” Cranleigh said on the heels of Iveston’s question.

  “Since no one has told you, it must be none of your concern,” John said.

  He was an Indian. He had no status, no position, no title. Yet Iveston knew without question that the matter was closed, at least as far as John was concerned and that there would be no opening of it. Of course, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, ask his mother.

  Dalby cleared his throat, clearly amused. The Indians did not look amused in the slightest, not even George, who looked amused more often than not. What the devil was so amusing about the British aristocracy?

  “But how do you know which Elliot ship is on its way?” Cranleigh asked, clearly disturbed by the knowledge that these Indians knew more on any subject than he did. A perfectly understandable reaction.

  “We saw her in New York Harbor, Lord Cranleigh,” George Grey answered. “We talked to her captain. We know the Elliots.”

  Iveston was at a complete loss for words. So, it was readily apparent, was Cranleigh. Sophia’s Indians knew their American cousins? How was it possible?

  “But about that wager,” George continued, “as it will suit me to spend as much time as I can with you English, I will arbitrate the bet. How long must I”—and here George Grey, Indian, paused to look at Miss Prestwick in what could only be termed the most horridly interested fashion—“watch her?”

  “Three days,” Iveston snapped.

  “Only three?” George said slowly, still staring at Miss Prestwick. Miss Prestwick must have felt his leer, for that’s what it clearly was, because she turned from talking to her brother, another George, which really was so very inconvenient, to glare at Mr. Grey. Good for her. Showed such pluck. “I guess I’ll have to make do with that.”

  “Make do?” Iveston said. “I don’t think you have the gist of the thing at all, Mr. Grey. You are to observe, not interact. I assume that’s most clear to you?”

  “You can assume whatever you want, Lord Iveston,” George said without a smidgen of shame. Well, he was an Iroquois. One should never expect shame from one of their number. Actually, as he was a blood relative of Sophia Dalby, his lack of shame made even more sense. “You have your task before you. I have mine.”

  Lord Dalby very nearly chuckled. Oh, he tried to smother it, but Iveston heard it all the same.

  “You must not interfere or you will spoil the wager,” Iveston said.

  “I understand,” George Grey said, grinning like the very devil.

  “ ’Tis three days from now, Iveston,” Cranleigh said, grabbing him by the elbow. Whatever for? He wasn’t going to thrash the grinning Indian, was he? Or was he? He hadn’t felt this annoyed in years, and perhaps not this annoyed even then. “Best get to it and not waste any more time here. He’ll be impartial, that’s certain.”

  Hardly certain, what with all the leering at Miss Prestwick. Not that he actually cared in any personal sense, but as Miss Prestwick was an innocent English girl of good family, he did feel some general sense of responsibility, something along the lines of national pride or blanket patriotism. Or something like that.

  Eight

  “GEORGE,” Penelope whispered to her brother, “one of those Indians is staring at me.”

  George looked around the room in the most casual manner imaginable, his glance sliding over the group of Indians with no sense of alarm whatsoever. “You are the only female in the room, Pen. That must account for it.”

  “Now they’re all looking,” she said, staring back at them. Nothing so tepid as a stare was going to intimidate her. “And I do think I have some charm beyond being the only female available! How insulting. If I didn’t need you to chaperone me I’d dispense with you immediately.”

  “I’d best behave or I shall find that I have all my time to myself,” George said with a very cheeky grin.

  “Once I am married, you shall be free of me. Let the thought inspire you,” Penelope said with a cheeky grin of her own.

  She did love George. He was quite a lovely companion and so rarely disagreed with her, which was the nicest thing that could be said of a person, particularly a male. They were so regularly difficult and so very nearly irrational. One was left to wonder how they managed anything at all. Certainly they had somehow got the advantage of women in laws and the general assignment of power, and she could only surmise that they had arranged all that when the world had been simply taken over by swords and battle-axes and things. Of course, it was still a very bloodthirsty world, but certainly any educated person could see that a woman was far more self-controlled than a man.

  “I am inspired,” George said. “Now, may we leave? It’s rather late and we have to dress for … where are we off to tonight?”

  “A soiree at the Countess of Lanreath’s,” Penelope said softly. “I heard a rumor that Edenham was to attend. I do hope so.”

  “Then he should leave Dalby House as well,” George said. “I don’t know how we shall all get ready with only two hours left to do so.”

  Penelope looked at George. George winked. “I’ll leave Dalby House when Edenham leaves Dalby House. I should think that was perfectly obvious, George.”

  “I believe, Pen, that it’s perfectly obvious to everyone in the room.”

  She did look about her and they did all, all now including Edenham, appear to be staring at her. She smiled blandly, set down her cup, and adjusted her shawl. But she did not leave. What she did do, which she did think was most bold of her, was to walk over to the Indians, as well as the Lords Dalby, Cranleigh, and Iveston as they were all clustered together in a most uncordial grouping, which did take her very near to where Sophia, Edenham, and Ruan were talking, and say just loud enough for Edenham to hear her, “I noticed you looking at me, Mr. Grey. It has caused me to wonder if you have little familiarity with English women. I would be happy to answer any questions you might have, to ease your way in our Society, as it were. Are you staying long in England?”

  Mr. Grey, the elder brother, the one who had been staring at her with the most inappropriately direct look, which she was certain had negatively affected the rest of them into doing the same, smiled at her, his rather disarming dimple … well, disarming her. He was, it was a shock to note, quite ruthlessly handsome in a perfectly primitive sort of way. She would not have thought that either being ruthless or primitive would have been in any way compelling. As it happened, she was entirely wrong about that.

  “Miss Prestwick,” Mr. Grey answered, “if I do have any questions, I will come directly to you. What is it you think I should know about English women?”

  “That they don’t like being stared at?” Lord Iveston said. Really. Had anyone been talking to him?

  “Is that true, Miss Prestwick?” Mr. Grey countered, taking a step nearer to her. He was very nearly looming over her. He clearly didn’t know the first thing about civilized discourse, but then, how was he to have learned that in the forests of New York or New Jersey or wherever his particular forest haunts were? “English women don
’t like being looked at? Sophia is English enough and she doesn’t seem bothered by it.”

  “Sophia Dalby is quite unique,” Penelope said, very diplomatically, if she did say so herself, “and I certainly would make no claim to be anything like her.”

  “Yet,” George said in a playful tone. As if anyone wanted playfulness now. George, for all that she loved him, did have the most odd sense of humor.

  “I’m certain that if Lady Dalby’s relatives have any questions, they can ask Lord Dalby, wouldn’t you think, Miss Prestwick? They are related, after all, and the Greys are hardly strangers to England,” Lord Iveston said rather crisply.

  “But hardly familiars either,” Mr. George Grey answered, slightly less pleasantly than he had been doing. Apparently he found Lord Iveston as annoying as she did.

  “Familiars is not a word we use, Mr. Grey,” Penelope said, breaking the tension between Lord Iveston, who was behaving more peculiarly than usual, and George Grey, who seemed, quite up to whatever scant rumors she had heard about Indians, to be quite prickly. “It has an entirely different connotation.”

  “Of witches, Miss Prestwick?” Mr. Grey said with a saucy grin, his dimple positively winking at her. “Of the cats that wind round their legs and sleep on their beds in the dark of night?”

  Why, if she didn’t know better, she’d think George Grey was trying to be very forward with her. As he was an Indian, she was quite prepared to believe he didn’t know any better. Perhaps because he was Sophia’s nephew, she was more than willing to believe it.

  “Now, George,” Lord Dalby said, “you know perfectly well there are no witches in England. Not anymore.”

  “No, they all ended up in Massachusetts,” Mr. Grey said, grinning fully, and then the rogue actually winked at her. Winked!

  “The Iroquois don’t have witches, Mr. Grey?” Iveston asked. Oh, bother, didn’t he know enough to let the conversation die a peaceful death?

  “Not as pretty as English ones,” Mr. Grey said, looking down at her.

  It was at moments such as this, and very many others as well, that she wished she were taller. It would be so very satisfying to stare an unruly man in the eye and give him what for. Of course, she managed quite well, but it had taken years of practice, mostly on George.