Wedding Wagers(12)

With a light but firm touch, Mr. Partridge guided his team into the  streets at an unhurried pace. Years ago, Annabel and Meredith had  theorized that the way a man drove spoke much about his character. If  that were true, Mr. Partridge was a cautious, conscientious man with the  perfect blend of strength and tenderness. Of course, their theory could  be flawed.

"Have you been friends with Mr. Cavenleigh long?" she asked, just to make conversation.

"Since Eton. We got into a great deal of mischief together." He chuckled.

"I know what you mean."

"Surely girls don't bond over mischief." He glanced at her and raised a  dark brow as if daring her to confess the truth. "Do they?"

"A combination of mischief, playtime, and soul-baring conversations. We take a balanced approach to forging friendships."

"What mischief did you get into?"

She smiled. "When we were children, my cousin Annabel and I used to swim with the boys."

He laughed. "I'm shocked." But he didn't look or sound shocked. "Do you still swim?"

"Yes, but not with boys."

He chuckled. "I'm heartily glad to hear that."

With his attention focused on the road, she allowed herself to look at  him, admiring him from head to toe. No, she refused to like him-or trust  him-but any woman would be mad not to appreciate his physical  perfection like a piece of art. Had it suddenly grown warm? She fanned  herself. It didn't help.

They reached Hyde Park and drove under spreading trees. Mr. Partridge  glanced at her again, the intense blue-green of his eyes bringing back  that little quiver in her chest. He glanced at her pelisse. "That color  is pretty on you."

"Thank you." Breathy again, curse her for a simpleton. She must stay  focused on her reason for agreeing to go for a drive with him. "You said  you had learned something about Cora Harris's suitor?"

"Yes. Perhaps." He frowned. "I'm not certain. Mr. Morton is a younger  son of a gentleman, and he is in possession of a respectable income for a  bachelor. But like many younger sons, he needs to marry a girl with a  decent dowry in order to provide a comfortable living for a family."

"So he does need a dowry."

"Not much more than others of his station. He does not have excessive debts or extravagant tastes."

She considered. It was true that any number of young gentlemen had to  seek at least a modest dowry. But she'd made her own inquiries and  learned Miss Harris's dowry was sizable enough to attract fortune  hunters. Mr. Morton might only be the first.

"What may or may not be troubling," he added, "is that in prior Seasons,  he proposed to two other young ladies, both with excessively large  dowries."

"So, he does target dowries."

"Possibly. Or he might simply be lucky enough that the ladies who have  turned his head happened to possess tempting dowries, but unlucky enough  that neither returned his regard."         

     



 

"I wonder if he told Cora Harris. That may be the most important clue."

"Perhaps. Or he may be embarrassed to admit he'd been refused."

It would be just like a man to defend another man, especially if they both had nefarious intentions.

He turned onto the famous Rotten Row, the place to see and be seen, and  kept pace with others' carriages in the promenade. Passersby called out  greetings. Some cast flirtatious glances and words. As they passed, the  beau monde gazed at one another in envy or pride at ensembles,  equipages, and horses.

Liveried servants drove carriages bearing family crests in immaculate  splendor. Others guided their own carriages in a cavalcade of grandeur  found nowhere else.

Next to the handsome and stylish Mr. Partridge, Meredith couldn't help but sit a little taller.

A stunningly handsome young gentleman rolled by in a curricle. An  equally beautiful lady sat next to him, wearing a calculating smile.

"Lord Amesbury, Miss Charleston," Mr. Partridge greeted.

"Partridge." Lord Amesbury nodded.

Casting an assessing glance over Meredith, Miss Charleston nodded at  them and slid her arm around her companion's in an openly possessive  gesture.

"How is your mother?" Mr. Partridge said.

Lord Amesbury paused as a shadow passed over his expression before he  quickly schooled it into urbane elegance. "Not much improved."

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Phillip said quietly. True sympathy  darkened his eyes, and a little piece of Meredith's heart softened  toward him.

"Thank you." Lord Amesbury's mouth tightened. In a clear attempt to  change the subject, he said, "May we meet your lovely companion?"

"Of course. I'm very happy to introduce Miss Meredith Brown, the niece  of Mr. and Mrs. Stafford. Miss Brown, this is Cole Amesbury, the  Viscount Amesbury, and Miss Charleston."

"Charmed, Miss Brown." Lord Amesbury's smile bordered on rakishness, but  in a teasing way that failed to raise Meredith's hackles.

Miss Vivian Charleston said with a condescending, overly sweet smile, "Miss Brown."

"I've met the Staffords," Lord Amesbury said to Meredith. "Good people."

"Thank you. I quite agree." Meredith managed a smile and inclined her  head. He would not be so kind if he knew her lowly status. Still, she  choked out, "A pleasure to meet you both, my lord, Miss Charleston."

After they passed, Mr. Partridge said under his breath, "I thought he had more sense than that."

"What was that?"

"Cole Amesbury. I don't know what spell that vixen has cast on him, but she is poison."

A new kinship arose between them. "Then you understand my concern over Mr. Morton and Miss Harris."

"I suppose I do."

A silver-haired lady nodded to them both with all the condescension of  the queen as she approached in her gilded landau. Next to her, an  immaculate Dalmatian sat with as much dignity as his mistress. Her  coachman wore an old-fashioned flaxen wig and a bunch of lace at his  throat. Even his gloves were spotlessly white.

"Mr. Partridge," greeted the lady. "Well, you are turning out all right, aren't you?"

"Your Grace." A smile hovered at the corners of Mr. Partridge's mouth.

Meredith almost choked. This lady was a duchess. Oh, why had she agreed  to come on this ride? She didn't belong here among these aristocrats.

The duchess picked up her quizzing glass and aimed it at Meredith. "And who do we have here?"

"May I present Miss Meredith Brown?" He achieved a believable amount of pride in his voice.

The duchess eyed Meredith. "Who are your people?"

Meredith paled. What could she say?

"Miss Brown is related to the Baron of Stapleton," Mr. Partridge supplied.

Meredith almost laughed out loud, but managed to contain herself.

"You have a look about you I like." The duchess nodded in approval. "Take care of our boy, here."

"Yes, Your Grace," Meredith managed.

The duchess passed by, and Meredith let out a breath that took much of  her strength with it. "I shouldn't be here where so many people like  them will see us together."

Gently, he said, "They are just regular people, Miss Brown."

"They only seem regular to you, Mr. Brother of a Duke. And what's this about the Baron of Stapleton?"

"Don't you know your own genealogy?" Surprise and amusement lit his  voice. "Your mother's great-great uncle is the Baron of Stapleton, isn't  he?"

She turned a surprised stare at him. "I didn't know that. You looked up my family tree?"         

     



 

"I thought it might be useful at some point."

For a reason she could not explain, her ire raised, and she snapped,  "Well, it doesn't matter that my mothers' father is a gentleman with  distant ties to some baron. My father owns a factory." Then she  delivered the killing blow. "His father was a poor factory worker."

He paused. That was it, then. He would likely drop her off and never darken her doorway again.

Benignly, he said, "When associating with aristocracy, it's best to discuss one's most impressive connections."

She let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "No amount of exaggeration will place me in your class."

Mildly, but with a firmness she could not mistake, he said, "I would  have been proud to introduce you, even if I hadn't found a noble  ancestor in your line."

"You are either a liar or a fool." Her voice closed over. Why the lump  in her throat? She didn't like him. She didn't trust him. It made no  difference that a union     between them was impossible. None at all!

His voice took on a hard edge she'd never heard from him. "Miss Brown,  despite my feelings for you, I cannot abide you besmirching my honor. I  am neither a liar nor a fool, and if you were a man, I would have called  you out for that."

His words hit her like a blast of cold water. He was right. She'd  insulted him cruelly. No one deserved that. Except her former fiancé,  who deserved a dictionary full of unflattering words. But she was  beginning to suspect Mr. Phillip Partridge existed on a much higher  plane than that scoundrel.