Page 22 of The Lady Knows Best

Now curiosity sparkled in his eyes. “And I will follow a few minutes later.”

He reached to relieve her of her empty cup, and his fingertips brushed hers—deliberately, she felt sure. With a nod she’d meant to be crisp and businesslike, but which wobbled rather more than she’d hoped, she stepped away from the pianoforte and toward the door.

Upstairs, she found exactly what she had expected to find: a smallish square room with windows overlooking the street. From the dark, masculine furnishings—leather chairs, glass-fronted bookcases, a mahogany desk—she gathered it belonged to Lord Estley. With trembling fingers, she drew the draperies over the windows, busied herself with lighting candles, and prayed the marquess wouldn’t have cause to venture into the room tonight.

She was still weighing whether to sit or stand, or whether perhaps it might be best simply to lean against the desk for support, when the door opened with almost preternatural slowness.

For once, Lord Deveraux had been true to his word.

The door closed behind him with a soft click. He turned, but did not immediately approach, as she had expected. Instead he leaned his shoulder against the paneled door and crossed his arms over his chest.

His eyes scanned the room and a wry laugh gusted from his lips. The gold threads of his waistcoat gleamed. “Eleven candles in four minutes. Impressive, Miss Burke.”

“You forget, I’m familiar with the sort of tricks you get up to in darkened libraries.”

A frown—part sardonic amusement, part something else—notched between his brows and then disappeared. “Are you perfectly certain you understand what happened at the Greys’ that night?”

“I, er—”

Before she could muster a response, he pushed away from the door and took three loose-limbed strides toward her. “In any case, I’d call this more of a study. Now, what was it you wanted to discuss?”

Her resolve faltered with each of his steps. She slid her fingers into the grooves of the carved edge of the desktop behind her, trying to absorb some of its firmness.

“Y-you’ve heard the news about Miss Grey’s elopement?”

His smile stretched, though more humorless than she had ever seen it. “Oh, yes.”

“I spent most of the day racking my brain for a suitable substitute. I have a fairly large acquaintance among the sorts of young ladies whom I believe would fulfill the conditions of your wager. But I could not settle on a single one I thought likely to consent to such a match—or more to the point, whose parents would consent on her behalf.”

He looked unsurprised by that declaration, and remarkably unperturbed. “Giving up so soon, Miss Busy B.?”

“N-no. I believe I have another solution, my lord.” She swallowed hard, and the sharp edge of some ornate vine bit into the palm of her hand. In spite of the tautness of her muscles, a shiver slipped through her. “Marry m-me.”

She’d expected him to laugh. Or worse yet, shudder in disgust.

Instead, he tipped his head to the side as he looked her up and down.

All at once, she wished she hadn’t lit so many candles. Wished she hadn’t worn her favorite gown, a blue-gray silk with a low-cut square neckline and skirts that fell straight until they reached her ankles, where they curled and swirled in an elaborately ruched hem. Wished she had refused the maid’s offer to arrange her hair with Cami’s pearl-headed pins.

He would think she had primped and preened just for him.

As if she cared one jot for his approval.

Although . . . at least it wasn’t disapproval that streaked across his expression. More like disbelief. Confusion. Clearly the flash of brilliance his mind had mustered last night had deserted him.

“Marry you,” he echoed. Though he put the stress on the first word, rather than the last. As if he’d been considering some other action entirely.

Strangle, perhaps.

“But before any announcement, I expect a proper courtship,” she said, raising a hand to ward him off, though he’d made no move to come closer. “A fortnight, at least.”

The courtship period was key to her plan. It was the one sure way she knew of to get close enough to discover the extent of Lord Deveraux’s devilry. Not merely ill-conceived wagers and “playing chess.” The sorts of behavior that would truly shock and scandalize the ton. She would write her essay, and shortly before their engagement was made public, she would show it to him and offer a deal: lose his wager or be driven from respectable society forever.

Now that he knew the Magazine for Misses had the capability to make his life miserable, she felt certain which he would choose.

Her words seemed to rouse him to himself. A slow, wicked smile curved his lips. “An improper courtship would be much more fun.”

She willed herself not to blush. It was a stark reminder of the dangers of the situation. Spending any amount of time in his company would cause her reputation to suffer too.