Cut from the Same Cloth Read online

  “Losing? You cannot seriously think... Oh, but you do.” He grinned at her. “I was merely humoring you.”

  Her mouth opened and closed in a series of little starts and gasps. “Humoring? Me? I think not.”

  He shrugged. “Tossing you the odd point here and there. Setting a pitch you might hit to advantage. It was the least I could do. You were working excessively hard, even catching some of Horton’s shots for him. A valiant effort.”

  Her lips clamped into a thin line, holding back burgeoning flames she was about to belch at him.

  He decided to circumvent getting scorched by that lethal tongue of hers. “You’re reddening, Lady Elizabeth.” He smiled seductively, fighting like mad not to laugh out loud. “You’re supposed to be cooling down. It isn’t good for a temperamental racehorse to overexcite herself.” He took her hand and laid it on the crook of his arm, tugging her down the walk with him just as if she weren’t about to explode.

  Eventually, a puff of steam escaped her lips. “Oh, it’s no use. You are utterly impossible.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  A thrush swooped across their path and glided to the safety of the trees. “Apparently you haven’t always been a docile little lamb, either.”

  “My wretched brother.” She shook her head and muttered, “He ought not to have told that stupid flying story.”

  “Not the ordinary thing one expects from a little girl.”

  “Hmm. Yes. I believe my father mentioned that point one or two times.”

  Valen saw it again, the hurt he’d noticed earlier. “He didn’t actually take a horsewhip to you, did he?”

  “I don’t see that it matters.” Her lovely nose tilted up an inch or two.

  “Did he?”

  “A willow branch.”

  Valen swore.

  “Heavens. You needn’t curse. It isn’t as if I didn’t deserve it. The roof was three stories high. Robert could have been killed. It was reckless in the extreme. Foolhardy.”

  Reckless. Foolish. The very words Valen had heard shouted into his ears all his life. He took a deep breath and stared blindly out at the edge of the park. “Nevertheless, I cannot like the man for doing it.” His fingers found hers again. “I’m glad he didn’t beat out all of your spirit.”

  She said nothing for a moment. A clump of purple lupines leaned their heavy heads over the edge of the pathway. Bees whisked in and out among the flowers. Izzie leaned down to catch the scent of a lily peeking out from the shade. “Ironic isn’t it, that my father should have expected me to be so tame? During his life he took such daring risks.”

  Valen frowned. “You speak of him as if he were dead. Robert told me he was in America trying to salvage what’s left of his investments.”

  She attempted a wry chuckle, but it failed to convince him that she was cavalier on the subject. “Robert is ever the optimist. I suspect Papa drowned at sea, or worse. We haven’t heard from him for over two years. Our older brother sailed out last August in search of him. We’ve had no word from him either.”

  “Ships are often commandeered in the Atlantic. The men impressed into service. Mail abandoned or tossed on a passing frigate. It might be lost for years.” His conjectures sounded hollow. Still, wasn’t some hope better than none?

  “So I’ve heard.” She smiled patiently at him, clearly unconvinced. “Mother has nearly gone mad with worry. She’s taken to dosing herself with patent medicines to calm her nerves. I tried to dissuade her, prepared some herbs to ease her tension. But I’m afraid she would rather sit in a stupor than face a life without my father. The estate has fallen into disrepair. The steward does less than nothing. I wanted to send him packing, but Mama would not hear of it. ‘Leave it till your father returns,’ says she. I haven’t the heart to remind her that he may never come back.”

  “And so you concocted this plan to marry in order to repair the family coffers.”

  “It seemed a sensible thing to do.”

  It was logical. Other families had adopted the exact same measures. And yet, he couldn’t keep the disapproving tone out of his voice. “Perhaps.”

  Lady Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice. “St. Evert is a lesser title, is it not? Tied to a small estate, probably? A small allowance, five hundred or so a year, I should think?” She turned to him as if merely posing an innocent question.

  Did she honestly think he didn’t notice her calculating in his direction?

  “Hmm. Yes. Something along those lines.”

  She glanced into the trees and sighed. She may as well have said aloud, “What a pity.”

  Her disappointment was not entirely displeasing. Valen smiled. He decided to toy with her. “Not nearly enough, is it? Naturally, that lets me off your list of eligibles.”

  “Don’t be crass.” Ah, there was that familiar sour pucker he’d come to enjoy so well.

  “Not crass, my lady. Frank. As you were to ask so boldly about my income. If you are worried about my feelings, allow me to reassure you. I’m not wounded in the least. To the contrary, I’m heartily relieved to know it.”

  “I am delighted to have relieved you of the onerous burden of being one of my suitors.” She glared at him, tapping her toe against the stones of the pathway. “I do, however, find it odd. After all, I am not the one who went about kissing people in the middle of the night, making them speculate on such matters.”

  So, she had speculated on it. Good. He’d lain awake for an abominable long time, enduring scenario after scenario of tortuously pleasant imaginings. She deserved to share in his sleeplessness. “Yes, it’s a great comfort knowing I will be spared any of your machinations.”

  She stamped her foot on the pathway and turned to him, ready to bite. “Machinations! Me? I do not machinate anyone!”

  “I’m not certain that’s proper usage of the word.” He pretended to cogitate on her grammar for a moment before bearing down on her, pressing forward so that she had to look up at him. “But I have observed you, my dear, and you do machinate. Poor Horton has no idea which way is up. You have convinced him to sup quite eagerly out of your slipper. And I ask you, Lord Horton? Could you not pick a fellow with more backbone? Someone a trifle more worthy of your—”

  “Lord Horton has thirty thousand a year.” She said it as if it were a slap to his face.

  “Does he? A very convincing argument. I wish you happy.”

  “Oh? And what of you and Miss Devious-Dunworthy? Do you think your paragon of feminine virtues isn’t hanging out for a title? Then you are more fool than I thought. Yet I doubt you will accuse her of machinations.”

  “You can’t be jealous.”

  “Don’t be tedious.” She stepped back and crossed her arms. “I am never jealous.”

  “And I am never tedious.”

  She thrust her finger at him. “You are. You are tedious this very minute.”

  He grabbed the accusatory finger and clasped her hand in his like a fluttering bird in his palm. She stared at her captive hand. The pulse quickened in her neck.

  He spoke softly, issuing a challenge. “You might not think me so tedious if I were to kiss you again.” It was a fool thing to say. He didn’t care. The alarm on her face was worth the price of his impropriety.

  Alarmed, yes, but she didn’t try to wrench free. Her hand quivered in his palm. He felt her heart beating wildly.

  Valen had an insane urge to laugh, run, pull her along beside him. Instead he decided to irritate her. “After all, it caused you considerable speculation last night.”

  She drew back, her breast swelling indignantly. She was so confounded appealing. Suddenly he realized the wild heartbeat in his hand might be his own.

  Dangerous.

  Still, he couldn’t let go. “It would seem kissing you is the only way to escape your haranguing tongue.”

  She arched her brow. “Oh? We’re discussing my tongue again, are we?” They stood far too close.

  He swallowed. His voice caught on something low in his throat.
He was in trouble. “See. You’re doing it this very minute.” He let go of her hand and stepped back. “Machinating me. Well, it won’t work. I see right through you.”

  And so he did. Her gown clung to her in remarkably descriptive ways. He shook his head, half-grinning. “You are a diabolically clever woman. I don’t know how you do it, but I’m not going to succumb. No, my lady, I won’t kiss you. No matter how much you beguile me.” His treacherous feet carried him back to her, close enough to reach down and...

  Her chin tilted up. Was it an invitation or her damnable pride?

  “Nothing could be further from my mind.” She sniffed her pretty nose at him, wrinkling it with disdain. “In fact, I would slap you soundly should you attempt such a thing. And, I am certainly not beguiling you.”

  But she was beguiling him. The pinkness climbing her neck, the flutter of her hand to her breast, the pout on her lips, the wistful flicker in her eyes. All—maddeningly alluring.

  In about two seconds, he would haul her into the trees and give her a good sound kissing, a kissing she well and truly deserved. His conscience spoke firmly, reining in his rash thoughts, scolding him for falling so neatly into her feminine gambit.

  He shook his head and allowed himself to laugh aloud. “Enough. I cry craven.” He smiled at her, raising his hands in defeat. “You win.” Valen wasn’t sure what game they’d been playing at, but she’d just stolen all the points.

  Odd. She ought to look triumphant rather than so enticingly disappointed.

  He had that urge again to pull her into the trees and... “Perhaps we ought to return to the others.”

  Her brow pinched up. She nodded her agreement and in stern tones added, “Splendid idea.”

  Valen could not help but take note of the small sigh that escaped her lips as they turned around on the path. It was a tiny thing—almost imperceptible. All the same it pleased him. In all probability it was another of her wicked machinations. Even so, he liked it.

  8

  Tis Better to Weave Than to Rip

  While Robert paced in the entry hall, Valen leaned in the doorway of his aunt’s study with a brandy in his hand. He hadn’t seen Izzie since the previous afternoon. She’d been cloistered away in her rooms, and he’d been busy at his tailors, fitting the new green peacock coat. Vain fowl everywhere would soon squawk with jealousy. The coat was sufficiently grotesque to draw everyone’s attention at Lady Ashburton’s ball.

  Robert dropped into a chair next to the study door. “Come with us, St. Evert. Dead bore these balls. Don’t know if I can tolerate it on my own.”

  “Courage, man. I’ll be along later. Promised my aunt I’d accompany her. She prefers to straggle in after everyone else has arrived. Insists on making an impressive entrance.”

  “Wish I was going late. Can’t abide all that standing in line and how-do-you-do nonsense. And then there’s dinner. Stuck listening to a sour old baroness on one hand and some horse-face chit prattling on t’other.”

  “Perhaps you will be lucky enough to entertain Miss Dunworthy on one side.”

  Robert sat up. “Capital thought. Do you really think she might be there?”

  “I have it on good authority. I promised to be her partner for one of the sets.”

  Robert’s face brightened. “Excellent news. Tell you what. If you don’t arrive in time, I shall be happy to fulfill your obligation.”

  Valen swirled his brandy. “Noble of you.”

  “Least I can do.” Robert slapped his hands on his thighs and stood. “Where is that sister of mine? Long past time we were leaving.”

  Izzie, as if on cue, appeared on the stairs. The glass in Valen’s hand nearly slipped out of his fingers. He caught it and took a good stiff swallow, scarcely noticing the sharp fruity bite of the liquor. How had she done it? She’d paired that horrid peacock fabric with a white fairy-like underdress and the effect was... he realized his mouth was hanging open as if he were a blasted schoolboy. He couldn’t help it. Neither could he take his eyes off her.

  Robert hurried forward. “There you are. Thought you wanted to get there before supper. Been waiting upwards to a half hour.”

  Her chin went up. Black curls draped down one side of her neck and danced enticingly against the pale curve of her breast. “I did my best.”

  Robert stepped back. “Never mind. You do look rather well tonight, Izzie. Don’t you think so, St. Evert?”

  Valen pulled his jaw together and swallowed, suddenly unable to look at her. He nodded. “Very well.” He slammed back the remaining contents of his glass. Very well, indeed.

  He escaped into the study and shut the door. She looked like an angel, a sweet, innocent, very desirable angel. And he was about to make people laugh at her.

  Valen stood at the window staring out at the blackness of the night. He strained to see a handful of stars glittering through the London haze or glimpse the shadow of trees at the edge of the park. What he couldn’t escape, and saw all too readily, was his own reflection in the glass. It didn’t please him.

  What had he become that he would humiliate a young woman this way? He hated her arrogance. Hated all of the beau monde for their self-important airs, the way they treated with contempt anyone one who didn’t have a suitable wardrobe or a significant enough pedigree to warrant their approval. He despised pompous aristocrats, like his grandfather, who had treated Valen’s mother as if she were nothing more than dross. May he rot in hell. They deserved to be ridiculed, mocked, taught a lesson.

  But did Izzie? That was the question.

  He turned away from the window and refilled his brandy snifter. She’d worked so hard on that blasted gown. It was brilliant. “Although”—he raised his glass, arguing his case to the dim room—“it really ought to conceal more of her... her charms.” He couldn’t stop picturing exactly which charms it ought to conceal. He knew full well other men would not be able to resist looking at her either.

  He concocted a scenario wherein he wore the hideous peacock coat to Lady Ashburton’s. Izzie would hurry out of the ballroom. Safe from leering eyes. Valen would run after her and offer to bring her home, just the two of them in the carriage, and... He shook off the ridiculous daydream. In truth, the high and mighty Lady Elizabeth would never forgive him. She would stomp and frown and ring a peal over his head loud enough to put the bells of St. Paul to shame. Furthermore, he’d deserve it.

  If he wore the coat, he’d be tormenting her. Not so different from his grandfather, after all? He suddenly had no desire to attend Lady Ashburton’s ball.

  The study door opened.

  “What’s this? Brooding?” Honore gave him her usual thrust to the throat.

  He set his glass on the desk and refused to parry.

  “Well?” She bent over an oil lamp and lit it. “Obviously you aren’t going over the household accounts. What can be plaguing you?” She tapped her cheek. “Hmm. Let me guess? Could it be someone who carries her nose rather high in the air?”

  “Taken up mind reading, have you?”

  “Good grief, Valen. Don’t need a crystal ball to read you. Now, go put on something hideous, and we shall go see what trouble we can churn up at Lady Ashburton’s.” His aunt looked positively eager.

  He sighed. “Don’t know if I have anything suitably revolting.”

  “How very odd. Just this afternoon one of the maids told me she came across a ghastly green-and-orange coat in your rooms. A coat so revolting it would make Beau Brummell cross his eyes and faint dead away.”

  He folded his arms and frowned at her. It shouldn’t come as any surprise that she spied on him.

  “Oh, don’t get all up in the boughs. Put the ugly thing on and let us be on our way.”

  “I find it no longer fits.”

  “Whatever do you pay your tailor for, my dear boy? You just brought it home today.” When he didn’t answer, she continued. “Fortunately, I have just the thing, one of my stepson Marcus’s coats. Perhaps not as garish as you prefer, but a trifle to
o green for my taste.”

  Valen tilted his head, trying to decipher his aunt’s motives. She was up to something. He had little doubt of it. She smiled, innocent as a lamb, albeit a very crafty lamb. Or, more likely, a cantankerous she-goat preparing to butt some unsuspecting passerby in the hindquarters. How could he resist such a game?

  “Very well. Let us have a look at this coat.”

  9

  Stick a Pin in It

  Lady Elizabeth stood in Lady Ashburton’s magnificent ballroom, the walls covered in watered gold satin and large ornate mirrors. She stared bleakly at her three suitors, Lord Looks-Like-A-Cherub, Sir Blah, and Lord Horton of the Pointy Nose. Instead of comparing their bank accounts, she found herself entertaining the troublesome question of which one had the most backbone. If only she hadn’t cut St. Evert’s rant short, she might have heard the end of his sentence. “Someone more worthy of—” Of what? What was it he thought her suitor should be more worthy of? It gnawed at her, annoying her all the more because she couldn’t keep from glancing toward the enormous double doors, hoping to see a tall man enter, his golden-red hair tied back as if he’d newly arrived from the Georgian era and wearing a perfectly dreadful ensemble.

  Lord Horton interrupted her thoughts. “My Lady, is there something troubling you? If you don’t care to perform the waltz with me, I will withdraw my offer.”

  St. Evert wasn’t even present, and she was frowning. Drat him! He will have her wrinkled up like an old crone inside of a fortnight. She smoothed out her brow. “Oh dear me, no. I am delighted to waltz with you. I’m simply concerned that I may not know the steps as well as I ought. I shall have to depend upon you to guide me.”

  He puffed up, smiling warmly. “Never fear. I will be happy to teach you.”

  Sir Blah muttered, “I’ll just wager you will.”

  Lord Looks-Like-A-Cherub chuckled. “Daresay, it wants a fellow what can move without the confinement of a harness.” He and Sir Blah thought this comment enormously funny, and nearly fell upon one another in their hysterics.