Page 11 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

P limpton gave his friend a sardonic look once he’d closed the door behind Winifred. “Playing matchmaker, Wareham?”

The earl chuckled. “Perhaps.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because your sister despises me.” And Wareham’s ham-fisted matchmaking was hardly going to help.

Wareham looked genuinely startled. “You must be mistaken.”

“You never were very observant,” Plimpton said dryly.

“Why would she hate you? She does not even know you. I did not think the two of you had even spoken to one another since she was a girl.”

“I have seen her quite a few times these past few years.” Too often for Winifred’s liking and not often enough for Plimpton’s.

“Ah. Now I recall; she is an acquaintance of your sister-in-law, is she not?”

Plimpton shook his head at Wareham’s innocent look. Or at least his attemp t to look innocent; it was a good thing the other man was not fond of gambling. “You know damned well they are more than just acquaintances , Richard.”

Again, Wareham grinned, looking so much like his old self—and not the corpse he had been only a few days earlier—that tension Plimpton had not been aware he’d been carrying drained from his shoulders.

“My sister is perfect for you, Plimpton.”

He did not argue, because Wareham was right: Winifred was the perfect woman for him. Accomplished, assured, and well-bred. As comfortable with the highest sticklers of the ton as she was with the humblest servant. She would preside over Plimpton’s establishments as if she was born to direct them. Because she was.

Unfortunately, he was not perfect for her.

“I do not think your sister is interested in remarrying.” Certainly not to Plimpton, and perhaps not with anyone else, either.

“No,” Wareham agreed, his expression turning pensive. “I am afraid Winny has developed an abominable streak of independence somewhere along the way.”

Plimpton forbore pointing out that she had been forced to take care of herself thanks to Wareham’s inability to control his wife’s meddling.

“I should have listened to you all those years ago when you warned me about Sedgewick,” Wareham said, reading Plimpton’s unspoken criticism. “I will be ashamed until my dying breath that I took Sophia’s counsel over yours.” He looked solemn for a moment, but then perked up. “I can atone for my past mistakes by making Winny see just how well the two of you suit each other and how happy and comfortably settled she could be if she would only listen to reason.”

Plimpton bit back a groan; the last thing he needed was Wareham’s help.

But the other man warmed to his subject. “Winny is a strong woman and will require deft, but firm, handling, Plimpton. She needs a husband who can master her without breaking her spirit. You are the perfect man to work the odd kick from her gallop and tame the willful restlessness that has afflicted her since Sedgewick’s death.”

Plimpton could not help being amused. “I would not employ equine analogies in her presence if I were you, Richard.”

Wareham gave a dismissive flick of his hand. “Women and horses are much of a muchness and you know it, Plimpton. And men fall into one of three camps where both are concerned. First, there are those like you, who are gentle, dexterous riders and get the best out of a mare without her even being aware she has been mastered.”

Plimpton laughed. “Cecily would have begged to differ.”

“Perhaps, but then she was hardly representative of her gender, was she?” Wareham hurried on at whatever he saw on Plimpton’s face. “Next there are those well-meaning but cow-handed oafs who cause damage to their mount without meaning to. Finally, and worst of all, there are those brutes who revel in cruelty and will ruin a soft mouth forever with vicious handling. Sedgwick, I am afraid, was a member of that third group.”

Thinking about Winifred’s soft mouth and Sedgewick’s likely vicious handling sent a jagged bolt of fury tearing through Plimpton and he changed the subject. “Rather than cast about for a husband for your sister, you should convince her to accept your assistance.”

Wareham shot him an exasperated look. “I have spoken to her about that repeatedly over the years, but she stubbornly refuses to accept my help.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell his friend to be more persuasive. He was tempted to share what he had recently discovered, which was that Winifred made ends meet by selling her needlework, as if she were some impoverished crone slaving away at piecework in a vile garret.

But he could not bring himself to carry tales, even though he owed Winifred no allegiance. Indeed, if he owed anyone, it would be Wareham, who stood as legal guardian to his sister whether she liked it or not. Just because Wareham had never exercised his authority over Winifred did not mean he could not be roused to do so. There had never been a breath of scandal associated with the Ice Countess, but if word ever reached Wareham’s ears that his sister was engaged in trade or—god forbid—associating with scaff and raff like Severn’s sailors… Well, the earl had a temper. He also possessed a rigid sense of propriety. It was well within his power to curtail Winifred’s freedom—or take it away entirely—if he believed her behavior required checking.

As if Wareham had read Plimpton’s thoughts, he said, “I am of half a mind to put my foot down this time, Plimpton. Winny would be angry if I insisted that she live under my roof again, but she would obey me.” His jaw worked. “Hell, she’d have no choice in the matter. I daresay she would soon get over her anger once she reaccustomed herself to creature comforts.”

Plimpton doubted that.

Now is your chance to drop a word in Wareham’s ear about his sister’s association with that bastard Gregg. You could have her away from London and that rogue’s influence before she could say Jack Robinson.

Yes, he could. And he could earn Winifred’s undying hatred in the process.

No, if Plimpton dropped a word of warning in anyone’s ear, it should be Winifred’s to warn her.

Plimpton snorted unhappily. Why did he think that Winifred would not thank him for such consideration?

***

The duke cast a look of haughty displeasure over Freddie’s mount. “That nag is not worthy of you, Winifred.”

She patted the old gelding’s neck. “Old Velvet will do fine for me. It has been several years since I’ve ridden.” More than eight.

“ Hmm. ” His cold eyes moved over her slowly and with a bold, leisurely thoroughness that implied he had every right to take a complete inventory of her person whenever the urge seized him. Had any woman ever gainsaid his right before? Freddie doubted it; he was a duke, and the rules of etiquette did not apply to him.

As usual, her body responded to his attention like a well-trained animal. Her pulse quickened, her skin flushed and grew damp beneath her clothing, and—worst of all—her intimate muscles clenched and sent distracting, unwanted ripples of pleasure throughout her body.

Freddie gritted her teeth until her jaws ached; the man was insufferable .

And you adore it.

“It is a pity you have been deprived of the pleasure of riding,” he said, after having utterly shattered her composure. “You are obviously a skilled equestrienne and have an excellent seat. It would be a privilege to have the mounting of you.”

While his bold visual inspection had flustered her, his mild compliment and presumptuous offer rendered her tongue-tied.

“I expected you to give me the cut direct after last night,” he said when she remained mute. “And I would have deserved it.”

His frank admission was unexpected and softened her resentment. “I was furious,” she admitted, as if he might not have noticed.

“You had every right to be.”

“Yes, I did.” After a moment she felt compelled to add, “But I am no longer angry.”

His eyebrows, by far his most expressive feature, lifted. “That is generous of you.”

“It is generosity directed toward me, rather than you, Your Grace. It would be easy to cling to my sense of outrage and ill-usage, but I would only be hurting myself with such behavior.”

Again, he paused before speaking. “Very few people are able to impose logic when strong emotions are involved.”

Freddie was amused by his carefully worded observation. “What you really mean is that women lack logic when it comes to their emotions.”

This time, the humor in his eyes was unmistakable, but he wisely maintained his silence.

She could not resist a bit of goading. “I suppose you are one of those rare people who can impose logic on your feelings.”

“I try to keep my heart from ruling my head.”

“I would not have thought that would be a difficult struggle.”

Although his expression didn’t so much as flicker, Freddie sensed she had somehow hurt him. “I did not mean to suggest you have no heart,” she lied after a moment.

“If you had meant it, you would not have been the first person. Please, do not apologize for being direct and honest, Winifred. I endorse both. Thank you for coming with me this morning,” he said, finished with the subject of his heart or lack thereof. “Not that Wareham was going to give you any choice in the matter.”

“No,” she agreed, chuckling despite herself. “He is not subtle.”

“He only wants you to be happy.”

“And you would make me happy?” Yet again she regretted her words. Freddie was never rude. What was it about Plimpton that made her so combative? Had she really forgiven him for what he’d done? She had believed so. But perhaps she had lied to both of them.

“Would I make you happy?” he asked in a musing tone, his question telling her he was not hurt by her comment as she had feared. Or at least he was not going to show it. After a moment, he shrugged. “I do not know if I would make you happy.”

His candor and lack of arrogance surprised her. After all, he was a handsome, wealthy, eligible duke, a combination that was as rare as hen’s teeth; he had every right to be arrogant.

“What I do know,” he went on. “Is that I admire and esteem you greatly and I am sure that you could make me happy.”

“That is kind of you to say, but you do not really know me, do you?” she said, ruthlessly suppressing the thrill she’d felt at his words.

“True, but what I do know, I like very much.”

“And what do you know?” she asked, far too curious about what he thought of her to leave the subject alone.

“I know what Honoria has said about you, how you have been a caring and faithful friend to her and all the others who worked at your school. I know how you carry yourself with dignity even though Sedgewick did not leave you in an easy position.” His gray eyes seemed to darken a few shades. “And I know that I am attracted to you physically as well as intellectually. No,” he amended while Freddie was still reeling at his disclosure. “ Attracted is incorrect—or at least inaccurate. I desire you, Winifred. More than I have desired a woman in a very long time. Perhaps ever.”

Freddie’s face had begun to heat after his first sentence. By the end, she was scarlet.

His mouth—normally so severe—curved into a faint but charming smile. “I beg your pardon; I have embarrassed you. That was not my intention.”

She was embarrassed. But she was also deeply flattered that she had attracted such a man’s attention.

But then a less than flattering thought struck her.

“Your interest in me appears rather sudden, Your Grace. Could this have anything to do with the promise you made to my brother?”

“I promised I would take care of you if he could not. Clearly, that vow does not apply now that he is on the mend. You must take my word that my pursuit of you is all my own doing.”

“Is that what this is? Pursuit?”

He gave a short bark of laughter and the sound of his mirth—not to mention his openly diverted expression—was so unprecedented that Freddie’s jerked the reins, causing poor Velvet to jolt.

“If you have to ask, then I am doing an excessively poor job of it,” he said. “Yes, I am pursuing you, Winifred.” The humor that lit his eyes faded. “I hope I have not made myself repugnant to you after what I confessed last night?”

There was nothing whatsoever repugnant about the man beside her. Indeed, if she had not already been married once, his stated interest would have come dangerously close to sweeping her off her feet. But she had been married. And once was enough to know better.

How had she ever believed him only passably attractive? He was not obviously handsome like his brother, but his dignity and intelligence—not to mention his unstudied, effortless air of command—made him far more appealing than Lord Simon’s golden godlike looks in Freddie’s eyes.

He was everything she would have wanted in a husband.

Had she been seeking one.

“I will never marry again, Your Grace.”

Rather than evince surprise at her claim—or worse, dismissal—he nodded. “Then I will not press you on a matter that is clearly distasteful to you.”

Freddie felt oddly deflated by his quick, emotionless acceptance of her rejection. But then why should his lack of passion surprise her? It was common knowledge that his marriage had been loveless. Freddie knew that he had not been faithful to his wife, and neither had he appeared to be especially devoted to either of the two women who had boasted about being his lover. Indeed, any attachment had seemed to be entirely on their side.

Just thinking about the duke making love with those other women caused an unpleasant churning in her stomach.

“—amiss, my lady?”

Freddie thrust away the unwanted mental images and met his gaze. “No. Nothing is wrong.”

“Do you recall if it is the right-hand path or the left that leads to the unusual rock formation your brother calls the Three Sisters? It has been so long I cannot remember.”

“The left,” Freddie said a bit sharply, still nonplussed that he had broached the subject of wanting her for his wife only a few seconds ago and was now content to discuss geology.

Very well, so be it; he was no longer interested in her. Indeed, could he ever have felt much for her to begin with if he surrendered his interest so quickly and easily?

Why did that thought leave her depressed rather than relieved?

***

Plimpton stared at his looking glass as Digby pared his nails. Instead of seeing his reflection, he saw Winifred as she had looked that morning; garbed in a smart riding habit the color of bitter chocolate with a jaunty, matching shako. She had brought to mind a goddess yet again. Not Aphrodite this time, but Artemis. She was a superlative equestrienne, and he never would have guessed that she had not ridden for so long.

Digby relinquished Plimpton’s hand and moved to his other side.

Plimpton had committed a strategic blunder by confessing his interest in her so soon. Left to his own devices, he would have planned the moment more carefully. But Wareham—and his awkward meddling—had not given him much of a choice. He frowned; Lord save him from friends who just wanted to help .

Wareham’s analogy of his sister as a badly abused filly might have been crude, but he feared it was on point.

Sedgewick had been several years older than Plimpton but the two had crossed path often at their clubs, and also in less savory venues that Plimpton had frequented as a young man.

Although Plimpton had not been monogamous after his second year of marriage, neither had he patronized brothels. Using whores was an irresponsible and repellent habit of young men who did not know better—or at least it should be.

Sedgewick, however, had never stopped haunting houses of prostitution. Not only had the Earl been a man of notoriously lusty habits, but he’d enjoyed establishments that specialized in fulfilling perversions so extreme that most Covent Garden whores refused to satisfy them.

Plimpton’s hands curled into fists; just thinking of the debauched cur touching a sensitive woman like Winifred made him see red.

Digby lightly cleared his throat, reminding Plimpton there was a man attached to his fingers. He relaxed his hands, but his imagination refused to be curbed so easily.

Whatever Winifred had endured as Sedgewick’s wife, Plimpton did not believe she had been irrevocably damaged. Yes, she was skittish, but she was not uninterested in him. It was not his vanity speaking; Plimpton had seen her disappointment clearly when he had seemingly given up on marriage so quickly and easily.

He had rushed his fences this morning and had no intention of making her shy off again. If it was marriage that caused her to balk, he would make her believe his interest in her was of a less permanent nature.

The ton was a hotbed of gossip and while Plimpton had never flaunted his affairs, neither had he made any attempt to hide them. He knew women talked as much as men about such matters, which meant that Winifred would know that it was not unusual for him to take ton widows as his lovers. If she was amenable to dalliance, he would open that door. If she did not walk through it then he would find some other way. And another. He would not give up.

Digby finished with his nails and Plimpton inspected both hands before standing and gesturing for his valet to help him into his snug but not ridiculously tight coat.

Once he had adjusted his cravat, he slipped on his heavy gold and onyx signet, chose a quizzing glass from among the three Digby proffered—opting for the simplest of the trio—and then slipped the black ribbon holding the glass over his neck and examined his reflection. Assured that he was presentable, he nodded his dismissal at the valet and walked the short distance to the dining room.

Tonight, he was not the first to arrive. Winifred was looking out the window onto the garden which was still visible at seven o’clock given that the sun did not set until after nine. She was wearing the plainer of her two gowns. Regardless of her simple garb, his breath caught just as it did every single time he saw her face.

“Good evening, Winifred.” He waved away the footman and seated her himself. “How did the afternoon go?” he asked after the servant had filled both their glasses. “I understand Wareham’s two oldest sons paid him a visit today.”

She smiled and the expression was so radiant that Plimpton felt as if she had punched him.

“It was delightful. I had not seen Thomas since he was ten and Robert was just seven. They are young men, now. Their aunt and uncle came with them and promised to bring the four youngest children back for a visit the day after tomorrow. She would have brought them today, but she wanted to make sure Wareham was able to enjoy so much stimulation, first.”

Once the servants had set out the first course Plimpton said to Goodrich, “Thank you. We will ring when we need you.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” The butler and two footmen bowed and left them alone.

If she thought his dismissal of the servants was odd, she did not show it. Normally Plimpton would not have been so forward, but her time at Torrance would soon be over and he did not want to waste any opportunity to get to know her. With servants hovering, they could not speak of anything but pleasantries.

“I have only seen Wareham’s sister-in-law around the children a handful of times, but it seemed she got on well with them,” Plimpton said after taking a few mouthfuls of a delicious, chilled lobster consommé.

Winifred nodded. “Yes. They appear to be very comfortable with both their aunt and uncle.” She paused, turning her glass around and around and staring at the pattern the foot made on the tablecloth. It was the first time Plimpton had seen her fidget. After a moment, she looked up. “At one point during their visit their mother’s name came up and neither of the boys exhibited any sign that they missed her.”

Plimpton weighed possible responses and decided on the least jarring one. “It is probable Lady Wareham did not spend a great deal of time with either of her sons, even when they were young.”

“Yes, I suppose that is true. Was that how it was with your mother—that you barely saw her when you were a boy?”

Plimpton’s initial instinct was to ignore her intimate question, and subtly change the subject. But a wry mental voice stopped him.

This is how people become acquainted and also the reason you dismissed the servants.

He swallowed his distaste at discussing such a private matter and said, “No, that is not how I was raised. I saw my mother often as a boy and we are still…close. The same is true for my brother.” He cleared his throat, feeling uncharacteristically awkward. Nobody had ever asked him about his family relations. But she wanted to know, so…

“My father was not an approachable man.” That was perhaps the understatement of the century. “He was raised to view open signs of affection or sentiment as weakness.” And the duke had done his best to beat weakness out of both his sons, but especially his heir. “To my mother’s credit, she defied him on numerous occasions, expressing her love when she believed that we needed such support. Unfortunately, she always paid for her transgressions.”

She looked arrested. “Do you mean that he, er…”

“He did not hurt her physically.” The duke had reserved corporal punishment for his sons, but there was no point in dredging that up. Still, he could not resist adding, “While he never laid a hand on her in anger, his displeasure was…a powerful weapon.” And one that he wielded like a battleaxe of old.

She quietly assessed what he had said. And perhaps what he had left un said, as well. “You are fortunate in your relationship with your mother.”

“Yes. I am very fortunate.” There, that was enough honesty about that topic for one evening. He purposely changed the subject. “I was impressed by Wareham’s improvement. He said he took six short walks today.”

“Doctor Madsen says he will soon be able to go for much longer walks. In fact, Wareham is doing so well that I feel comfortable leaving in three days.”

“That is a day earlier than we discussed.”

“If that does not fit with your schedule, then I am sure—”

“The day you have chosen is fine,” he lied. He had wanted to have more time with her, but he suspected that to argue the matter would only alienate her. He would call on her in London, but it would not be the same as being under the same roof. Here she was more relaxed. To call on her openly—to court her, in effect—would be a trickier proposition.

He did not have much time. He had better make every minute count.

“Will you come to the library and play piquet later?” he asked, putting his plan into action immediately.

She opened her mouth so quickly that he thought she would reject his offer. But then she closed it again, her brow furrowing. A few seconds later, she nodded and said, “Thank you. I would like that. I will meet you in the library in an hour.”

Plimpton managed to hide his triumphant smile—fine, more of a grin, really—until he shut the door behind her.