Page 83 of The Ladies Least Likely

His face fell. “I won’t be able to offer Susannah a hut under a hedge.

Thought I was plump in the pocket when you managed to make Grey pay my salary at last, but a new coat will set me back three times that, and I daren’t call on Susannah in the same old plowman’s jacket I’ve been wearing for years now.

” Joseph looked moodily down at his dinner coat, which while tidy and smart enough to sport a small row of bronze buttons was in no way a rival to the beautifully embroidered coats and bright buttons that adorned Malden Grey.

As if conjured by her thoughts Grey walked through the door, and Amaranthe forgot everything in her head, including that she was the source of funds for her brother’s stipend.

Grey was the most splendid she’d ever seen him in a dinner coat of dark plum with an eye-popping diamond pattern and intricate embroidery at the sides and hem.

A cream waistcoat displayed the same embroidery in contrasting colors, and the matching breeches buckled just below the knee led to white stockings showing an excellently shaped male leg.

She stared at his shoes, heeled with gold buckles, and then dragged her gaze upward to his face.

Grey stared, his gaze moving from her hair to her waist to the exaggerated rump, then to the expanse of skin bared by her bodice and the little ruffle that flirted with the tops of her breasts. There his eyes lingered for long moments until, at last aware of her staring back, he looked in her face.

“You,” he began in a strangled voice, and went no further.

Amaranthe experienced a sensation she had never felt in her life: the satisfaction of vanity.

The modesty of her upbringing had taught her to value character above all.

But the opportunity to strike an intelligent and normally self-possessed man witless by a mere glimpse of her bosom was an opportunity that a modest life had denied her, and she found she quite enjoyed the power, so long as the man was Malden Grey.

“You,” he tried again. “You, ah, have finished with the household accounts?”

“Yes, all up to date,” Amaranthe answered, suppressing a flash of irritation that he could look upon her in this exquisite gown and ask for a progress report.

But then she realized he was groping for his scattered wits, poor man, and she decided to forgive him.

She opened her fan and swished it beneath her chin.

Grey’s eyes tracked the movement like the pendulum of a clock, and she felt a surge of feminine triumph mingled with exasperation.

Honestly, how had men contrived to rule the world when exposure to the mere shape of a female made them useless nodcocks?

Medieval monks had railed at length about the dangers posed by women; she’d copied many a tedious text instructing godly men to beware of female snares. Now she understood the frantic warnings. Unable to control their own responses, they chose instead to throttle and control women.

She quite liked stirring this reaction in him. Wise of the medieval clerics to put frail men on their guard. What woman, having such power, wouldn’t use it?

“And you mean to leave us tomorrow.” Faint desperation laced Grey’s tone.

“All is in order here. I’ll leave Mrs. Blackthorn to supervise the new cook, and Eyde can stay until Lady Camilla’s nursemaid returns in the next few days. The matron from the Benevolence Hospital found us a housekeeper who can begin next week, and so…”

She had run out of excuses to stay, to be near him. And now was not the moment to ask if she could take the manuscript Ned had found with her. It wasn’t for Grey to give permission, anyway; it was the property of the young duke.

“We don’t want you to leave.” Camilla’s plaintive voice floated from the doorway. Amaranthe dragged her gaze away from Grey to see that all three of the ducal children stood in their finery, wearing the same expressions of appeal as they had when they’d turned up on her doorstep a week prior.

“Shush, Millie!” Ned hissed. “Let Hugh say what he planned.”

Young Hunsdon bowed to Amaranthe, then held out his arm.

He was a few inches shorter than she, but as the ranking male, it was his privilege to lead the first female into dinner.

Amaranthe smiled at the observance of protocol.

The boys had turned themselves out in formal suits, hair tucked beneath small white wigs.

“I would be loath to cast away my speech, for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it,” Hugh said with a mischievous smile.

Amaranthe laughed as she laid her hand lightly on his forearm. “Viola’s speech to Olivia. Twelfth Night, Act I.”

“Ah, I knew it was Shakespeare!” Joseph exclaimed, rising from his couch. “The scene where Viola is dressed as the page Cesario.”

“And the speech is to court Olivia on behalf of the Duke Orsino,” Grey said.

“Which goes horribly awry, since Olivia falls in love with Cesario, never guessing that another woman so well knows the way to a woman’s heart,” Amaranthe answered.

“Miss Illingworth, sometimes I think you should be teaching us, instead of your brother,” Ned exclaimed, clamping Camilla’s arm in a poor copy of his brother’s courtesy. “Mr. Illingworth, beg your pardon. I meant no offense.”

“Joseph knows all the tragedies and can recite every soliloquy from Hamlet and Macbeth ,” Amaranthe said. “Besides which he can endure the history plays, which drive me to despair.”

She cast a teasing look over her shoulder, meant for her brother, but her eyes landed on Grey, taking his place in the procession behind Ned. The smolder in his eyes made her lose her thought completely.

“We have discussed the issue at length, and this is the conclusion we have come to.” Hugh began his recital as they processed to the formal dining room, which had been laid for six.

Amaranthe blinked at the dazzle of light on shimmering porcelain and polished silver.

The sight of a dozen candles dancing in tall branched candelabras standing against the walls made her recall the figure she’d entered into the household accounts that day, an extravagance when a few candlesticks on the table would do just as well.

But that was the thrift of a tradeswoman dining at a nobleman’s table, she reminded herself. Her eyes sought Grey, taking his place at the head. Which was he, really? The sober would-be barrister whiling away his days in study, or the duke’s profligate bastard son?

“…and the only solution we can see…” Hugh paused for the culmination of his speech, and Amaranthe realized she hadn’t been listening to a word he’d rehearsed with such care.

“Marriage!” Ned exclaimed, rushing in over his brother’s weighty pause.

“Marriage,” Hugh confirmed.

“I beg your pardon,” Amaranthe said. “Who is getting married?”

“You and Grey, of course.” Hugh jerked his chin at his elder brother.

Grey stood woodenly behind his chair. His drawn-back hair showed the red tips of his ears. She rather liked seeing these chinks in his armor. But that was not to the point.

Blood roared in her own ears, drowning out her voice. “I beg your pardon, I don’t follow.”

“But it solves everything!” Camilla burst out. “If you marry Grey, he can make sure Sybil can’t steal from us again. And you can live here with us and give me lessons.” She beamed with delight.

What surfaced from Amaranthe’s riot of thoughts was that Camilla ought not to refer to her stepmother as Sybil. She stared at Joseph, who stood blinking, as caught by surprise as she was.

Grey’s expression turned thoughtful.

“You knew this was coming,” she accused him. No doubt he had planted the notion in their heads.

“It was their idea,” he answered. His hands lay calm on the back of his chair, but she thought she detected a slight tremor in them. “But it has, er, come to my attention recently that I require a wife.”

And he’d let the children broach the subject to test her reaction. Rather than approaching her himself on such an intimate matter.

“But me! ” This was the heart of her astonishment. She and Grey?—

The thought sent a thrill of excitement through her. No, alarm at the outrageousness of the suggestion.

“Well, you see.” Grey cleared his throat. He made a gesture toward the seat of his chair. She continued staring.

“It would improve my chances of being called to the bench to be married, as you witnessed.” His voice sounded far away over the rushing in her ears, and yet at the same time as close as if he spoke in her ear.

A shiver moved down her back. “I do not, I’m afraid, have time to court a wife.

Neither do I have any fair prospects.” He looked faintly abashed, studying his hands on the chair. “So I thought?—”

“Since I am available,” Amaranthe finished. “I see.”

He flung out his hand, and she realized that as she had not seated herself, none of the gentlemen could sit, either. She subsided into her chair, glad she need no longer depend on her wobbly legs.

She didn’t see at all. They barely knew each other.

They’d spent a week under the same roof.

That was hardly enough time to know anything about him, other than that he was tall and ridiculously well-formed, level-headed and for the most part responsible, intelligent and, as far as she could see, not given to overindulgence or vices.

Long enough for her to ascertain that she liked his voice, and his style, and his scent, and in fact everything about him.

None of which was a basis for marriage.

You’ve a tendre for him. Admit it, you goose .

That was not to the point. “Marriage is a serious contract,” she said.

The words sounded wooden, not her own. She didn’t feel as if she were present in this very surprising moment, but watching a tableau unfold before her. “There are considerations to be made.”