It Happened One Autumn
Page 36
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“And now,” Hunt continued evenly, “you’ve thrown her over to St. Vincent’s sympathetic care. God knows he’ll probably rob her of her virtue before they even reach the manor.”
Marcus glanced at him sharply, his smoldering ire undercut by sudden worry. “He wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not his preferred style.”
Hunt laughed gently. “Does St. Vincent have a preferred style? I’ve never noticed any similarities between the objects of his pursuit, other than the fact that they are all women. Dark, fair, plump, slender …he’s remarkably unprejudiced in his affairs.”
“Damn it all to hell,” Marcus said beneath his breath, experiencing, for the first time in his life, the gnawing sting of jealousy.
Lillian concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, when all she wanted was to head back to Westcliff and fling herself upon him in a mindless attack. “That arrogant, pompous clodpole—”
“Easy,” she heard St. Vincent murmur. “Westcliff is in a thorough temper—and I wouldn’t care to engage him in your defense. I can best him any day with a sword, but not with fists.”
“Why not?” Lillian muttered. “You’ve got a longer reach than Westcliff.”
“He’s got the most vicious right hook I’ve ever encountered. And I have an unfortunate habit of trying to shield my face—which frequently leaves me open for gut punches.”
The unashamed conceit behind the statement drew a reluctant laugh from Lillian. As the heat of anger faded, she reflected that with a face like his, one could hardly blame him for desiring to protect it. “Have you fought with the earl often?” she asked.
“Not since we were boys at school. Westcliff did everything a bit too perfectly—I had to challenge him now and then just to make certain that his vanity didn’t become overinflated. Here …shall we take a more scenic route through the garden?”
Lillian hesitated, recalling the numerous stories that she had heard about him. “I’m not certain that would be wise.”
St. Vincent smiled. “What if I promise on my honor not to make any advances to you?”
Considering that, Lillian nodded. “In that case, all right.”
St. Vincent guided her through a small leafy grove, and onto a graveled path shaded by a row of ancient yews. “I should probably tell you,” he remarked casually, “that since my sense of honor is completely deteriorated, any promise I make is worthless.”
“Then I should tell you that my right hook is likely ten times more vicious than Westcliff’s.”
St. Vincent grinned. “Tell me, darling, what happened to cause bad blood between you and the earl?”
Startled by the casual endearment, Lillian thought of reprimanding him, then decided to let it pass. After all, it had been very nice of him to give up his morning ride to escort her back to the manor. “I’m afraid it was a case of hatred at first sight,” she replied. “I think Westcliff is a judgmental boor, and he considers me an ill-natured brat.” She shrugged. “Perhaps we’re both right.”
“I think neither of you is right,” St. Vincent murmured.
“Well, actually …I am something of a brat,” Lillian admitted.
His lips twitched with barely suppressed humor. “Are you?”
She nodded. “I like to have my way, and I’m very cross when I don’t get it. In fact, I’ve often been told that my temperament is quite similar to that of my grandmother, who was a dockside washwoman.”
St. Vincent seemed entertained by the notion of being related to a washwoman. “Were you close to your grandmother?”
“Oh, she was a ripping old dear. Foul-mouthed and high-spirited, and she often said things that would make you laugh until your stomach hurt. Oh …pardon…I don’t think I’m supposed to say the word ‘stomach’ in front of a gentleman.”
“I’m shocked,” St. Vincent said gravely, “but I’ll recover.” Looking around them as if to ascertain that he wouldn’t be overheard, he whispered conspiratorially, “I’m not really a gentleman, you know.”
“You’re a viscount, aren’t you?”
“That hardly goes hand-in-hand with being a gentleman. You don’t know much about the peerage, do you?”
“I believe I already know more than I want to.”
St. Vincent gave her a curious smile. “And here I thought you were intent upon marrying one of us. Am I mistaken, or aren’t you and your younger sister a pair of dollar princesses brought over from the colonies to land titled husbands?”
“The colonies?” Lillian repeated with a chiding grin. “In case you hadn’t heard, my lord, we won the Revolution.”
“Ah. I must have forgotten to read the paper that day. But in answer to my question …?”
“Yes,” Lillian said, flushing a little. “Our parents brought us here to find husbands. They want to infuse the family line with blue blood.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Today my sole desire is to draw some blue blood,” she muttered, thinking of Westcliff.
“What a ferocious creature you are,” St. Vincent said, laughing. “I pity Westcliff if he crosses you again. In fact, I think I should warn him…” His voice died away as he saw the sudden pain on her face, and heard the sharp intake of her breath.
Marcus glanced at him sharply, his smoldering ire undercut by sudden worry. “He wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not his preferred style.”
Hunt laughed gently. “Does St. Vincent have a preferred style? I’ve never noticed any similarities between the objects of his pursuit, other than the fact that they are all women. Dark, fair, plump, slender …he’s remarkably unprejudiced in his affairs.”
“Damn it all to hell,” Marcus said beneath his breath, experiencing, for the first time in his life, the gnawing sting of jealousy.
Lillian concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, when all she wanted was to head back to Westcliff and fling herself upon him in a mindless attack. “That arrogant, pompous clodpole—”
“Easy,” she heard St. Vincent murmur. “Westcliff is in a thorough temper—and I wouldn’t care to engage him in your defense. I can best him any day with a sword, but not with fists.”
“Why not?” Lillian muttered. “You’ve got a longer reach than Westcliff.”
“He’s got the most vicious right hook I’ve ever encountered. And I have an unfortunate habit of trying to shield my face—which frequently leaves me open for gut punches.”
The unashamed conceit behind the statement drew a reluctant laugh from Lillian. As the heat of anger faded, she reflected that with a face like his, one could hardly blame him for desiring to protect it. “Have you fought with the earl often?” she asked.
“Not since we were boys at school. Westcliff did everything a bit too perfectly—I had to challenge him now and then just to make certain that his vanity didn’t become overinflated. Here …shall we take a more scenic route through the garden?”
Lillian hesitated, recalling the numerous stories that she had heard about him. “I’m not certain that would be wise.”
St. Vincent smiled. “What if I promise on my honor not to make any advances to you?”
Considering that, Lillian nodded. “In that case, all right.”
St. Vincent guided her through a small leafy grove, and onto a graveled path shaded by a row of ancient yews. “I should probably tell you,” he remarked casually, “that since my sense of honor is completely deteriorated, any promise I make is worthless.”
“Then I should tell you that my right hook is likely ten times more vicious than Westcliff’s.”
St. Vincent grinned. “Tell me, darling, what happened to cause bad blood between you and the earl?”
Startled by the casual endearment, Lillian thought of reprimanding him, then decided to let it pass. After all, it had been very nice of him to give up his morning ride to escort her back to the manor. “I’m afraid it was a case of hatred at first sight,” she replied. “I think Westcliff is a judgmental boor, and he considers me an ill-natured brat.” She shrugged. “Perhaps we’re both right.”
“I think neither of you is right,” St. Vincent murmured.
“Well, actually …I am something of a brat,” Lillian admitted.
His lips twitched with barely suppressed humor. “Are you?”
She nodded. “I like to have my way, and I’m very cross when I don’t get it. In fact, I’ve often been told that my temperament is quite similar to that of my grandmother, who was a dockside washwoman.”
St. Vincent seemed entertained by the notion of being related to a washwoman. “Were you close to your grandmother?”
“Oh, she was a ripping old dear. Foul-mouthed and high-spirited, and she often said things that would make you laugh until your stomach hurt. Oh …pardon…I don’t think I’m supposed to say the word ‘stomach’ in front of a gentleman.”
“I’m shocked,” St. Vincent said gravely, “but I’ll recover.” Looking around them as if to ascertain that he wouldn’t be overheard, he whispered conspiratorially, “I’m not really a gentleman, you know.”
“You’re a viscount, aren’t you?”
“That hardly goes hand-in-hand with being a gentleman. You don’t know much about the peerage, do you?”
“I believe I already know more than I want to.”
St. Vincent gave her a curious smile. “And here I thought you were intent upon marrying one of us. Am I mistaken, or aren’t you and your younger sister a pair of dollar princesses brought over from the colonies to land titled husbands?”
“The colonies?” Lillian repeated with a chiding grin. “In case you hadn’t heard, my lord, we won the Revolution.”
“Ah. I must have forgotten to read the paper that day. But in answer to my question …?”
“Yes,” Lillian said, flushing a little. “Our parents brought us here to find husbands. They want to infuse the family line with blue blood.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Today my sole desire is to draw some blue blood,” she muttered, thinking of Westcliff.
“What a ferocious creature you are,” St. Vincent said, laughing. “I pity Westcliff if he crosses you again. In fact, I think I should warn him…” His voice died away as he saw the sudden pain on her face, and heard the sharp intake of her breath.
