Читать книгу Taking Liberties - Jackie Barbosa - Страница 6

When Nash returned to his town house in Marylebone several hours later, fortified by several tumblers of whiskey and the unexpectedly engaging company of Lord Fitzgerald, he was bearded at the door by the family’s ancient butler. Toole, despite being well-versed in the etiquette of assisting one’s master in the disposition of his hat and coat upon his arrival, instead handed Nash a folded slip of parchment, addressed in a bold yet feminine script, and said without preamble, “An immediate response is required, my lord.”

“Required?” That seemed rather impolitic.

“Yes, my lord. The footman who delivered it refused to leave until he received your response.” Toole’s sharp gray eyes rolled in the direction of the kitchen, and his ever-present frown deepened.

Nash chuckled. “Eating us out of house and home, is he?” Mrs. Hargreaves, the cook, considered it her sworn duty to fatten up anyone who crossed her threshold. Toole thought she was rather too diligent in the application of her mission, to the point of shortchanging the rest of the household. It was pointless to remind the butler that the Langston coffers could bear up under the assault of a few extra pasties, pies and puddings.

Toole drew himself up to his full though not particularly imposing height and sniffed. “The fellow has the appetite of a regiment. One wonders if the Avingdons bother feeding their staff or simply send them off—”

“The Avingdons?” Nash nearly crumpled the note in his haste to unfold it. The scent of roses tinged with cinnamon wafted from the parchment.

Her scent. His reaction was swift and frank; his cock jerked, his balls grew heavy and he pictured Tish Blake laid out on a red silk coverlet, her copious saffron-tinged curls fanned out around her, her moonlight pale skin bare and velvet to the touch. His touch.

Toole droned on about the footman, apparently unconcerned that his master was neither interested in nor attending to what he was saying. Nash ignored him and scanned the missive in his hand.

Lady Leticia Blake cordially invites Viscount Langston to a private picnic luncheon at Albemarle House in Ealing this coming Wednesday afternoon at two o’clock. The courtesy of an immediate response is requested.

In an instant, everything fell into place. This must be why Hapsborough and Randley were so confident of their prospects. Each of them had received a similar invitation and mistakenly believed himself to have been singled out for the honor. Little did they know, the ever-resourceful and notoriously skittish Lady Leticia was still shopping. But just how many oranges did she intend to squeeze before she picked one?

That was a question to which Nash required an immediate answer.

He cut Toole off midsentence. “Fetch the footman to me.”

The butler didn’t quite manage to conceal his offence at having been interrupted in the heart of a perfectly good rant. “Yes, my lord.” He pivoted on his heel for the kitchen, leaving Nash in the entry hall.

Only after he left did Nash realize he was still in possession of his hat and overcoat. Fine, he wasn’t helpless. He stashed them himself in the interval, returning to the entry hall to find the aggrieved Toole in the company of a tall, young footman outfitted in the Avingdon’s white and royal blue livery. The faint red stains at the corners of his mouth suggested he had been rather deeply into one of Hargreaves’s famous berry pies when interrupted. He snapped his heels together and executed a deep bow upon seeing Nash.

“My lord,” he murmured politely when Nash nodded to indicate he should speak. “Have you a response for my mistress?”

“I do, but before I give it I must know whether you delivered any other notes for Lady Leticia today.”

The footman’s eyes widened. “Why, yes. Two of them, as a matter of fact.”

“Are there more yet to be delivered?”

“No, my lord,” the footman replied with a shake of his bewigged head. “Yours was the last.”

The pressure in Nash’s chest eased. So it was just him, Hapsborough and Randley. At least he didn’t have to eliminate the entire male population of London from the competition. Moreover, if she was down to three choices, she must be close to making her decision.

And he would do whatever it took to ensure she made the right one. Even if it meant changing the rules of the game.

“You want me to do what?”

Tish covered her ears to protect them from Beatrice’s shriek of protest. Perhaps she ought to have informed her sister of her plans before executing them, but she had always operated on the premise that forgiveness was more forthcoming than permission and had yet to be proved wrong. Thus far, she had been pardoned for every transgression she had ever committed, up to and including the time when she had painted mustaches on all of the family portraits hanging in the main hall. Papa had pretended to be angry, of course, but in the end had been forced to admit that the appearance of a great many of their ancestors—particularly the women—had been improved by the addition.

But painting had never been her talent, anyway. Wheedling, on the other hand…

Tish sat down next to her elder sibling on the plush, peach velvet sofa and took her sister’s gloved hand. “Please, Bea. You know Papa won’t budge, not when he’s given an ultimatum. How else will I know if my future husband and I are suited? Not a one of them has even kissed me yet, but I am somehow expected to choose one of them to share my body with for the rest of my life. It is quite mad. You of all people should understand—”

Beatrice snatched her hand away, her once sympathetic blue eyes turning to shards of ice. Tish winced. Perhaps reminding her sister of her own unhappy, loveless marriage hadn’t been an entirely shrewd maneuver, but really, would Bea be any happier if Tish were also to marry unwisely and unwell?

She grabbed her sister’s hand again and squeezed, refusing to permit its extrication from her grasp. “Bea, it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known because you followed all the rules. But I can know, if only you will help me break them—just a little.”

“And what good will that do me?” Beatrice’s jaw jutted out, slightly belligerent. “I will still be married to Albemarle, and he will still be a sodding arse who would rather pass his time with whores than with his wife.”

Tish stared at her sister, wide-eyed with shock. And envy. What she wouldn’t give to be able to rattle off a rant like that. “Why, Bea! Wherever did you learn to speak like that?”

Beatrice flushed. She worried her lower lip with her teeth and sent a furtive glance toward the open sitting room door. “From John,” she said in a low voice.

“John?”

“Albemarle’s land steward. He can be quite…colorful.” Beatrice’s fond tone—not to mention her use of the man’s Christian name—suggested she did not find this objectionable. Good heavens, was Bea…involved with this servant?

But no, there were some things Tish didn’t want—or need—to know. At least not at this precise moment. Instead she said, “So you’ll help me? Play chaperone for me?”

Beatrice chewed her lip for several more seconds before finally nodding her head.

Tish released her hand and threw her arms around her sister. “Thank you!”

Bea pried herself free. “Don’t thank me yet. I want to know—” She broke off at the sound of a polite knock on the open door.

The footman whom Tish had dispatched this morning with her invitations executed a swift bow and held out several notes. The responses. Tish all but leaped to her feet, nearly tripping over her skirts in her haste to retrieve them. She pulled the slips of parchment from Garvey’s outstretched hand and eagerly opened them, registering polite acceptances from Randley and then Hapsborough. But where was the third?

She shot the footman a reproachful look. Had she not told him he was not to return until he had responses from all three gentlemen? “Where is Viscount Langston’s?”

“I am sorry, my lady, but he refused to send a written response.”

“Refused?” Tish frowned in puzzlement. Had she misjudged the viscount’s interest in her? Of the three gentlemen, he was the only one who had never expressly indicated a wish to marry her, but she had thought him cautious and considerate rather than indifferent. She closed her eyes as disappointment welled inside her, threatening to crush her heart.

“Yes, ma’am. He wanted to deliver his answer in person.”

Her eyes flew open. “What?”

At her stunned exclamation, the viscount himself stepped into the room. “In the flesh.”

And oh my, what flesh! Even fully clothed, the man exuded pure, masculine charisma. Broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, and well-turned out of thigh and calf, Nash Langston was carnality personified. It was impossible to look at the man and not at least attempt to picture him in the nude.

Tish tended to do more than attempt.

She had never been the swooning sort, but she felt in danger of making a closer inspection of his highly polished black boots, for all her blood seemed to have deserted her brain in favor of regions further south. In fact, she rather fancied her heart might have migrated down and settled between her legs as well, for that was where her pulse was now lodged.

His effect on her was most disconcerting and not altogether agreeable. He seemed to exert his own gravitational force, rearranging her internal organs and thoroughly disorganizing her normally rational thought processes. It was alarming…and perhaps just a little bit exhilarating.

From some well of composure, Tish managed a deep and graceful curtsy despite her wobbly knees. “Did you misplace your fountain pen when my message arrived, my lord? Or perhaps your tongue?” she asked, surprised to discover she could formulate a response at all, let alone a saucy one.