It was impossible to avoid him entirely, of course. There was the grubby, irritating mess of the wager. And there was Tom.
Madelaine and her aunt had decided to teach the boy his letters. Therefore, they must, by necessity, go every day to Lord Cotereigh’s house to read to the boy—and also to ensure he was being well-treated. They both agreed on that.
Of course, flood or thunder or doomsday itself couldn’t have kept her aunt from checking on the boy the very morning after his altercation with Major Tait. And so Madelaine went too,pulse ticking rapidly in the carriage ride over.Was she well?her aunt asked. She was ever so pale.
Quite well, Madelaine assured her. Mad, and foolish, but quite well. It was only a mild infection. Only a short fever. She’d soon get over it—common sense was the remedy.
Or maybe the poison was the cure. Because of coursehewas entirely unaffected by her improper, impulsive, irrational late-night visit. He only watched her walk into the room with a knowing glint in his eyes. There was nothing of gratitude or thanks or even self-consciousness there, only a sort of victory. He was that sort of man. Kindness was weakness and he’d always put the grossest interpretation onto anything of the sort.
She would never feel sorry for him again.
He greeted her aunt graciously enough, assuring her all was well. “See for yourself,” he said with a smile, gesturing to where Tom sat stiff and cautious on a sofa. Her aunt hurried over, a bag of books bumping her broad hip. Tom eyed the approach of both with suspicion.
Lord Cotereigh stayed where he was. So did she.
“I’m going to see Mrs Fishbourne tomorrow,” he told her, leaning a casual elbow on the mantlepiece behind him as he spoke.
Last night, he’d stood before his library fire and the glow behind him in the dark room had made his silhouette black. Except for the white expanse of his shirt. That had been a pale, unholy flag.
There were muscles, she knew now, as though her eyes hadn’t already told her. His chest was firm muscle. She fixed her eyes upon his face, even if that meant confronting his smirk head-on.
“Is the duchess on side?” he asked.
She gave a nod. “I met with her yesterday. She even offered to host the fundraising ball, which is beyond generous. My aunt had recently added her to her list of possible supporters, but sheis so new in town, her character and politics unknown, that we weren’t sure… Thank you. Again. For the introduction.”
The shadows at his mouth moved. A smile. “Oh, it was hardly that.”
“Even so,” she said, stiff with politeness. “I’m grateful.”
“The duchess is a boon. But, like you say, she’s new in town and still establishing her own reputation. You need the old guard on your side for true success. I’ll arrange for Mrs Fishbourne to invite you to tea. Speak for fifteen minutes of trivial nonsense and therefore prove yourself a sensible person.”
She was forced to laugh, despite herself. “And Mrs Fishbourne does as you ask, I suppose?”
“She was fond of my mother.” His humble way of saying,Yes, of course she does.
Her aunt was busy across the room, sitting by Tom on the sofa, a book on her lap and their heads bent together over it. Madelaine looked back at Lord Cotereigh. “What did you say to Lady Frances, to get her to take me to the ball?”
“Only that failure is unfashionable. She’s known to take my side in this wager.”
“The wager. Of course.”
There was a gleam of humour in his eyes as he stepped toward her from the fireplace. “It’s a most engrossing matter.” She tensed as he came nearer, but he only smiled down at her. “I haven’t been bored in days.”
“I’m glad my cause has been ofsomeuse.”
His smile deepened at that, and his voice was pitched low. “Oh…I’m always happy to be the beneficiary of your kind attentions, Mrs Ardingly.”
She flushed, heart stopping as he walked closer—then past her, his shoulder just skimming hers. “Lady Pemberthy,” he called, all amiable politeness now as he crossed the room. “Dotell me…do you happen to have any old clocks among your donated goods? I’m starting a collection.”
Yes. She was right. It was foolish to be alone with the man. She would not do it again.
And she didn’t. Every day, for weeks and weeks, she stayed always with her aunt. It was easy enough to arrange—her aunt doted on Tom and would never miss a visit. Her aunt was also enthusiastic when it came to arranging the fundraising ball—far more so than Madelaine—and that entire task soon became her domain, together with Mrs Littleton, the Duchess of Cumbria’s sister-in-law, who was an enthusiastic volunteer.
Now, thank goodness, there was only a week to go. A week until the wager was done.
The ball itself was the deadline. Lord Cotereigh was supposed to have provided his ten committee members by then. And if the ball was a success too, then he would have won and proved whatever it was that he was determined to prove.
That his popularity could overcome even her own lack of it, she supposed. That he was king of theton, public opinion shifting at the click of his fingers. All of society could genuflect before his greatness and he would know himself every bit as wonderful as he’d always believed himself to be.
