“White knuckle?” He glanced down at his hand. Damn it. His knuckleshadgone white.
He loosened his grip. He should have seated Francesca at the other end of the table, and not directly at his right, where she could witness his every frown and twitch.
She was far too perceptive, and there was little doubt she’d report everything back to Basingstoke, who’d be eager enough to listen. Both he and Montford had grown more frustrated with him with every day that passed, but they’d yet to pin him down for an interrogation.
Still, two nosier devils than Montford and Basingstoke never existed. It was only a matter of time before they cornered him, and once they did . . .
What then? Perhaps he’d tell them the truth about his schemes. He wasn’t a good man, but he’d always drawn the line at lying to his friends. Still, it would be best if the plan was a bit further along before he was called to account.
Not that he had anything to be ashamed of. Not in the least.
He’d arranged for Miss St. Claire to marry a viscount, for God’s sake. Surely, there was nothing he need reproach himself for in that? Most people would say he’d done her a good turn, putting Dunwitty in her way.
Indeed, by the looks of things, both Dunwitty and Miss St. Claire were vastly pleased with each other’s company. Dunwitty had hardly ceased talking for the entire meal. For his part, Max always found the man to be a bit on the dull side, but Dunwitty was unusually animated this evening, and if Miss St. Claire’s smiles were any indication, she found his conversation utterly charming.
Perhaps it would even turn out to be a love match.
“There’s that glower again,” Francesca murmured, raising an eyebrow. “Is it the viscount who offends you, Grantham, or is it Miss St. Claire?”
“Neither of them offend me.” Unless they were together.
Which was ridiculous, given he was the one who’d been so reckless as to throw them into each other’s way. But then, no good deed went unpunished. Or had it been a bad deed? He was no longer sure, but it did feel as if he were being punished for . . . well, something.
Francesca followed his gaze. “I can’t see how Miss St. Claire could offend you. She’s a lovely young lady, is she not?”
She was. Far too lovely. That was the very reason she offended him, damn her. If she’d been a trifle less appealing, his head wouldn’t be so muddled. None of this made any sense. He’d brought Dunwitty here so he could rid himself of Rose St. Claire, but now . . .
He’d found the idea of a marriage between them palatable enough at one time, hadn’t he? But somehow the reality of seeing them together every day was far less agreeable than he’d anticipated. And they were together constantly. Every bloody time he turned around, there was Dunwitty on Miss St. Claire’s heels, flirting with her, and making her laugh.
“As for Dunwitty, he’s harmless enough, and he seems quite captivated by Miss St. Claire.” Francesca turned narrowed, dark blue eyes on him. “It would be a wonderful thing for her if he fell in love with her. Don’t you think so, Grantham?”
He had done, once, but somewhere in the midst of his perfect scheme, he’d changed his—
No, damn it, he hadn’t. It was too late for that, and in any case, it was nonsense. He was as determined as he’d ever been. “I don’t like to disappoint you, Francesca, but I have no opinion whatsoever concerning Miss St. Claire’s romantic affairs. I couldn’t be less interested, I assure you.”
“Of course not, Grantham.” A sly smile curved Francesca’s lips, and her eyes danced as she plucked his wineglass from his hand. “We’ll just leave this on the table, shall we?”
He hardly heard her, because just then a bright laugh echoed down the table, and he turned just in time to see Miss St. Claire throw her head back, her cheeks flushed, and her pink lips parted in that laugh that struck him directly in the center of his chest.
When had her laugh become so familiar to him, so necessary? He’d only heard it half a dozen times, but it wasn’t the sort of laugh one forgot, once they’d heard it the first time.
So joyous a laugh as that could never be forgotten.
He’d never found Dunwitty at all amusing, but apparently, Miss St. Claire didn’t share his opinion. She was smiling as Dunwitty whispered some nonsense in her ear. Their heads were bent close together, and Dunwitty’s hand rested next to hers atop the table, so close he could have covered her fingers with his.
“It’s time the ladies retired, Your Grace.” He tore his gaze from Rose—that is, Miss St. Claire—and turned to Francesca. “If you’d do me the favor of taking them out.”
Francesca paused for an instant, far too much understanding in those clever blue eyes of hers, but then she nodded. “Very well, Your Grace.” She rose, and the chatter died away as heads turned toward her. “Ladies, I believe it’s time we left the gentlemen to their vices.”
The ladies rose from the table in a swish of silk skirts, but they may as well have been invisible, for all the attention he paid to them. Only one lady mattered, and she was the only one he could see.
Miss St. Claire offered Dunwitty a warm smile, but she didn’t linger.
Max’s gaze followed her as she passed out of the dining room, and a tangle of emotions swelled in her wake, twisting inside his chest like a nest of writhing snakes. They were so intertwined he could hardly tell one from the next, but as his gaze returned to Dunwitty at the other end of the table, one slithered loose and reared up, head weaving, tongue flickering, hissing its displeasure.
Jealousy. He wasjealousof Dunwitty.
Jealous, and frustrated, and underneath it all lay a baffling regret. This was what he’d wanted, yet at the same time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that commanding Viscount Dunwitty to court Rose St. Claire may have been the worst mistake of his life.
