The Bluestocking and the Rake (Hearts in Hiding 2)

A house full of antiquities, he thought wryly. That might interest her when he didn’t.

He didn’t heed the wealth of objects he passed. The corridor lined with w

eaponry from past ages was too similar to the Great Hall of the home he’d inherited; that drafty, stately building that seemed so cold and lonely. Richard had thrived there, even without a wife, but Miles was used to conviviality and feminine company. He wanted a wife.

Or a mistress.

Above all, though, if he only considered his immediate desires, he wanted a mistress, and he wanted that role to be filled by Miss Mordaunt. He paused at the top of the stairs. Perhaps Deveril would tire of her. Deveril had stated his intentions to find himself a wife at the beginning of the season, so perhaps he’d choose one who’d make it impossible for him to keep the beauty of which he was so possessive. For the moment, that was all Miles could hope for.

At present, Miles saw no hope beyond earning Miss Mordaunt’s regard. Of course, he wanted more, but he knew that if he’d been able to consult his scholarly, responsible elder brother, Richard would have counseled patience. He’d have recognized that Miss Mordaunt prized charm and self-possession over impulse and passion.

Miles had a reputation for being impulsive and passionate, but he’d never been charged with any worthwhile goals. He’d been written off by his father as a callow youth with no discipline and rakish tastes and, at eighteen, abandoned to his gambling and whoring; supplemented by a healthy pocketbook, as long as he didn’t trouble his short-tempered and unsympathetic pater with his difficulties.

Miles had surprised himself with how seriously he’d taken on the role unexpectedly vacated by his much-lamented brother. For the first two months following Richard’s death, he’d not left the estate as he’d learned the business of managing farms and tenants. It was clear that neither his brother’s man-of-business nor estate bailiff had considered him up to the task, but he’d applied himself with all the seriousness and diligence he imagined Richard would have.

He was due to return at the end of the week, but felt badly in need of some lighthearted entertainment before heading back to that drafty, lonely mausoleum. Making it a little less cold and depressing was, he supposed, one reason he ought to find himself a wife which, of course, meant presenting himself at Almack’s rather than Madame Plumb’s.

Failing to fulfill his brother’s last request tormented him. Richard had shown no interest in any woman but the one whose safety he’d entrusted to Miles. It was possible that she and Richard had formed an understanding which he’d not been able to act upon, given his untimely death. Murder. The young woman, he’d hinted in his letter, had been in danger, and this had been confirmed by John, his batman.

John had visited him briefly too early in the morning following a night during which Miles had drunk far too much in the early, excessive grief that had followed his brother’s death. Miles wished he’d been paying more attention, but remorse over his abrogation of duty had been his chief emotion, and now John was somewhere up in the north, and Miles hadn’t the slightest idea how to locate him.

As he passed an Egyptian mummy of a queen famed for her beauty, his thoughts returned again to Miss Mordaunt.

There were many rumors surrounding the manner in which she’d been acquired by Deveril. Whatever the truth, Miles wished he could have been her knight. Her unhappiness had struck him forcibly when he’d seen her at Madame Plumb’s. If Miles had only known she wasn’t married to the carrot-top boy he’d thought was her husband, he could have stepped in ahead of Deveril.

Miles was certain it was the hunter in Deveril that had sensed her vulnerability, and thus his opportunity. He’d wanted to possess. Miles was quite certain his motives for wanting Miss Mordaunt were more honorable. He wanted to protect.

He found the pair among the Egyptian artifacts, by the Rosetta Stone, discussing the arrival in London of the Younger Memnon, which meant nothing to him, though he gathered it was a large bust transported from Egypt which was causing them much excitement.

Deveril had moved on, but Miss Mordaunt seemed enraptured by the gray stone with its indecipherable hieroglyphics.

“Can’t imagine that would make a lot of sense, Miss Mordaunt,” he remarked casually, for something to say, pretending to study a small Egyptian sculpture to her right.

He saw her slight start of surprise, the quick dart of her eyes toward Deveril whose attention was thoroughly absorbed by a ceramic urn, and then the first smile of genuine pleasure he’d ever observed as she said, “You’d be surprised, Lord Ruthcot.”

Her excitement was real and palpable.

“I think you must be full of surprises,” he murmured, dismayed when her smile froze.

“If you are flirting with me, Lord Ruthcot, I will have to turn my back on you.”

“Because you don’t like it or because Deveril won’t countenance it? Are you afraid of him?”

“This is not talk in which a lady should engage.”

He allowed his mouth to turn up at her description of herself, and only realized he must appear to be mocking her, for she put her gloved hand to her mouth as a look of utter devastation crossed her face. “You are right. I’m no lady and shouldn’t expect to be referred to in such terms again.” She squared her shoulders as she stroked the soft trimming of her cape. “A pleasant coincidence to meet you here like this, Lord Ruthcot, but pray excuse me; Deveril is waiting.”

So she intended dismissing him like an errant schoolboy because she didn’t like the turn of the conversation? He, by contrast, couldn’t be more intrigued. She’d called herself a lady as if once she had been. Miles had assumed she was low-born and clever at aping her betters. It’s what the gossips would have one believe.

But then, perhaps it was all part of the act. The pretended slip designed to place her further up the social scale than she had been before she was, of course, relegated to the demimondaine who couldn’t be received in the public sphere. Miles noted that she seemed unconscious of the scathing looks sent in her direction by some of the ladies who crowded the museum. By contrast, the interested looks many gentlemen sent her way made clear how she stood out among the crowd. Her green and red-striped carriage dress, trimmed with white fox, was tasteful and, of course, the height of fashion yet designed to call attention to her. Some critical ladies who themselves would have been unable to carry off the heavily-plumed bonnet might have called it vulgar. Miles had memories of his own mother who would certainly have deemed it so. And yet, upon Miss Mordaunt’s own sweet head, it appeared flirtatious and fetching.

Her build was slight, but her bosom delightfully proportioned. Miles recalled the way the sheer folds of her evening gown had clung to her thighs the other evening, and was disappointed she wasn’t similarly revealed today. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, and tried to put aside his desire that brought back memories of when he’d been a besotted schoolboy ogling the latest stage offering at Covent Garden.

“I have similar in the collection my father and brother acquired over the past forty years. Perhaps I have told you about it.”

It was a more successful gambit than he’d expected for she swung around, her face animated. She took a step back, and this time she didn’t even glance at Lord Deveril.

“I remember you mentioned something about it. But…with inscriptions like this? Do you know that this Rosetta Stone shows the same script in three languages? I do not know if that will be sufficient to complete the translation of a certain text in…Lord Deveril’s collection…that intrigues me but another stone with, perhaps, additional scripts could be enough to make sense of the hieroglyphics seen on some of his lordship’s ancient artifacts. Oh, if only I could stay here all day and copy them.” This last was uttered in a tone of longing, almost to herself.