‘Young Perrott is beside himself. If his lordship had listened to his advice, his lordship would not be receiving ladies in his father’s clothing. He flatters himself that the shine on the boots—which pinch like the devil, incidentally—does him justice, but he begs his lordship to visit the best tailor Truro can offer at the earliest opportunity.’ The imitation of Perrott’s reproachful voice was wickedly accurate, made funnier by Ross’s completely straight face. Meg struggled for some composure.
‘I am fetching a tea tray.’
‘What are they like?’ Ross eyed the door to the Chinese Salon as though expecting it to conceal French artillery, not three attractive women.
‘Very pretty,’ Meg said primly and left him to make his entrance.
By the time Meg returned with a footman and the tea things Ross was feeling decidedly harassed. Lady Pennare, an elegant matron in her early forties, quite obviously expected him to admire her daughters who were, he had to admit, a credit to their mama. They were pretty, beautifully turned out and well mannered. Unfortunately he could detect not the slightest hint of personality in either of them.
Miss Pennare, just eighteen, and Miss Elizabeth, seventeen, had not had a London Season this year, their mother confided, owing to the uncertain health of their paternal grandmother. ‘But they will enjoy their London débuts next year, if they have not already contracted eligible alliances,’ she added.
So you expect the old lady to depart well before then, Ross thought cynically. Lady Pennare surveyed the room with approval, leaving Ross with the decided impression that she had valued every item in it, including himself. Her daughters made determined conversation.
‘Will you be holding a party soon, Lord Brandon?’ Miss Pennare asked.
‘I had not thought to,’ he said as Meg began to pass cups of tea, a simple figure in plain blue amidst the feminine furbelows. It seemed to him that of the four women in the room, she was the only one whose true nature shone through.
‘Oh.’ Miss Elizabeth pouted. ‘But we had heard that there is a huge reception room here. It seems such a pity to waste it. It might even be big enough for a ball,’ she added, widening her blue eyes at him.
She will flutter her lashes in a moment, Ross thought. There, I knew it. Little peahen. ‘I do not dance, Miss Elizabeth.’ It was a lie, he danced perfectly competently, as most officers could. From informal dances to full-scale balls, Wellington had encouraged the social life of the English forces in the Peninsula.
‘Your wound. Of course,’ she said soulfully, gazing at him with admiration in her remarkable eyes.
Ross blinked, suddenly aware of a danger he had not even considered. Far from being a tiresome social call, this was a hunting expedition. He was a titled bachelor and therefore fair game for every matchmaking mama and single young lady in the district.
‘I never dance,’ he repeated, injecting as much chill as he could into the statement. Her smile turned into a pout at the tone and whatever she saw in his face and she put down her tea cup with a little clatter. He was not the handsome and charming young man she had hoped to find, of course. She hadn’t the nerve that Meg did, he reflected. Meg had never flinched, however frightened she was of him. Except for that terrified reaction when she had woken to find herself in bed with him looming over her, he reminded himself, crossing his legs.
‘Then we ladies must try that much ha
rder to introduce you into our social circle, Lord Brandon.’ Lady Pennare was made of sterner stuff than her younger daughter. ‘An eligible gentleman must expect invitations to every event, you know,’ she added in rallying tones.
Half an hour later, after one cup of tea and one tiny lemon-drop biscuit each, they fluttered out.
‘Hell and damnation,’ Ross exploded as the carriage rolled away down the drive. ‘That’s the first of the flood, I suppose. I am obviously naïve, but I was not braced for matchmaking mamas.’ He was the baron now, he should marry, father an heir. He had not even thought about that before. Now it was staring him in the face, his fundamental duty to his name.
‘What did you expect, my lord?’ Meg had come back to supervise the clearing of the tea things and now stood, hands neatly clasped at her waist, her lips twitching with what he strongly suspected was an almost irresistible desire to laugh at him. ‘You are an eligible bachelor, therefore you must be in want of a wife.’
Ross reached out a hand and palmed the door closed with a thud that sent the smaller pieces of jade shaking on their stands. Her smile vanished. ‘What I am in want of,’ he said harshly, ‘is you in my bed. As you can no doubt see,’ he added with deliberate crudeness, almost as he might have picked up one of the jade bowls and thrown it into the hearth to assuage his temper.
He was aching with arousal and it had not been the pretty feminine tricks of the three Pennare ladies that had caused that. It had been Meg’s closeness in the study and then the startling contrast between her reality and the other women’s artificiality. And those young women and their like were the ones it would be suitable for him to court and to marry.
Meg gave a little gasp. ‘You gave me your word…’ she began.
‘I promised not to touch you. I said nothing about attempting to persuade you.’ Ross stalked over to the window to put the width of the room between them and caught his still-bandaged leg on the sharp corner of one of the little tables that had been brought in for the tea things.
He couldn’t bite back the grunt of pain as he grabbed one of the long window curtains to steady himself. The wound had been healing well and he had been able to walk and ride with less and less pain each day, but it was not ready to stand a sharp corner of solid mahogany being driven into its centre. Ross swore viciously under his breath, taken aback by the wave of nausea that hit his stomach. Then there was a flurry of skirts and Meg was on her knees in front of him, her hands gentle on his leg.
‘Oh, no! Has it opened it up?’ Her head in that ridiculous cap was so close that its frills brushed his groin, with predictable results. One small warm hand was resting on the inside of his thigh while the other touched the bandage through the thin barrier of his knitted pantaloons. ‘There’s no blood,’ she said, her voice anxious.
‘Meg,’ he managed through the effects of a vivid fantasy of her kneeling in front of him like this, her hands on him—and both of them naked. ‘If you do not want me to touch you, I suggest you take your hands off my leg. Now.’
She sat back on her heels and looked up at him, then the flood of colour rushed up to her hairline as she found herself so close to an erection that the clinging jersey did nothing to veil. ‘Oh!’ She scrambled to her feet and retreated behind one of the sofas. ‘If you need a woman that badly, I suggest you take yourself off to Truro—I am sure there are any number of establishments that cater for a gentleman’s every need.’
‘But I do not want a whore, Meg. I want you,’ he said softly. ‘I want you to be my mistress.’
‘No.’ Her fingers were white as they gripped the back of the sofa. Was she stopping herself running from him, or to him? ‘No, you cannot have me.’
‘Then I will just have to burn,’ he said, his voice harsh as he realised that was the choice. It was Meg or nothing. ‘And the fire is very hot, Meg. So very hot.’