Ruthless Charmer (4 page)

Her clumsy request for help startled Herbert. "Pardon?"

She could hear each clop clop clop of his boots on the oak planks as he neared them. "Don't let him sit here!" she whispered madly.

A light dawned on Herbert's face. "Ah!" he exclaimed, and nodding eagerly, straightened in his chair as Kettering came to a halt next to their table. Herbert fairly exploded into French, gesturing wildly at Claudia, then his foot. Kettering folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight to one hip as he listened patiently to the footman, nodding occasionally. His casual stance belied his appearance; his neckcloth was stained, his coat rumpled, and the heavy stubble of his beard suggested that he hadn't shaved in more than a day. Actually, he looked as if he had been involved in some altercation. As Claudia was pondering that, his gaze slid to her and one brow arched quizzically. From the sound of it, Herbert was now explaining the unfortunate accident—mimicking his version of events, naturally—and then he made the unmistakable gesture for Kettering to sit.

"No!" she cried, and grabbed the back of the empty chair as she jerked her gaze to the blackguard. His black eyes were gleaming with delight. "Merci bien, monsieur, je vous suis tres reconnaissant," he said to the footman, and then to her, "You don't understand a word, do you?"

Her shoulders sagged. "Not many," she confessed irritably.

He laughed then, crinkling the corners of his eyes and revealing straight, white teeth. "I always suspected you were lax in your studies," he remarked as he pulled the chair away from her and sat. Before she could respond that she was not lax in her studies, but preferred to study something more exciting than dead languages and needlework, he had turned to Herbert and spoke what sounded like flawless French.

The poor footman, having spent the better part of the afternoon unable to communicate, responded excitedly, gesticulating toward the table and the ale and at her—undoubtedly revealing everything about her flight from la Claire. Judging by the way Kettering cast looks of amusement at her, Herbert was embellishing the whole, rather innocent story. After all, she had left Eugenie a perfectly suitable letter explaining her need to return to England, etc., etc., etc. What harm was there? Eugenie might have been gone for weeks visiting Louis's ailing aunt! Oh, but she had to leave—she had to be gone from Chateau la Claire before he returned. Before his presence dredged up all the regret and sorrow she'd felt over Phillip's death. She had explained all that to the ridiculous footman.

Herbert abruptly collapsed against the back of his chair, exhausted. He had, apparently, finished his explanation of what they were doing in Dieppe and why his foot was wounded.

Kettering shot her a sidelong glance. "Are you in the habit of running over all footmen, or do you reserve that for the French ones alone?" he asked casually.

Claudia frowned at Herbert. "Well, I certainly didn't ask him to drive me, and I hardly meant to run over his foot, but. .." Wait. What was she doing? She did not owe this rogue any explanation! He was looking quite amused, and she was suddenly reminded of the many times she and Eugenie and Valerie had been called to his study to account for some misdeed. Would you care to try and explain your behavior? Or shall we move directly to your punishment?

She looked him square in the eye. "How is it that you are now in Dieppe? Did the tide wash you up?"

He laughed roundly at that, and though she was loath to acknowledge it, the rich sound of his laughter actually made her skin tingle. "Something like that," he said, grinning.

"Well. It was awfully kind of you to stop by and inquire after us, but I—"

The brow arched again. "Actually, I thought to join you."

Oh, fine! Claudia frowned. "I don't mean to be discourteous, my lord, but I prefer not to have company presently."

He ignored her and glanced curiously at her tankard. "Ale, Claudia? Rather pedestrian for you, isn't it?"

"I adore ale!"

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed."

"Yes, indeed. I drink buckets of it every day." Oh good Lord, what a ridiculous thing to have said!

Smiling, Kettering said something to the footman. Whatever it was, the two of them shared a belly laugh over it. "Might I inquire what you find so terribly amusing, sir?" she asked, glowering at him.

He surprised her by suddenly leaning forward. "Why do you address me so formally, Claudia? You have called me by my Christian name since you were a girl, when you most certainly should have addressed me formally." His gaze dropped to her lips. "Don't you suppose we are acquainted well enough to dispense with the formalities?"

No! Well. ..  maybe. Honestly, she hardly knew him well enough anymore to know what to call him. He wasn't the same man she had known in her childhood, something she realized the day he had called on her to explain in that condescending way of his that she wasn't good enough for Lord Rothembow and should therefore set her sights on other men. This from the man who led Phillip to his demise with the constant gambling and drinking and Lord knew what else. Granted, sitting beside her now he looked the very same as the Julian Dane she had known all those years ago. The same Julian Dane who still made her insides turn to jelly. But he couldn't possibly be the same man, because that Julian Dane had disappeared when Valerie died, only to be replaced by this imposter. This incredibly handsome, exceedingly virile imposter.

Kettering chuckled softly to himself when she did not respond and turned his attention to Herbert, posing a question that Claudia did not quite catch. Herbert responded with much enthusiasm, and after several moments of unintelligible chatter between the two of them—really, she would be quite able to understand if everyone just slowed down a bit—Kettering signaled for the innkeeper. Smiling in that particularly charming way of his, he explained something to the innkeeper that included a gesture toward Herbert and a coin fished from his pocket.

"Certainement, monsieur," the innkeeper replied with an enthusiastic nod, and taking the coin, pivoted sharply on his heel. "Frangois! Ou est Frangois!" he bellowed, and hurried away, disappearing through a door as Herbert braced his hands against the table and pushed himself to his feet.

Alarmed, Claudia looked frantically from Kettering to Herbert and back again. "Wh-what are you doing, Herbert? Where are you going? You can't walk!"

Herbert grinned and bowed. "Bon voyage, madame."

"Not to worry," Kettering cheerfully offered. "Herbert tells me you are returning to England tonight. As luck would have it, you and I are crossing on the same packet. I naturally offered my escort so that he might get an early start for la Claire. He is most appreciative, I assure you— particularly since he had not intended to come so far today."

She ignored that barb because her mind was trying to absorb the idea that the scoundrel was returning to England . . . tonight! On the same boat as she? How much worse could this be? She felt a bit of panic and opened her mouth to protest, but Kettering quickly interjected, "I am quite certain you will agree that Herbert has a long journey ahead of him. We wouldn't want to see him start in the middle of the night unnecessarily, would we?"

A young man suddenly appeared, and with one look at Herbert, the two men burst into simultaneous chatter. As Herbert put his arm around the man's shoulder, talking excitedly and gesturing to everyone around him, Kettering turned to Claudia. "Say au revoir to Herbert."

"Au revoir, madame!" Herbert sang out, and gestured for the other man to proceed. The two Frenchmen began to work their way across the common room, each talking rapidly over the other.

"But—"

"It seems Francois is a friend of Herbert's cousin," Kettering explained.

"But he can't drive the carriage!" she blustered as Herbert disappeared through the door.

"Ah, but he can. As he apparently tried to tell you all the way to Dieppe, the carriage has a hand brake, and he is quite confident that he can use it, seeing as how it was his foot you mangled, not his hand."

That gave her a moment's pause—come to think of it, Herbert had gestured to the brake quite a lot.

Kettering grinned. "Seems you had yourself a rather exciting escape."

Blast it all, how on earth had she ended up alone with him? "It was not an escape," she insisted, noticing how his eyes danced with amusement. A nightmare—this was a bloody nightmare, she thought madly, because there was no one in Europe who could confound her like the Earl of Kettering!

She frowned; he casually sipped his ale.

As a girl she had worshipped him, had prayed nightly for an older brother just like him—strong and handsome and eager to shower her with gifts and attention, just as he did Eugenie and Valerie and Ann and Sophie. As an adolescent, she had felt the pangs of a deep infatuation turn to horrifying mortification when she impetuously kissed him on the terrace one night. She hadn't really meant to do it, but he had been teaching them how to waltz, and she had been so moved by the magic of it that she had felt compelled to kiss him, bouncing up on her toes and bussing him on the lips. He had all but banished her from Kettering Hall then, but it hadn't stopped her desire. As she grew older, she hung on every rumor and story surrounding the Rogues of Regent Street. Of all of them, the Earl of Kettering was the one with the reputation of being the suave lady-killer, and Lord, what she would have given to be slain by him!

But he never showed her any interest. Worse, he crushed her hopes when she was seventeen. At a ball given in honor of Eugenie's wedding, Julian had smiled at her, told her she looked beautiful, then stood up with her for the first waltz. With effortless grace, he twirled her about the dance floor, all the while smiling down at her and arresting her heart with those black eyes. He spoke of how she had grown, how lovely she appeared in her gown, how very well she danced. If he hadn't been holding her so close, she would have swooned right onto the ballroom floor. And when it ended, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her gloved knuckles. "Will you save me another dance?" he had asked. Too dazzled to speak, she had nodded dumbly, then waited all night for him to approach her again.

He never did.

He never so much as glanced in her direction again. And when Claudia saw him slip out a side door into the gardens with Miss Roberta Dalhart on his arm, she had been crushed.

That's right, he had crushed her foolish heart, and she wasn't about to idle away the hours with him. Claudia suddenly came to her feet. "Au revoir, Lord Kettering, I believe I shall wait alone," she said coolly, and started to turn.

He caught her wrist in something of a vise-like grip. "Claudia. Sit," he said low. "I may not be the perfect companion, but I'd wager I'm quite a bit more desirable than some drunken Frenchman you cannot understand."

The arrogance! She had labeled him a Rake with a capital R seven years ago and could hardly abide the thought of being in the same room with such a terribly arrogant Rogue, especially one so full of esteem for himself.

She sat.

It seemed to her that his fingers lingered on her wrist a moment longer. But then he abruptly let go and smiled. "My, my," he said as he settled back to observe her. "The last time I was successful at making you heed my word, you were twelve years old—and it was a rather shallow victory at that."

"What are you talking about?" she asked warily.

"My horse."

The heat immediately crept into her cheeks. "Oh honestly. My father allowed me to ride any mount I preferred. I naturally assumed you would, too," she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

"Your father allowed you on the back of stallions accustomed to the weight and crop of a man?" he asked incredulously.

Claudia shrugged slightly and looked at her tankard. Not precisely.

"And though I would like to think you never attempted to ride Apollyon again because of my sound advice, I rather think it was the tumble onto your bum that did the trick."

She couldn't keep the thin smile from her lips. "You may be correct, sir," she conceded. "But as I recall, your so-called advice was just as painful."

Kettering laughed. "You were quite an extraordinary lass, Claudia."

Please. She had been a plain little girl with knobby knees and a mouth that was too big for her face.

"And you are an extraordinary woman," he added.

That caused her to choke on her ale. He might as well have called her a traitor, a whore—it was just as shocking. Conscious that he was watching her, she lifted the tankard and took a long, generous swig of the bitter stuff as her mind reeled. He had never thought her extraordinary when she was a child, and he certainly had not thought her extraordinary during her coming-out Season. Even after Valerie's death, on those rare occasions she would encounter him at some ball or rout, he acted as if he hardly knew her. Ah, but all that had changed when Phillip began to court her, hadn't it?

"On my word, some things never change."

Claudia jerked her head up—Kettering was looking at the tear in the sleeve of her gown, an unfortunate mishap when she had tried to force the carriage backward and off Herbert's foot. He leaned forward and probed the tear with his fingers, singeing the bare skin beneath it. "I rather imagine it had something to do with Herbert's accident," he surmised, and lifted his glittering gaze to hers. "Care to tell me why you were running away from Chateau la Claire?"

Or shall we move directly to your punishment?

Claudia moved her arm away from his touch. "You know, you have a very peculiar way of appearing when I least expect you."

"I was just thinking the same of you. You didn't leave without bidding Eugenie a farewell—the two of you haven't fought again, have you?"

She rolled her eyes at that ridiculous conclusion. "Although it is hardly any of your concern, I should inform you that we do not fight—Eugenie and I are no longer girls."

"That," he drawled, "is quite evident, madam. If you don't want to tell me, I shall have it from Eugenie, you know, so you may as well 'fess up."

Squirming uncomfortably, Claudia glanced over her shoulder in search of the innkeeper.