Four Dukes And A Devil Part 30

She glanced away, grateful her cheeks were already flushed pink from the hot August sun. "My thoughts are nothing special. I was only wondering how much longer before nuncheon is served."

"Liar," he said, a low laugh rumbling from his chest. "Save me a seat at the table, hmm? Until then, pray enjoy your watercolor painting. That's quite a nice start you've made."

Pleasure slid through her. "Thank you, Your Grace."

With another light chuckle, he made her a bow, then sauntered away.

She watched until he disappeared, certain that painting would be the farthest thing from her mind.

"Allow me to turn the pages for you, Miss Byron," Peter Harte declared as India took a seat in front of the pianoforte after dinner that evening.

She held back a sigh as she arranged the skirts of her ivory silk gown. "How kind of you to offer, but this tune is a familiar one. I shall do quite well on my own."

"Nonetheless, I wouldn't feel right leaving you to manage by yourself. I am certain you will find my services of great use."

I am sure I shall not, she thought. she thought.

But he had already taken up a position behind her left shoulder, and short of leaping up and pus.h.i.+ng him away, she saw little recourse but to accept his offer with silent grace.

After opening the musical score on the stand, she took a moment to glance across the guest-filled drawing room. Her gaze went unerringly to Quentin, finding him seated on the other side of the room next to Mallory and Major Hargreaves. Her cousin's dark head was bent close to the major's guinea gold one, the two of them deep in conversation.

Quentin, however, was looking straight at her. Deciding to take advantage of the opportunity, she shot him a clear "rescue me" look.

To her consternation, he merely shrugged and smiled.

Responding before she thought, she stuck her tongue out at him-praying afterward that no one else had seen.

His grin stretched wide, chest moving in a silent laugh, as he relaxed back in his chair. From all appearances he looked ready to enjoy the coming entertainment, having apparently decided to abandon her for the time being.

Forcing her gaze away, she stared for a moment at her skirt.

"He'll never come up to scratch, you know."

"What?" Her gaze shot to Peter's.

"Weybridge," he said in a low voice. "He isn't the marrying kind, despite what he may have convinced you to believe. You would be far better off accepting my marriage proposal."

"We've had this discussion before, Mr. Harte. Many times before. Now, everyone is waiting for me to begin."

And they were, gazes turning her way in antic.i.p.ation of her performance. Suddenly, she was grateful she'd chosen a song she had often played before; otherwise, she would surely have made a fool of herself.

As it was, she bobbled the first flourish of notes before she settled into the rhythm.

"Aren't you glad now that I'm here to help?" Peter murmured, clearly unaware of his implied insult to her playing.

She didn't answer, concentrating on getting through the piece-and then getting rid of Peter. She shot another glance at Quentin. Their gazes met again, his dark eyes warm with obvious enjoyment.

Is Peter right that Quentin isn't the marrying kind?

Very likely, she decided, given everything she knew about him. But what did it matter since he wasn't actually courting her. They were only pa.s.sing a brief span of time together, then they would part, possibly forever.

Staring hard at the music, she realized she was nearly at the end of the last stanza on that sheet. "The page, Mr. Harte," she chastened in an uncharacteristically impatient tone. "Are you following the notes?"

"Oh, yes, of course." But it was obvious he had not been, fumbling with the paper as he leaned over to turn the score a few beats too late.

Luckily, her playing was almost automatic by then, giving her confidence that she would be able to finish the song and not disgrace herself too badly in the attempt.

Finally, she played the final chord, smiling with relief that the performance was through.

Her fellow house guests broke into appreciative applauses.

"Bravo!" Peter called in a loud voice, beating his hands together with an excess of enthusiasm. "Excellent! Outstanding!"

She climbed to her feet. "Thank you," she said in a quiet voice. "But my playing was nothing more than adequate. Pray do not give it more credit than it deserves."

"But I'm not. It was wonderful! Perfection itself. As are you, lovely, una.s.suming Miss Byron."

She stared at him, suddenly alarmed by the notion that he and others might think she was being deliberately self-effacing in order to elicit his praise. She cringed at the very idea.

"Your beauty, your talent, your grace knows no rival," he continued, his voice carrying across the room. "You are like a G.o.ddess brought down to earth."

"Mr. Harte, enough. Please," she whispered, wanting to flee from him but knowing it would only draw more attention their way.

He waved his arms in a fulsome arc. "But why should I cease when I speak only the truth? You are too modest, that is all. Too modest to know the full extent of your own brilliance. Do you know, I think I feel a verse coming upon me."

No, anything but that!

She was about to hurry away, when Quentin appeared at her side.

"Miss Byron," he said in a low tone, as he reached out to take her arm. "I believe you promised to join me for a cup of tea and a sweetmeat. I have a spot on the settee all picked out."

Peter puffed out his chest. "I say. The lady and I were having a conversation, you know."

"Yes, you were were having a conversation, but it is now at an end. In case you weren't aware, Miss Ossley is waiting to entertain us all, and you are keeping her from doing so." having a conversation, but it is now at an end. In case you weren't aware, Miss Ossley is waiting to entertain us all, and you are keeping her from doing so."

"Oh, I...well, no, I didn't realize," Peter sputtered.

"Miss Ossley." Quentin motioned to the girl.

She walked forward, together with her sister, the pair of them moving into place at the pianoforte. One sat while the other whispered something in her ear. The pair of them giggled.

"Mr. Harte," one of the girls called. "Would you turn the pages for us like you did Miss Byron? We would be ever so grateful." They whispered something to each other again, then released another round of giggles.

Peter frowned, his irritation clear. But manners dictated he could do nothing but accept. Mumbling something inaudible under his breath, he went to do as he was bade.

"And so, you escape once again," Quentin murmured in India's ear, as he drew her away.

"Yes, though you certainly took your time about it," she said, releasing a pent-up sigh of relief. "Actually, I oughtn't even speak to you after your desertion."

He flashed her an inquiring look. "And what would you have had me do? Battle him for the right to stand next to you while you performed? I don't believe either of us would have benefited from that kind of scene. I do apologize, though, for not reaching you a minute sooner. Had I been quicker, I could have spared you and the rest of us his public soliloquy. Forgive me. Please."

The starch came out of her shoulders. "You are forgiven. But don't leave me again. I expect you to stick close by my side for the remainder of the party."

He bent nearer, his warm breath whispering against her ear. "I can think of nowhere else I would rather be than close to you."

Her heart knocked hard beneath her breast.

"Here we are," he declared, arriving in front of a small couch upholstered in burgundy damask. "I thought this settee would give us a chance to talk without being overheard."

She stared at the settee, noticing that the narrow piece of furniture was made to seat two-only two and rather snugly at that. Her mouth grew dry, breath suddenly thin inside her lungs.

Unable to form the necessary words, she nodded and let him seat her, then himself. His large frame filled the s.p.a.ce, one powerful thigh lolling a hairbreadth from her own.

Glancing around, she looked to see if anyone else was watching them, but no one was. Despite being in a drawing room with more than two dozen people, the corner felt amazingly private. Amazingly intimate. Vaguely, she became aware of one of the Ossley sisters launching into a painfully slow rendition of a Mozart adagio.

"I asked one of the footmen to bring us tea and something sweet. You like marchpane, do you not?"

"Y-yes."

And truthfully, she did like marchpane, though at present she suspected she might have been willing to agree to nearly anything he asked.

Glancing up, she lost herself for a moment in the rich brown depths of his eyes. He is magnificent, He is magnificent, she thought, wis.h.i.+ng as she had once before that she could reach up and thread her fingers through his luxurious black hair and the silvery wings that feathered out from his temples. she thought, wis.h.i.+ng as she had once before that she could reach up and thread her fingers through his luxurious black hair and the silvery wings that feathered out from his temples.

"You do play well," he said.

"What?" Her brows drew together, needing a moment to adjust to the sudden change in conversation.

"I greatly enjoyed your performance on the pianoforte. Although, as you said yourself, it was not without fault."

"A gentleman would not point out such things."

"A gentleman like Harte, you mean? We haven't been acquainted long, but I know you well enough to tell that you don't care for false flattery."

She toyed with a piece of ribbon on her dress. "You are right, I do not."

"Then you will believe me, when I say you play well, and that I would never turn down an opportunity to hear you perform."

She met his gaze again and smiled. "And I would never refuse to do so, were you my audience, Your Grace."

"Quentin," he said in a throaty tone. "In private you must always call me Quentin."

I do already, she thought, she thought, in my mind and my heart. in my mind and my heart.

A footman approached just then, making her realize she'd forgotten there were other people in the room.

"Oh, here is our tea," she said with forced cheer. "And the comfits, as you promised. They look delicious."

Quentin leaned nearer. "But not as delicious as you."

She s.h.i.+vered, her arm pressing against his side.

"Nevertheless," he said, pulling slightly away again. "I shall have to content myself with these. Let us indulge, India. I fear we shall need the sustenance with yet another Miss Ossley waiting to entertain us."

She blinked, then laughed. Taking a piece of marchpane from the plate, she bit in and let the sugary almond confection melt against her tongue.

Chapter Five

I was about to give up on you," Quentin called three mornings later-the hour so early, a faint dawn mist swirled like smoke over the damp gra.s.s. was about to give up on you," Quentin called three mornings later-the hour so early, a faint dawn mist swirled like smoke over the damp gra.s.s.

Turning from where he'd been waiting near a small copse of trees, he watched her hurry down the stone steps at the front of the house. As she moved, the skirts of her simple blue day dress billowed around her in a most becoming way, revealing brief, tempting glimpses of her calves and the st.u.r.dy brown, kidskin half boots covering her feet.

At least she's dressed appropriately for an outing, he thought, s.h.i.+fting the pair of fis.h.i.+ng rods and the tackle basket in his hand. he thought, s.h.i.+fting the pair of fis.h.i.+ng rods and the tackle basket in his hand.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, drawing to a halt at his side. "I'm not used to waking up while it's still night outside." She raised a hand to cover the yawn that caught her, moisture br.i.m.m.i.n.g in her eyes.

"The fish bite best when it's early. If you'd rather go back to bed, there's still time to hurry inside again without anyone being the wiser."

She shook her head. "Oh no, not after overhearing Peter tell Lady Pettigrew last night that he plans to remain at home with the ladies today. If he's staying with the women, then I'm going with the men! Besides, after I told Mallory that I was sneaking out with you, she decided to come along as well."

"She's already gone down to the stream. I saw her with Hargreaves and a couple of the others not ten minutes past. We're the last of the group, I believe."

"Then let us go too before it gets light enough for Peter to look out his window and see us."

Quentin nodded, knowing he wouldn't be surprised if Harte did exactly that.

Despite his original agreement to help free India from Harte's unwanted attentions, he hadn't initially realized just how persistent, nor how annoying "Peter the Pest" could be.

But over the course of the past few days, Quentin had received a firsthand education on the subject. Rather than cause Harte to withdraw in defeat, Quentin's attentions toward India only seemed to inflame him, goading Harte to compete against him with the determination of a knight questing after a grail. Not only was Harte interested in wresting India from his supposed grasp, he wanted to beat Quentin at any activity in which the two of them were engaged.

Quentin had in no way actively sought the rivalry, but neither had he backed down from it. To date, the two of them had faced off over everything from whist to cricket, charades and crambo to horseback riding and golf. Then, of course, there was the infamous hunting expedition. Even now, Harte received an occasional jibe from one of the other men over his memorable, murky swim in the bog.

At first, Quentin had been amused by the young man's efforts to compete against him, especially considering that Harte never managed to win any of their encounters. He'd tried to be tolerant as well, attributing Harte's obsessiveness to youthful excess and a lack of experience. But lately he simply found him tedious and a bit pathetic.

No wonder poor India was at her wits' end. Harte wouldn't take no for an answer, not even when the truth was plain for all to see. Everyone in attendance knew that India Byron wasn't romantically interested in Peter Harte. The man needed to accept reality and move on.

Yet despite all the bother, Quentin couldn't complain about the time he was spending with India. Each day with her was a new adventure. Every hour an exciting delight. Witty, intelligent, and filled with a zest for life, she made him feel young and alive in ways he'd forgotten he could be. She made him realize there were myriad pleasures to be had, if one only took the time to look.