LITMIR.BIZ

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temptation to run upstairs and shut herself away until he’d gone, her head echoing to his words, a statement of intent more than a challenge. After almost a twelvemonth, it was not what she needed to hear from any man hoping to find favour with her. Perhaps he believed that, after such a public disappointment, she would be desperate to regain her former standing in the fickle world of the ton, or that she was waiting for some bold knight to rescue a woman left desolate and pining. Nothing could be further from the truth. She wanted nothing any man had to offer, not even the nonsense about pursuing and owning. And for another thing, he was one of the Prince Regent’s set, and that condemned him in her eyes as irrevocably as all the rest put together.

      All the rest? That tall athletic presence, too? The smooth doeskin breeches covering long muscular thighs, the matching waistcoat, under a creation that must have come from Weston of Old Bond Street, covering a deep chest. No padding or lacing there, she was certain of it. The impeccably arranged neckcloth and white cuffs, a single diamond pin and gold fob-watch on a fine chain were the kind of elegance that Mr Brummell advocated. Nothing to attract attention. That trend-setting gentleman, however, had no say over a man’s physique or natural comeliness, and heaven knew she had seen enough men to know when one was several cuts above the rest. His long unmannerly stare had given her time to do the same and, although her scrutiny was not meant to approve, her reluctant conclusion was that his was the handsomest countenance she had ever seen.

      She had also taken note of the ruthlessness there, too, the square chin and steel-grey eyes, the quick lift of his head when he’d sparred with her, determined not to be bested. His dark hair was a tangle of deep waves that had obviously resisted any attempt to tame it and there was a streak of white from his brow that disappeared into the rest, like foam on the sea. She had seen the manicured nails, the dusting of dark hairs on the backs of his strong hands, an unsettling detail that reminded her of how dangerous such a man could be.

      Still, there was one comforting thought: he would not be getting her bureau for any price, so he might as well go quietly and leave her alone. As for Cecily’s contribution, that was one of those annoying but forgivable mistakes, a result of her natural friendliness and her longing to re-establish Annemarie’s connection with the beau monde that had been allowed to lapse.

      This time, Cecily’s enthusiasm was somewhat misplaced when she added her voice to Lord Benistone’s invitation. ‘Yes, indeed, my lord, of course you must dine with us. Miss Marguerite and I will be leaving for Lady Sindlesham’s ball later on, but Lord Benistone loves nothing more than to hear who has acquired what. Annemarie, my dear, will you allow me to go and speak to cook?’ A response seemed to be superfluous when Cecily was already halfway to the door, leaving Verne wondering exactly who was mistress here, Mrs Cardew or Lady Golding.

      Cecily’s unique position within the family caused such anomalies to happen occasionally. She meant well, but what annoyed Annemarie more was the almost indecently brisk acceptance by which the tenacious Lord Verne took advantage of her father’s craving for men like himself to converse with. In no time at all, the two of them were away into Lord Benistone’s inner sanctum, talking nineteen to the dozen as if they had known each other for years instead of minutes, all protests about not being properly dressed for dinner dismissed with a wave of the master’s hand. ‘No matter, dear boy. Neither shall I be. No time for that. Never have. Nobody minds here. Come and tell me if his Highness has a bronze like this.’ And away they went without a backward glance, leaving Annemarie fuming at her own impotence.

      Somebody did mind. She did. She preferred it if people dressed for dinner. What else would they dress for if not for the evening? She could hardly blame her father for latching on to a man so closely involved with the Prince Regent’s treasures, but she knew that this man had come here for something he was sure he could get, one way or another. And Lord Benistone was such a generous and obliging man, far too willing to say yes because it took less effort than to say no. With the latter, explanations were usually needed.

      * * *

      After their acrimonious introduction, it would have been quite unrealistic for Lord Verne to expect anything from Lady Golding except a polite frostiness, which is exactly what she delivered, even though etiquette demanded that they sat next to each other. Obviously, she was not inclined to exert herself for his sake, but no one seemed to notice when the youngest sister was intent on making enough effort for both of them with her girlish chatter.

      Dressed in her white ballgown, the young lady looked astonishingly pretty with dark brown curls framing features that, in another year or two, would become more classically beautiful, though never as stunning as her sister. She did not possess anything like Lady Golding’s intelligence or depth either, her eagerness to please reminding Verne of a puppy that went into raptures at the sight of an audience. Especially a male audience. The eldest sister, Miss Oriel Benistone, was dining out that evening so he was not able to compare the siblings further, but the father and his cousin kept up a stream of conversation between them that made Lady Golding’s studied silence seem piquant to Verne. Even enjoyable. It was some time since he’d met such tangible hostility and never from a lovely woman. The situation was intriguing, all the more so when his brief was to get results at all costs.

      Inevitably, the conversation turned to the elusive bureau wanted by the Prince Regent for Carlton House, the ongoing renovations of which were so much over budget that he was having to petition Parliament for extra funds for their completion. Miss Marguerite Benistone aired the question her father was too polite to ask. ‘Doesn’t the Prince have enough funds of his own, Lord Verne?’

      Verne smiled indulgently at her. ‘His Highness never has enough funds. The Pavilion at Brighton is another half-finished project costing huge sums in improvement and decoration.’

      ‘Not to mention,’ said Annemarie, unexpectedly, ‘the cost of entertaining the crowned heads of Europe this summer after a war that has drained the country of every spare penny. No wonder Lady Hamilton is having to sell her effects to make ends meet. We shall all be doing the same if his Highness insists on covering the rooftops of his Pavilion with fancy Indian domes.’

      ‘You don’t approve of the Prince, I take it?’ said Verne, goading her.

      Before she could answer, Mrs Cardew stepped smartly into the breach. ‘Ah, but think of all those celebrations in the parks since Bonaparte was taken into custody, all the dances and routs, all the returning militia to entertain. Did you serve in the King’s army, my lord?’

      ‘Until a few months ago, ma’am. I was in the Peninsula Wars with the Prince of Wales’s Own Regiment.’ He knew that would only confirm Lady Golding’s assumption that, as one of the Prince Regent’s cronies, he was sure to be as unprincipled as the rest of them. The 10th Hussars were best known for glamour, wealth, women, drinking and riotous behaviour, amongst other things. The knowledge would do nothing to endear him to her, he was sure. Idly, he wondered where Mrs Cardew stood in the scheme of things. Did she live here with Lord Benistone as dedicated chaperon, or was she simply an obliging cousin? Would it be worth cultivating her help to get what he wanted? He touched his forehead just below the white streak. ‘I have found that making a study of antiquity is safer than pursuing angry Frenchmen.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Marguerite, ‘but you must know how all English ladies simply hero-worship Napoleon Bonaparte, Lord Verne. Such a stern, scowling face must send goose-pimples...what? Oh!’ A look from her father, and Mrs Cardew’s gentle hand on her arm, stopped the gushing tribute in mid-flow as she directed her limpid brown eyes towards Annemarie’s stony expression. ‘Oh...yes, of course. Sorry, Annemarie.’

      With the slightest shake of her head, Annemarie dismissed the gaffe without explaining its significance to Lord Verne. But Verne had already made the connection, during his two hours with Lord Benistone, that Annemarie was the widow of Sir Richard Golding, one of Wellington’s best officers, killed by French sniper fire early in 1812. Married less than a year and known to everyone as a brilliant man, his death had been a great loss. Her grief must have been terrible, but obviously not enough to penetrate the consciousness of her younger sister.

      Grasping at any subject of mutual interest, Lord Benistone reverted to buying and selling. ‘So this bureau you’re after, Verne. How much

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