The Lady Most Likely... Read online

  But instead she smiled.

  He understood in an instant, in a bloody quarter second, why Octavia hated her so much. Because when Gwendolyn Passmore smiled, the world quite simply stopped spinning.

  And so he reacted just as any male of the species would do upon coming face-to-face with a female he found attractive: He pulled her hair.

  Except he couldn’t pull her hair. He was nearly thirty years old; one really couldn’t get away with such behavior past ten. But he did the adult equivalent of a hair-yanking, which was to stand there and glower at her forbiddingly. Because if he looked like he was unaffected by her smile, then she would not realize that, in actuality, he was in an utter panic because somewhere deep down inside he’d realized that his life had just changed forever.

  Not that he was thinking quite so clearly. For the most part, he just thought he had indigestion.

  Gwendolyn had known who Lord Charters was, of course. There wasn’t a debutante in London who was not aware of his existence. He was not the biggest matrimonial catch of 1817 (that would be the Duke of Bretton), but according to the young ladies with whom Gwen sometimes visited, he was number two.

  There were not many titled unmarried gentlemen under the age of thirty with no debts and all of their teeth. Add in thick, dark hair, an athletic physique, and a devilish smile—well, it was no wonder that only a duke could edge him out for the top spot.

  But Lord Charters did not often bother with soirées and musicales, and if he’d been to Almack’s, she had never seen him. His sister was more often accompanied by a maiden aunt. His sister, who Gwendolyn was certain had never spoken highly of her.

  Clearly he was up to something, barging over like he did and yanking her away, but then, to her utter surprise, he’d said something about rescuing her, and she wondered—was it possible that someone had finally noticed that she didn’t like attention? That what she really wanted was to sit quietly at the wall, watching everyone else?

  No. No, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t possible. Because then he’d gone and made that awful comment about her planning to marry the Duke of Bretton. What was he thinking? You didn’t say such a thing to someone’s face, you said it behind her back.

  At any rate, he’d turned perfectly horrid. She’d tried to be polite, giving him her sweetest smile as she attempted to escape, and he’d returned the gesture with an angry glare.

  She did not understand men. She did not understand most women, either, but she truly did not understand men.

  She was still trying to figure out how to extricate herself when she was finally saved by the arrival of Lord Briarly, who had stomped over to their side.

  “The supper bell’s rung,” he said.

  “It has?” Gwen hadn’t heard it. But really—thank heavens.

  “My sister tells me I’m to take you in,” Lord Briarly said to her.

  Lord Charters shook his head. “You are a paragon of charm and grace, Briarly.”

  Lord Briarly gave him a blank look.

  “I would be delighted to accompany you,” Gwen said enthusiastically. Too enthusiastically, it seemed. Lord Briarly looked stunned.

  She smiled again, beaming at him.

  Lord Charters gave her a very queer look.

  Gwen continued smiling, starting to feel as if she were trapped in a theatrical tableau, and no one had given her her lines.

  Or informed her of the plot.

  It was at that moment that Lady Finchley came sailing over, Kate Peyton’s hand tucked firmly in her own. She took one look at Gwen gazing worshipfully at her brother and practically floated off the ground.

  “Alec, darling,” she said with steely determination, “you’re to escort Miss Peyton in. Here you are.” She then physically lifted Kate’s hand from her own and placed it on Lord Charters’s arm.

  “Gwendolyn,” Kate said. “So nice to see you.”

  “And you,” Gwen murmured, utterly relieved to see her. She and Kate Peyton were not close, but Gwen knew her well enough to know that she did not dissemble; nor did she have patience for double entendre.

  The party began their procession into the dining room, promenading four across, and Gwen found herself next to Kate.

  “Are you hungry?” Kate asked, leaning in just a touch.

  “Famished.”

  “Oh, me too,” Kate practically sighed. “I thought they would never call us in. I shall count the evening a success only if I am able to claim an entire hen.”

  Gwen laughed, then pressed her lips together when she realized that Lady Finchley and both earls had turned her way.

  “I think you should aspire to greater ambitions,” Gwen murmured to Kate. “Perhaps a pig.”

  “In its entirety? I don’t want to seem greedy.”

  “We could share.”

  “Only if you take the snout,” Kate demurred.

  “Oh, no, you must, I insist.”

  Again they laughed, and again the rest of the crowd stared. But, for once, Gwen didn’t care. It was far too lovely to share a joke with a friend.

  All in all, by the time Gwen crawled into bed, she realized that the evening had been quite pleasant, after all. The soup had been good, the meat even better, and once she exited the drawing room, she hadn’t had to talk to Lord Charters even once.

  Chapter 4

  Gwendolyn woke early the next morning. She dressed, left a quick note to her mother to inform her that she was going for a walk, gathered her sketchbook and pencils, and slipped out of the room.

  The house was quiet; clearly, most of Lady Finchley’s guests did not share her love of dawn and the morning dew. She peeked into the breakfast room, which was empty save for a footman, who looked extraordinarily surprised to see her. After assuring him that she did not require a full meal at half six, she managed to obtain a small loaf of bread, which she thought she might split between herself and the ducks on the lake she’d spied on the drive in.

  It was a lovely morning, crisp and cool, with the sort of mist that one knew would disappear within the hour. Gwendolyn adored such mornings. It was as if she had the world to herself. Just her and the great outdoors. Gwendolyn Margaret Passmore and a million blades of grass.

  Something ran past her feet.

  Gwendolyn Margaret Passmore, a million blades of grass, and a small rabbit.

  She smiled.

  Humming softly as she walked, she followed the path Lady Finchley had described to her. The bread had not been warm when it was handed to her, but it smelled fresh and new, and she broke off a piece and ate it.

  Lovely. The ducks might have to go without.

  After about a quarter of an hour, she reached the edge of the lake. It was more of a pond, really, with quite a few trees at the edges and a marshy area across the way. It couldn’t be even half as big as the lake at home. She popped another piece of bread in her mouth and looked around for a dry spot to sit. The ground didn’t look too wet, but it was kind of squishy. She let out a breath. She’d better find a rock.

  She hummed some more, switching from the Mozart she’d been practicing on the pianoforte to a more jaunty tune, origin unknown but probably inappropriate. The early-morning sun was bouncing off the surface of the water, and she tilted her head to the side, trying to capture the exact angle of the light. She felt alone. She felt happy.

  Her mother had never understood that, that Gwen had always found joy in the quiet moments. It was so strange how someone could love another person so much and so well and still not understand what made her happy.

  There was a large flat-topped rock about ten feet away, so Gwen took a bite straight from the loaf and ambled over. She patted the damp surface, decided it wasn’t too wet, then sat down. The mist was already starting to burn off, and the air was warming, so she pulled off her gloves, took out her best pencil, and began to sketch.

  She started with the tree across the way, but then for some reason added a squirrel, even though she hadn’t seen any running about. She paused, examining her work
. Was that squirrel perhaps a bit large?

  Or maybe …

  Not large enough.

  She flipped a page and started over, quickly getting the tree down, then adorning it with a monster squirrel. Now that was more like it. She grinned, giggled even, as she added huge, furious claws.

  She could never let her mother see this. Never. Never never. She’d never recover from it. The shock alone might do her in.

  The picture needed something else, though. The squirrel shouldn’t be evil. “You’re not a monster,” she murmured, “you’re monstrously huge.” And then she started drawing a girl squirrel, who, it turned out, looked exactly like a boy squirrel wearing a fancy hat.

  This was definitely one of her worst drawings ever.

  And quite possibly her favorite.

  Still, she’d have to burn it. If anyone saw it, they’d think her mad, and—

  Splash.

  Gwen froze. Was someone in the water?

  Of course someone was in the water. The question was who, or actually, no, the question was: Could Gwen pack up her things and leave before anyone noticed her?

  She didn’t want to talk to anyone just then. She was having a perfectly lovely morning on her own. Not to mention that whoever was in the water would be, quite logically, wet.

  And thus indecently attired, if attired at all.

  Her face burning, she grabbed her gloves, shoved her sketchbook under her arm, and hurried to her feet. She started back the way she came, going as quickly as she dared, but the ground was still damp, and the stones mossy and wet, and she was far more scared than she was careful.

  “Yah!”

  There was no way she could avoid screaming. Her feet flew out from beneath her, and she had the awful sensation of flying through the air before coming down—hard—on her bottom.

  “Ow,” she moaned. Oh, that hurt. It really hurt. And her heart was racing, and her stomach felt as if it had been twisted inside out, and—

  “Who’s there?”

  She swallowed. It was a male voice. Of course it would be a male voice. No woman would jump in a lake at this time of the morning.

  “Is someone there?”

  Maybe if she was very quiet …

  “Reveal yourself.”

  Oh, she didn’t think so. She got her feet under her and slowly—very slowly—started to rise. Her coat was dark green, so she ought to blend in with the trees quite well, and—

  “Miss Passmore?”

  Or not.

  “Miss Passmore, I know it’s you.”

  She swallowed again, slowly turning back to the pond. The Earl of Charters was standing in the middle of it, the water up to his chest. She said nothing, trying not to focus on the fact that she could see his shoulders, and his chest was quite bare.

  She swallowed, then squeezed her legs together tightly, although, really, she had no idea why. Unlike him, she was completely covered under her dress. Still, it seemed like the thing to do.

  “Your hair,” he said. “It gave you away.”

  Gwen cursed under her breath. She did not often resort to profanity, but with three brothers, she’d learned enough of it to satisfy a moment like this.

  “Lord Charters,” she said, determined to be polite despite—Well, despite everything.

  “What are you doing out at this time in the morning?” he demanded.

  “I went for a walk. What are you doing out at this time in the morning?”

  “I went for a swim.”

  Insolent wretch. She hugged her sketchbook more closely to her chest. “I shall leave you to your privacy, then.”

  But before she could go, he asked, “Do you always roam the countryside unaccompanied?”

  She couldn’t tell if he was scolding her. His tone wasn’t sharp, but no one asked that sort of question for mere curiosity. Still, he was one to talk. She felt her brows rise as she regarded him, half-naked in the water. “I did not expect to meet anyone.”

  “No one ever does, when she is foolish enough to venture forth unaccompanied.”

  Gwen drew back with outrage. “I am not the one half-naked in the lake.”

  “Oh, I’m not half-naked.”

  She gasped. She made a sound that was not even remotely dignified. She might have even barked his name. “Good day,” she finally bit off, turning sharply on her heel.

  Except the ground was still slippery. She ought to have known that, considering she’d just taken a tumble a few moments earlier. But she was not accustomed to men in lakes who were, as he had put it, not half-naked, and really, could she be blamed for not having the presence of mind to learn from her mistakes?

  She lost her balance, then lost her sketchbook when it flew from her hands, then lost her dignity when she landed, her entire left side hitting the ground with a bone-jarring thud.

  It hurt considerably more than the time before.

  She swore again.

  And then again. Because she’d tried to move, and her wrist hurt.

  She paused, took a breath, and made one more attempt to push herself up into a sitting position.

  “Don’t try to move.” It was Lord Charters’s voice, alarmingly close to her ear.

  Gwen let out a shriek and squeezed her eyes shut. She had no idea how he’d emerged from the water so quietly, but she was quite sure that he hadn’t had time to don his clothing.

  “Where does it hurt?” he asked.

  “Everywhere,” she admitted. Which was more or less the truth. “But most of all, my wrist.”

  “Can you sit up?”

  She nodded, still keeping her eyes closed, and allowed him to help her into a sitting position. He took her hand and gently palpated it, murmuring, “Here?” when she winced.

  She nodded again.

  “It’s a little swollen,” he said, “but I don’t think it’s broken.”

  “It’s not broken.” She knew what a broken bone felt like, remembered precisely the awful snap she’d heard—no, felt. No, heard. No, both. She’d heard it through her body, if that made any sense.

  “Nevertheless,” he said, “you’ll want to put a splint on it.”

  She nodded yet again, still not daring to open her eyes. He had a very nice voice, calm and gentle, and if she hadn’t had such an unpleasant encounter with him the night before, she would have felt very much reassured and at ease.

  “You can open your eyes,” he said.

  “No, thank you.”

  He didn’t chuckle, but she could have sworn she heard him smile.

  “I give you my word,” he said softly. “I am well covered.”

  Slowly, and not without doubts, she opened one eye. To her great relief, she found that he wasn’t lying. He had pulled on a shirt, and although it stuck to him in places, he was not indecent. His breeches were soaked through. Clearly, he’d been wearing them in the water.

  “I said I wasn’t half-naked,” he said with a wry smile. “I didn’t say which side of half I was on.”

  She pressed her lips together but was unable to muster irritation. “That was very devious of you.”

  He shrugged, and his expression grew devilish. “It’s the sort of thing men do.”

  “Be devious?”

  “It’s easier than being clever.”

  She laughed. She didn’t mean to, but it bubbled right up and out before she realized it. He smiled along with her, and somehow the moment became …

  Easy.

  It was easy.

  It was the sort of description that would be meaningless to most, but for someone who did not enjoy crowds, or new people, or strange experiences, easy was a marvelous thing. Easy was the best kind of moment there was.

  “Do you often go for morning hikes?” he asked her.

  “Are you going to scold me?”

  He looked down at her mud-stained skirts. “I think you’ve been punished enough.”

  She gave him a scowl, then said, “I love mornings. I walk at home all the time. It was just awful two years ago, w
hen I broke my leg.”

  “So you do know what it’s like to break a bone?”

  She nodded grimly. “The sound is the worst.”

  “You can hear it?” he asked with some surprise.

  “You’ve never broken anything?”

  “Not on my own body. Nor on anyone else’s,” he added quickly, upon seeing her eyes widen, “but …” His expression grew sheepish and yet at the same time more than a bit proud. “I have done some damage to furniture. And dishes. And, oh, can one break a tree?”

  Gwen tried very hard to maintain a serious mien. “I think one can.”

  “Then I’ve broken one of those, too.” He held up a hand. “Don’t ask. It was an extremely convoluted boyhood game involving balls, swords, and a sheep.”

  She took a moment just to stare at him, trying to see if he was joking. She didn’t think so. “Please say you didn’t break the sheep.”

  “The sheep never left the ground,” he assured her.

  And while Gwen was trying to digest that, he added, “Not for lack of trying.”

  She had no reply. Really, she wasn’t sure there was a reply to such a statement.

  His head tilted to the side, and his eyes grew distant. “Actually, I think there might have been a catapult involved, too.”

  She shook her head. “I find it astonishing that any of you survive to adulthood.”

  “Boys, you mean?” He snapped back to the present and gave her a grin. “Yes, well, we’re beasts. There’s no getting around it. We play foolish games, drink too much, start wars, and that doesn’t even begin to …”

  But Gwen didn’t hear the rest of his statement. His mention of war had brought a vision of Toby to her mind, except that his face was growing fuzzy around the edges, and that seemed the saddest part of all. She was forgetting her brother’s face. It was as if he’d had to die twice, only the second time stretched over years.

  “Let me see that wrist again,” Lord Charters said, taking her hand in his.

  “No, no,” she assured him, horrified by the catch in her voice. “I’m fine.”

  “You looked—”

  “I was just thinking of someone, that is all.”

  “Someone?” he asked quietly.