A Spirited Bluestocking

A Sprited
Bluestocking

Joan Overfield

Joan Overfield

This book is dedicated to
Tatiana Virginia Eldore.
A new life, a new beginning.

A PENCHANT FOR PASSION

"I should hope I always conduct myself with propriety, my lord," she said, her cheeks flushing.

Lucien smiled. "I doubt if you even know the meaning of the word," he murmured, his hands dropping to her narrow waist as he drew her firmly against him. "You are the biggest virago it has ever been my misfortune to encounter."

"And you, sir, are the greatest bully I have ever met," she returned. She knew she should step back, or at least demand that he end their quasi-embrace. But the ability to speak seemed to have fled along with her common sense.

"Then 'twould seem we are well matched," he murmured huskily. His lips came down on hers in a kiss of searing demand.

The feel of his mouth against her own shocked Elly, a shock that quickly escalated into delight as desire swept through her. "Lucien . . ."She whispered his name against his lips, her arms twining about his neck to hold him closer still . . .

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Prologue

He was back again. Mrs. Magney watched from the shadows, her dark brows beetling in disapproval as the tawny-haired man crept down the hallway towards the south turret. He'd been here many times this past year, always appearing at moon's rise and leaving at dawn's light. It seemed to her he had been coming more oft of late, and she had to admit 'twas comforting to share her long watch with another, even though he was unaware of her.

Her thin lips moved in a silent smile to think of the start she would give him were she to step out of the darkness and make her presence known. Like as not the poor lad would leap clear out of his skin and run screeching from the house; people would stare at him a feared, and ask him if he'd seen a ghost. A dry chuckle rose from her at what his answer would be.

The man stopped and whirled around, a pistol clutched in his gloved hand. "Who is it?" he called out, lifting the lighted torch he held in his other hand a little higher. "Who is there?"

Mrs. Magney shrank back slightly, and the flickering circle of light swept past her dark corner. The man waited a moment longer and then shook his head.

"You've been at this ghost business too long, my boy," she heard him mutter. "You're even starting to spook yourself."

She waited until his footfalls died away before emerging from her hiding place. Change was in the air; she could sense it, and she knew full well what that meant: people. People coming into her nice clean house and making a mess as they always did. Mayhap she would give this new lot the benefit of the doubt, she thought, nervously fingering her chamberlain's keys. Having a master or a mistress to do for might be nice for a small while, provided her orderly house wasn't disturbed.

Yes. She gave a brisk nod. That is what she would do. She would keep hidden for a wee bit, and if she liked them she'd let them stay. But if she didn't like them . . . Her ebony-flecked eyes took on a malicious sparkle, and she vanished into the dark, endless shadows of the deserted house.

Chapter One

London, 1813

"What do you mean he said no?" Lord Lucien Wendon, marquess of Seabrook demanded, his dark brown eyes flashing with fury as he glared at his solicitor. "My God, has he any idea of the condition that pile of stones is in?"

"I . . . that is to say, I believe he does, my lord," Mr. Sailing stammered, nervously dabbing his upper lip with his handkerchief. "Both their solicitor, Mr. Ballert, and myself were quite blunt as to the condition of Seagate, but it didn't seem to have the slightest impact. Indeed, she said that after having spent the last two years living in a tent even a tumbled-down Gothic ruin would seem as a mansion to her."

"Her?" Lucien leapt on the telling word, his dark eyebrows gathering in a threatening scowl. "Do you mean to say that you never even saw Denning? That you discussed this with his wife?"

Mr. Sailing looked affronted. "I should say not, my lord!"

"Good."

"She is his sister."

"His . . ." Lucien's voice trailed off, and he erupted into a spate of strong language that had the poor solicitor quailing in fear. He wasn't usually so short-tempered with those in his employ, but given the seriousness of the situation he felt his anger was more than justified. Devil take it, he cursed silently; he had to have that house.

"Double it," he ordered tersely, rising from his desk to stalk over to the window.

"My lord?" Mr. Sailing looked confused.

Lucien swung around to glare at him. "My offer on Seagate," he said. "I want you to double it."

"Double it!" The solicitor looked as if he would swoon. "But — but my lord, that is lunacy! The house is one step above a stable! Granted the land has some value, but —"

"Are you presuming to question my orders?" Lucien interrupted, his voice soft with menace. "Because if you are, I might remind you there are other solicitors in London. I trust you take my meaning?"

Mr. Sailing's plump cheeks paled at the veiled threat. "Indeed, my lord," he said fervently, "and I can assure you that I will do everything within my power to assure that your offer is given the utmost consideration."

"I do not wish it 'considered,' " Lucien retorted coldly. "I want it accepted; the sooner, the better."

Mr. Sailing licked his lips anxiously. "That . . . that could be a problem, your lordship."

Lucien stiffened at the trepidation in the solicitor's voice. "What do you mean?" he asked, more curious than annoyed.

"Well, it is Miss Denning," Mr. Sailing said, relieved his employer's fearsome temper now seemed under control.

"What of her?" Lucien demanded, brushing the matter aside with an impatient wave of his hand. "Denning is the heir; concentrate on him, and the devil with his sister."

"But that is precisely the problem, my lord!" Sailing wailed. "Mr. Denning may well be the heir as you have indicated, but 'tis plain as a pikestaff that 'tis Miss Denning who rules the roost! And just as well, if you want my opinion."

"Oh?" Lucien was surprised by the other man's candor.

Mr. Sailing nodded. "I did speak with him upon my arrival," he confessed in a confiding manner, "and rather rough going I found it, too. To quote my late father, the lad is so heavenly minded he's no earthly good! Every other word out of his mouth was Latin, and all he could speak of was his precious plants! Had Miss Denning not been there to make some sense of his speech I would have thought him quite queer in his upper stories."

Lucien rubbed his chin as he considered what he had just learned. "An apeleader, is she?" he asked, his sharp mind turning to thoughts of Miss Denning and the best way of handling her.

"And a bluestocking," Mr. Sailing supplied eagerly. "She was throwing Shakespeare and Milton at my head when she wasn't spouting Latin at her brother."

"What does she look like? Is she pretty?" Lucien demanded, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind.

Mr. Sailing's shrug was more eloquent than words. "Attractive might be a better description. Pale eyes, light brown hair, and a rather fine figure, although she is too thin to be considered in the fashionable mode. But she does have a delightful smile," he added with an eagerness that in no way fooled Lucien.

"And where are they residing?"

"Belgravia," Sailing supplied. "They are currently staying with their aunt, a Mrs. Thomas Shaftson, wife of the MP for Dorestone. I am sure you have not heard of him, but —"

"A Whig, and an intimate of Wilberforce," Lucien provided, displaying the knowledge he was usually careful to keep well hidden. At the solicitor's look of amazement he shrugged his broad shoulders. "He had occasion to contact me at the House of Lords," he said by way of explanation, remembering the rather earnest politician who had petitioned him on behalf of a constituent.

"Ah." Sailing looked relieved. "Well then, perhaps it might be advisable if we were to approach Mr. Shaftson," he said. "As a politician he will see the generosity of your offer, and I am sure we may rely upon him to advise his niece properly."

"It is obvious you know little of the Whigs," Lucien returned, a slight smile on his well-shaped lips. "But if it will ease your mind, by all means contact the man. I am sure it will do no harm, and in the meanwhile, I believe I shall call upon the Dennings myself."

"A personal appeal," Sailing said, more relieved by the second that his rather difficult employer had seen fit to take charge of matters himself. "I daresay it will prove most efficacious."

Lucien's smile grew more pronounced. "Oh, I certainly hope so, Sailing," he drawled. "I certainly hope so."

"Eureka!" Mr. Henry Denning dashed into the small book-lined sitting room, his dark blue eyes bright with excitement. "I have found it, Elly! I have found it!"

"I am well aware of what 'eureka' means, Henry," Miss Elinore Denning returned, carefully setting her quill in its stand before raising her eyes to study her brother's flushed countenance. "Now, kindly be so good as to tell me what it is you have found. The rest of our baggage, I hope?"

"As if I should give a jot for a bunch of old shirts and the like," Henry's indignant sniff put an end to Elly's faint hopes. "No, this is what I found, rosa arvensis," and he laid a half-opened flower on the center of her desk.

She picked up the fragile blossom, her annoyance fading at the sight of the delicate pink petals beaded with dew. Her eyes closed in pleasure as she lifted the flower to her nose and inhaled its sweet fragrance.

"'That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,' " she quoted, carefully laying the rose back on her desk. Although not a botanist like her brother and their late father, she did love plants, and treating them with the utmost care was almost second nature to her.

"Eh?" Henry retrieved his precious specimen. "What was that you was saying, Elly?"

"Shakespeare, Henry." Elly shook her head at him in tolerant exasperation. "I was quoting Shakespeare."

Henry looked puzzled for a moment and then snapped his fingers. "Oh, that play-writing fellow you're always going on about," he said, giving his sister a beatific smile. "Well, mayhap if we are lucky you shall meet him while we are in London. You did say something about going to one of his plays, didn't you?"

"Othello," she replied, not bothering to explain that it would be highly unlikely for the playwright to put in an appearance at this particular performance. "Now, if you are done interrupting me, I really must get back to work. There is a great deal to be done if we hope to have Seagate opened by the end of the month."

Henry's handsome features gathered themselves into a frown of Byronic proportions. "I still don't see why you are going to all this bother," he grumbled in faintly accusing tones. "We shall only be selling it in a few months when we return to Africa."

Elly glanced down at her ledger, her eyes refusing to meet his as she fiddled with her papers. "It is as I have already explained," she began, her tone sharp, "Cousin Bevil allowed the house to fall into a shocking state of disrepair, and we shall have to work very hard if we hope to find a buyer for it. No one would give us so much as a brass farthing for it the way it is now!"

"Lord Seabrook offered us three thousand pounds," Henry pointed out in one of his rare flashes of acuity.

Elly's gray-blue eyes narrowed at the hated name. Although she had yet to meet the marquess of Seabrook, she already regarded him as her personal nemesis. "How many times must I tell you that whereas one must never buy a pig in a poke, neither should one be so foolish as to sell one!" she replied tartly, her full lips thinning into a determined line. "If his lordship offered us three thousand for Seagate, then we can safely assume it is worth twice that. Leave the dickering to me, we both know 'tis my special providence."

"That is so," Henry agreed, thinking of the numerous times when Elly had successfully wrangled with Hottentots and Bedouin chieftains for the necessities of everyday life. In the next moment, however, he was frowning again. "But I still do not see why we had to leave Cape Town and return home in order to settle the matter. What of my work?"

"You may work on your collection here as well as in Africa, Henry, dearest," she said through clenched teeth, struggling to hold on to her patience. "And think of the libraries and the company of other botanists you will enjoy while we are here. Your work can not help but benefit from such contact."

Henry allowed himself to think of it and presently drifted away, images of himself addressing the Oxford Botanical Society filling his mind. The moment the door closed behind him Elly collapsed against the back of her chair, feeling like the most villainous sister to ever draw breath.

Poor Henry, she thought, pushing her papers to one side as she propped her chin on her hands and stared out the window. How was she ever to tell him that they weren't returning to Africa? He might regard this as no more than a temporary visit, but as far as she was concerned, it was permanent. After spending the majority of her life following first her father and then her brother to virtually every corner of the globe, she had had enough. She wanted a home, and for her Seagate was that home.

From the moment she'd opened the solicitor's letter in Cape Town she'd been unable to think of anything else. She'd prodded, threatened, cajoled, and pleaded to get Henry to abandon his field work and return to England, and nothing, she vowed, was going to stop her from claiming the home she regarded as hers. Well, she amended ruefully, Henry's, if one was going to be a stickler for details, but the point was still the same. Seagate was hers, and the sooner the grasping Lord Seabrook accepted that fact, the better off they would all be.

After completing her chores Elly presented herself to her aunt's sitting room, where she found the older woman poring over the latest copy of La Belle Assemblée. "Ah, there you are, my dear," she said, lifting her cheek for Elly's kiss. "All done?"

"Finally, thank heavens," Elly muttered, dutifully kissing her aunt's cheek. "I had no idea setting up a household could be so arduous! In Africa all we ever needed was a cook, a houseboy, and the occasional snake catcher."

"Ugh!" Mrs. Flavia Shaftson shuddered delicately. "My poor lamb! When I think of the horrors you must have suffered, I vow I could box my brother's ears! What could he have been thinking of to drag a delicately bred girl to such places?"

"It wasn't so very bad," Elly felt duty-bound to defend her late parent. "And really, I have seen far more of the world than most women of my class could ever hope to."

"Which is precisely my point, my dear." Her aunt gave her hand a maternal pat. "Women of our class aren't supposed to see the world. Now, come and tell me what you think of this gown. It is just the thing for you to wear when you make your bows."

Having already lost this particular argument, Elly bent to examine the print indicated by her aunt's slender finger. Fashioned out of watered silk, the gown was a pleasing shade of light blue, with a rounded neckline and tiny puff sleeves that would leave her arms and shoulders bare. It was unadorned except for the double row of flounces above the hem, and Elly sent a grateful prayer winging heavenward. She'd been terrified she would be forced to make her entry into society beribboned and festooned like a ship of the line.

"And I thought perhaps a small cap of soft blue velvet with a single white plume might be just the thing for a lady of your advanced years," Flavia continued, indicating another illustration. "Not so aging as a turban, but more suitable than a deb's curls."

Elly bit back an anguished protest. If she could be said to be vain about anything it was her hair, and the thought of covering her golden-brown tresses with the frivolous head dress quite cast her into the sulks. Still, she supposed it would be best if she bowed to her aunt's superior knowledge of the subject. For all her flightiness, the older lady was always dressed in the first stare of fashion.

"Very well, Aunt," Elly swallowed her objections. "It sounds quite lovely. Thank you."

"You are more than welcome, my dear," Flavia gave her a sweet smile. "But it is more delight than chore for me, I assure you. I have always adored clothes and frivolous things, and I was quite looking forward to having a daughter to take shopping and the like. Unfortunately the good Lord saw fit to bless me with three strapping sons instead." She sighed at the thought of her three boys, the youngest of whom already stood six feet although he had yet to turn sixteen.

Thinking of Flavia's hulking sons made Elly remember her brother, and she gave her aunt a worried look. "What about Henry?" she asked worriedly. "He will be needing a new wardrobe as well, for his clothes are in even a more deplorable condition than my own."

Flavia laid a thoughtful finger on her lips as she considered the matter. "Ordinarily I would have Thomas take him about, but with Parliament in session the poor man has scarce a moment to call his own. And I dare not ask Roderick to advise him," she added, referring to her eldest son recently sent down from Oxford. "Since he has set himself up as a Corinthian, neither his clothes nor his conversation are fit for polite company!" She was quiet another moment and then shrugged her shoulders.

"Well, I must own to being point non plus! We shall simply have to study the journals and put our trust in them. Fortunately the lad is an Adonis, and will show anything to its best advantage. Such fine eyes, and his glossy black curls are sure to set the debs to swooning! Lords Byron and Seabrook had best look to their laurels, you mark my words."

Elly's amusement at her aunt's effusive praise of her brother's physical perfection vanished at the mention of the marquess. "Seabrook?" she repeated, a sulky pout forming on her lips. "What has he to do with anything? Never say he is a dandy?" The thought was quite pleasing, as it fit her image of a rich and petulant lord who had nothing better to do than turn a covetous eye towards his neighbor's estate.

"Heavens no!" Flavia was clearly scandalized at the very thought. "Seabrook is one of the most elegant men in the whole of England, as well as being very handsome and highly eligible!"

"Then why did you link him with Byron?" Elly was quite vexed to hear her enemy described in such glowing terms.

"I was being clever," her aunt explained, her cheeks pinking with embarrassment. "It happened when you were out of the country so you would not have heard of it, but it was quite the talk of the town for weeks afterwards."

"Heard of what?"

Flavia cast a furtive glance about her as if fearing French spies were lurking behind the drapes and then leaned towards Elly. "It was almost two years ago," she began in a confiding whisper. "He had been in mourning after his mother's death and had only just returned to the city. He was introduced to a deb, a Miss Haverley if memory serves, and the girl went quite mad for him. She began sending him flowers and notes, and even went so far as to dedicate a poem to him which she called 'The Modern Adonis.' Well, to make a short story of it, there was a dreadful scandal, and Lord Seabrook was forced to flee to the country to escape the taddle!"

"Is that all?" This seemed rather tame fare to Elly, who had been hoping for something truly shocking.

"All?" Flavia stared at her in disbelief. "The poor man could scarce poke his nose out of the door! Every time he ventured out the ladies would surround him, and the gazettes printed the most cruel caricatures! His friends all roasted him about it, and even Byron joined in the fun by indicating he would challenge Seabrook to a duel over the title of Adonis."

Elly felt an unwilling twinge of sympathy for Seabrook, which she quickly pushed aside. If the marquess was overly sensitive to effusive poetry, she supposed she could dash off a few lines that would send him packing. Perhaps a parody of one of Shakespeare's sonnets . . . Her lips curled in an speculative smile.

"That is it!" Flavia's sudden cry made Elly wonder if her aunt possessed preternatural abilities. "The very thing! We shall ask Seabrook to take Henry under his wing!"

"What?"

"He is a Tory, but Thomas assures me he is most understanding," Flavia continued as if she hadn't heard Elly's strangled outburst. "And even Roderick admits that the marquess is a bang-up fellow. You could not hope for a better pattern card."

"But . . . but Aunt Flavia, what about the marquess's attempts to steal — to purchase — Seagate?" Elly protested, horrified at the very thought of exposing poor Henry to a man of Seabrook's stamp. She would rather have him ape the worst tulip of the ton than that . . . that person.

"Oh posh!" Flavia cast her an impatient look. "If Henry wishes to sell Seabrook the house, he will, and if he doesn't, he won't. That doesn't mean the two of them can not be friends."

Elly could think of several reasons why they could not be bosom beaus, the primary of which was that her brother was as easily led as a lamb. A wolf like Seabrook would soon have him devoured whole . . . after first fleecing him of his inheritance, she mentally added with growing annoyance.

"I still do not think it would do," she said firmly, using her most commanding tones. "We have never even met the marquess, and it would be too forward by half to ask such a thing of him. I will not have him take us for a bunch of encroaching Cits."

Flavia looked much-struck by this. "I suppose you are right," she said at last. "Seabrook is known for being stiff-rumped at times, and as you say, you would not wish him to take you into dislike."

"I do not care if he loathes us," Elly corrected, her chin coming up with pride. "But I will not have him looking down his nose and treating us like country bumpkins!"

"Oh, I am sure he would not do that," Flavia said quickly, although her expression was doubtful. "But if you don't wish Seabrook to assist you, who else is there?"

Elly shrugged. "How am I to know? But if worse comes to worse, I shall simply handle the matter myself. I have been dressing him for the greater part of his life, after all, and in any event Henry never notices what he is wearing."

Flavia nodded her head in sympathy. "Men," she said with a sigh. "My Thomas was the very same way when first we met." And she launched into a glowing description of how she had first met her beloved husband.

As this was a tale Elly had heard many times since her return to London some two weeks ago, she listened only half-attentively, her mind on Seabrook and how she would deal with him. The offers to sell Seagate had begun arriving almost from the moment they'd stepped ashore, but she'd managed to keep them hidden from Henry. Just as she thought she had succeeded, the marquess's man of business appeared on her aunt's doorstep, and before she could stop him he was making his offer to Henry.

Despite her sneering words to the contrary, Elly knew three thousand pounds was more than a generous offer for a house that even her own solicitor had described as "a ruin." For a moment she greatly feared Henry would accept, and managed to distract him by encouraging him to talk of his work. She added further fuel to the fire by sending him off to the garden to find a rose, and in his absence firmly rejected the marquess's offer. She'd like to think that was the last of it, but she was far too wise in the ways of the world to believe that.

Seabrook would not give up so easily, and this time she had the feeling he would come himself. Doubtlessly he thought them a flock of pigeons to be plucked, and she decided she would foster that image. Let him think they had been culled, she thought, her aquamarine eyes taking on a cold sparkle. It would make her victory all the sweeter in the end. And she would be victorious. She had crossed the veldts of Africa, the steaming jungles of the equator, and even the trackless sands of the desert; all before her eighteenth birthday. If a spoiled English lord with the looks of a Greek hero thought to make a May game of her, he was about to learn differently.

Two days later Elly was closeted in her study going over one of her lists when there was a knock at the door, and Clemment, the Shaftson's elegant butler bowed his way into the room. "I beg your pardon, Miss Denning," he began in his wooden tones, "but the marquess of Seabrook has arrived and is asking to speak with your brother."

Elly glanced up in surprise, making no effort to hide her smug smile from Clemment's discerning eye. His lordship had to be even more desperate than she'd realized, she gloated, all but rubbing her hands together in glee. Good. Had their situations been reversed, she'd have left him stewing in his own juices for at least a week before renewing her petition.

"Thank you, Clemment," she replied coolly, eyeing the butler with interest. "Have you informed my brother as to his lordship's arrival? I am sure he will want to know."

Clemment's impassive features did not betray themselves by so much as a flicker. "He is in the library, miss," he intoned stoically. "That is why I thought it best to notify you of the marquess's presence. If you like, I can inform his lordship that Mr. Denning is," he paused delicately, "indisposed."

Elly grinned at the major domo's wonderful sense of discretion. "Indisposed" was as good a word as any to describe her brother's predilection for burying himself in his studies, she supposed. "That might be for the best, Clemment," she replied, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece and calculating how long it would take her to change into a suitable gown. "Please inform Lord Seabrook that I shall be with him shortly. Oh, Clemment?"

"Yes, miss?"

"Has my aunt returned as yet?"

"No, miss, but I expect her momentarily. I am sure it will be quite all right."

"Very good, Clemment, thank you," Elly said, certain she could count upon the rigidly proper butler to keep her from committing a social solecism. Since her return to England she had been amazed at the restrictions placed on her by the dictates of Society, but she had quickly come to the conclusion that there was little she could do about it. If she hoped to take her place in the rather insular world of the ton she knew she would have no choice but to adhere to their rules; however silly she might find them.

After making a few notations on her lists she slipped quickly up to her room, where she began searching her wardrobe for just the right dress in which to make her entrance. She rejected her newer purchases as being too frivolous, and finally settled on one of her older black frocks. Perfect, she decided, studying the dress with satisfaction. If this did not convince the haughty lord that she was a country mouse with no knowledge of the world, then she would eat the wretched thing.

In the parlor, Lucien was waiting with increasing impatience. The news Denning had taken to his bed and he would have to settle for the sister was a set back, but he was determined that he would not allow it to upset the outcome. He'd purposefully waited two days before approaching the Dennings' so as to avoid appearing too anxious. He'd already decided that the best way of obtaining his objective would be to act completely indifferent about Seagate. He would act as if he couldn't care less about the wreck, and then, when he had her quaking in her slippers for fear of having lost out on the sale, he would coolly double his offer. With luck, he would have the matter resolved within the hour.

As he paced the confines of the lavishly-decorated parlor, he caught a glimpse of himself in the gilded mirror above the mantel, and paused to glance at his reflection. In honor of the occasion he'd donned his new cutaway coat of maroon velvet, and his cravat was tied in a subdued arrangement his valet insisted upon calling "the Seabrook." He'd abandoned his breeches for a pair of nankins, and he'd had his Hessians polished twice before he was satisfied with their glossy shine. Studying himself he decided he looked a perfect tulip, and the realization brought a cold smile to his lips. Good, he thought cynically, let her think him a delicate dandy who could be easily culled. That would put her off her guard and make it that much easier to manipulate her to do his bidding.

He was so intent with his plans for wresting Seagate from its owners, that he wasn't aware the door had opened behind him. Elly stood in the doorway, the cool smile on her lips becoming a smirk at the sight of the handsome man standing in front of the mirror. Arrogant coxcomb, she thought, quickly schooling her features to the proper expression. She would have him packing outside of the hour. She cleared her throat loudly, and watched in satisfaction as he gave a start of surprise.

"Lord Seabrook," she gushed, infusing her voice with as much girlish awe as she could muster. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance! I-I am Miss Denning." And she lowered her eyes, all maidenly blushes and stammers.

Lucien swung around, quickly masking his embarrassment at having been caught staring in the mirror. "Ah, Miss Denning," he said, stepping forward to suavely offer her his hand. "May I say what a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance? Although I hope you will forgive me for calling upon you in such a havycavy manner?"

"Oh, indeed not, dear Adon — that is to say, Lord Seabrook," Elly fluttered her lashes for all she was worth. "I am more than happy to meet the man of whom I have heard so much!"

Lucien's eyebrows raised at her near use of the word "Adonis." Doubtlessly she was thinking to disarm him by making reference to that old scandal, but little did she know that the entire fiasco had been a carefully orchestrated ploy so that he could leave town on a mission without raising suspicions.

"I am sorry to hear your brother is unwell," he said, moving judiciously away from her. "I trust it is nothing serious?"

"Oh, just a touch of Stachys betonica," she said, naming one of her brother's favorite flowers and praying the marquess's Latin was as loose as his ethics. "It will pass with time. But pray, will you not be seated? My aunt will soon be returning, and I know she will be wanting to meet our nearest neighbor."

Lucien took the chair she offered, and tried to think of something to say. He was aware that somewhere, somehow, his plans had gone awry, but for the life of him he could not say just how this event had come about. Although he had a strong suspicion his erstwhile hostess had a great deal to do with it. Just what the devil was going on? he wondered, his eyes resting on Miss Denning's heart-shaped face.

On the surface she appeared to be exactly what he had been expecting; a plain country spinster with more breeding than sense. Certainly she looked the part. The ill-fitting black gown she was wearing was almost a decade out of fashion, and made her look far older than her actual years, which he knew to be twenty-four. Her hair, which was a glorious blend of light brown shot through with gold was pretty enough, although it was difficult to tell as she wore it scraped back in a painfully neat bun. Her eyes could also be considered an asset, being well formed and the color of the sea at mid-day; but as she persisted in either casting them down or rolling them at him like the parlor maid in a French farce, he found them more annoying than attractive.

Another thing which annoyed him was that she had lied to him. Botany had been one of the few branches of learning at which he'd excelled, and he knew damned well that Stachys betonica was a common flowering plant, and not some rare tropical disease.

While he had been studying her, Elly had also been looking her fill of him. Granted her wide-eyed perusal was part of her act as a flustered spinster, but the greater share of it had been vulgar curiosity, and, she admitted with a heavy sigh, admiration. As Aunt Flavia had said, he was a very handsome man.

His carefully-cropped hair was almost the same shade as her own, and it provided a startling contrast to his dark eyebrows and velvet brown eyes. His nose was straight and a touch arrogant, but she rather liked his strong, square chin, and the vertical cleft that divided it. She could see strength and character in that chin, as well as in the shape of his chiseled lips. This was no elegant dandy to be easily brushed aside, she realized apprehensively. This was a man, and a dangerous man at that. She cleared her throat nervously.

"Lord Seabrook, I —"

"Miss Denning —"

They both broke off, looking at each other uncertainly. When he indicated with a wave of his hand that she should go first, she tried again. "Lord Seabrook, I was wondering if you would answer a question for me?"

"If I can," Lucien agreed warily. "What is it?"

Elly cleared her throat again, wondering if she should wait until a more auspicious occasion before asking him why he wanted Seagate. And he did want it; she could see it in the depths of his dark eyes. "Well," she began, gathering her courage as she spoke, "I would like to know about Seagate."

"What about it?" His wariness increased ten-fold.

"What does it look like, to begin with?" Elly said, somewhat taken aback by his gruffness. "I've never seen so much as a painting of it, and I must own to being curious about it. It is my ancestral home, after all."

"No, it is my ancestral home," he shot back, his lips thinning with annoyance. "It was the country seat of my family for generations until my great-grandfather saw fit to sell it to your great-uncle. That is why I want it back."

Well, now she had the truth, she realized, and wondered why she was still not satisfied. She lifted her chin and regarded him coolly. "Your interest in the matter has been duly noted, my lord," she informed him sweetly. "As, I hope, has my brother's resolve not to sell."

Those dark eyebrows she had earlier admired lifted in a haughty arch. "Your brother's?" he questioned in his most derisive tones. "Or your own? According to my solicitor he seemed far more interested in his plants than in his estate. And for your information, Miss Denning, I speak fluent Latin. Do tell your brother for me that I hope he recovers from his case of wood betony. I have heard it can be fatal if not properly treated."

Elly's cheeks burned scarlet at his hit. "You are rude, sir!" she snapped, too angry to formulate a proper set down.

"And you are a hellcat," he inclined his head in cool mockery. "Tell your brother I will give him six thousand pounds for Seagate, and not one farthing more."

"Six . . ." Such largesse was enough to rock even Elly's iron determination, but only temporarily. She rose to her feet, her hands clenched at her sides. "Our home," she said, stressing the word with a cutting smile, "is not for sale. Not for six thousand pounds, not for six hundred thousand pounds! You may think your title and your wealth entitle you to whatever you want, my lord, but you are wrong. Seagate shall never be yours."

Lucien also rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving hers. "Are you by chance challenging me, Miss Denning?" he asked softly.

She tossed back her head defiantly. "And if I am?" she goaded.

The smile he gave her was as cold and cutting as a blade of ice. "Then I accept, Miss Denning," he replied in a deadly tone. "It will be interesting to see which of us shall emerge victorious." And with that, he turned and walked out of the parlor, leaving an angry Elly to glare after him.

Chapter Two

After leaving Miss Denning's Lucien went directly to his club, where he proceeded to drown his anger in a glass of claret. He didn't partake of strong spirits as a rule, but given his present temper he felt it was the only gentlemanly thing to do. Had he given in to his impulses and done what he really wanted to do, he would have shaken Miss Denning until her prim bun came tumbling down.

Of all the stubborn, willful, obstreperous females, he fumed, lifting his glass to his lips. He pitied her unfortunate brother; it was obvious the poor lad was kept firmly under the cat's paw. First thing tomorrow he would find some way of circumventing the little minx and would make his offer to Denning face-to-face. Not that it would do him much good, he decided bitterly. He doubted the timid scholar so much as wiped his nose without his formidable sister's express permission.

"Ah, Seabrook, I thought I would find you here," Lord Alexander Twyford drawled, his gray eyes sharp with curiosity as he took the chair facing Lucien. "I trust all is well with you?"

"Then you would trust wrong," Lucien grumbled, shooting the viscount a dark look. "Things are in a damned coil!"

Alex looked surprised. "Indeed?" he murmured sympathetically. "What is the impediment then, if I may make so bold? I thought the matter was all but resolved?"

Lucien's response was decidedly profane as he poured some of the claret into a glass and handed it to the viscount. "The impediment," be began heatedly, "is a shrew of a bluestocking who has taken leave to inform me that she won't sell back my own house; not even for six hundred thousand pounds!"

Alex sipped his claret thoughtfully before setting his glass down. "You are referring, I take it, to Miss Denning?" he asked, studying Lucien's angry face. At his curt nod he gave an indifferent shrug. "Then I do not see that you should have a problem. It is Mr. Denning who is the heir, is it not?"

"That is what I thought," Lucien muttered, partaking of another sip. "But to get to him one must first get past her, and that is not so easy as it would seem. She guards him with the devotion of a eunuch guarding the sultan's harem; I could not so much as get a peek at him!"

"I see," Alex's gray eyes grew troubled. "Well then, the first question to be considered is whether or not her brother shares her passionate attachment to Seagate. Does he?"

"She says he does," Lucien replied, recalling the brief but heated exchange. "But I take leave to doubt her. The lad is a noted scholar devoted to his fieldwork. Why the devil should he want a tumbled-down house on the outskirts of Brighton?"

"Why indeed?" Alex drawled, rubbing his square chin with his strong hand. "What is your next move to be? I can not imagine your surrendering the field after one skirmish."

Lucien's jaw hardened and his dark eyes flashed with fury. "Never," he vowed grimly. "I am returning to the Shaftsons' tomorrow, and this time I shall meet with Denning even if it means walking over Miss Denning to do it. I must have that house!"

"Agreed," Alex said, his handsome countenance growing somber. "What contingency plans have you in the event Denning should refuse your offer?"

Lucien hesitated, his dark eyes unable to meet Twyford's ice-gray gaze. "It is somewhat unconventional," he admitted cautiously, uncertain how much he should reveal, "but I believe it shall prove effective. It has in the past."

There was another silence as Alex gave a nod of understanding. "I see," he said at last, giving Lucien a thoughtful look. "Well then, so long as a plan is effective, what more can one ask of it? You will begin immediately, I take it?"

"The moment it proves necessary," Lucien replied, sending him a grim smile. "You must be sure to visit me at Seagate the next time you find yourself in Brighton."

A rare smile touched the viscount's mouth. "Confident, are you?"

"I prefer to think of it as determined."

"I see." Twyford rose to his feet and stared down at Lucien. "Just mind you don't grow too complacent. I am sure I need not tell you what proceeds a fall. Good day to you, Seabrook, and best of luck haggling with Denning. I have the feeling you may have need of it."

The door had scarcely closed behind Seabrook before Elly was giving full vent to her anger. "Odious, puffed-up toad!" she charged heatedly, pacing up and down the confines of the drawing room. "Just let him try turning us out of our home! I shall pour burning pitch on his head if he but attempts it!"

In the next moment her temper cooled, and the more practical side of her nature asserted itself. Ideally, it would be best if she could keep Henry ignorant of Seabrook's new offer, but after contemplating various stratagems she discarded that notion as impossible to implement. Her nemesis was nothing if not determined, and unless she was prepared to lock

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