The Viscount's
Vixen

Joan Overfield

The Viscount's Vixen

Joan Overfield

Copyright 1992, 2014 by Joan Overfield

To Kathie Hays

Because friends who are willing to loan you their computer are hard to find. My thanks once again.

"I THOUGHT PERHAPS YOU MIGHT LIKE TO WALK WITH ME IN THE GARDENS."

"I am afraid it is a trifle too cold for me, your lordship," Pip said, dismissing him with a distant smile.

Alex grasped her arm, pulling her gently but inexorably to her feet. "I insist, Miss Lambert."

The moment they were outside, she pulled free, her eyes snapping with fury. "I trust you know your behavior borders on the offensive?"

"And yours borders on the shrewish." Alex glared down into her angry face. The moonlight gave her skin a pearly gleam and turned her eyes into sparkling pools of forest green. His own anger gave way to the passion he had so long repressed, and unable to help himself, he lowered his head and took her mouth in a searing kiss . . .

CONTENTS

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

About the Author

One

London, England 1815

"Married!" Miss Phillipa Lambert gasped, her green eyes wide as she leapt to her feet. "You? Please, Belle, tell me you are joking!"

Miss Arabelle Portham sat back in her striped chair, her face coolly composed as she returned her friend's incredulous gaze. "You must know I never joke," she returned in the distant manner which had earned her the title "The Golden Icicle." " 'Tis my intention to be married by Season's end, and I want your help to do it."

Pip could only shake her head, scarce believing the evidence of her own ears. She and Belle had been the best of friends for over seven years, and she would have sworn that she knew the icy blond better than anyone on earth. But this . . . she slowly lowered herself to her chair.

"Tell me again why you wish to marry," she said, smoothing the skirts of her prim gray gown and wondering if she ought to summon her aunt. As a rule, the elderly lady was a delightful widgeon with few thoughts in her head above the latest tidbits of gossip, but she was every bit as good as a physician when it came to diagnosing illnesses. Perhaps Belle only required a cup of beef tea to set her right again, Pip thought with growing hope.

"I think it was Miss Pettyforth's lecture that did it," Belle replied reflectively, raising her teacup to her lips. "You recall, Pip, it was the day we were going to Parliament to listen to the debates on the Corn Bill."

"I remember," Pip muttered, grimacing as she recalled the lecture her friend's newest companion had read them, reminding them in pious tones that a woman's position in society was rightfully determined by her husband. She then went on to hint broadly that so long as she and Belle pursued their "unfeminine" interest in politics, they would never get a man to wed them.

"Well, I have been thinking about what she said, and I have decided that she is right."

"What?" Pip started so violently that the tea in her cup sloshed over the gilded rim, burning her hand. She hastily set the cup back on its saucer and shot Belle an angry scowl.

"Now I know you are sickening after something," she accused, nursing her tender hand.

Rather than being offended, Belle was amused. "Thinking of having me bled, hm?" she asked, her amber-gold eyes bright with rare laughter. "Well, before you send for the leeches, I might remind you that while you may eschew matrimony, I do not share your dislike of the married state."

"And here I have always taken you for a female of superior intellect," Pip grumbled, her full mouth protruding in a pout. "Really, Belle, how can you be such a gudgeon? Marriage is but a sham designed to keep women in abject servitude, and one would have to be mad to willingly seek such a fate. It is as I have always said: 'Better the shroud—' "

" 'Than the veil.' " Belle finished the familiar remark, still smiling. "I know. But again, I do not share your misanthropy. Most females of our class do marry, and I am only doing what is expected of me."

"Perhaps," Pip conceded, cautiously picking up her teacup and partaking of a deep sip. "But most of them marry because they have no say in the matter, or because they foolishly fancy themselves to be in love. But you needn't bother with such fustian. You are wealthy, an heiress who has complete control of her own fortune. What can some pest of a man give you that you do not already have?"

"Power," Belle answered simply. "Political power."

Pip was quiet for a long moment. "But marriage won't grant you any power," she said at last, struggling to follow Belle's reasoning. "Women cannot vote. That is something that won't change even if you were to marry the king himself."

"That is so," Belle conceded with a gracious nod. "But what I can do is to become a political hostess. You must know that as an unmarried lady I can never hostess more than a small dinner party or an occasional musicale. My influence would be minimal at best. But as the wife of a politician . . ." Her voice trailed off enticingly.

"You could have unlimited influence," Pip concluded with a heavy sigh. Much as it galled her independent spirit to admit as much, she knew Belle's arguments were not without merit. As some man's wife, her friend would command far more power than she could ever achieve as a spinster—even a spinster who controlled a fortune of half a million pounds. Still . . .

"But if you married a politician, you would be expected to support his opinion," she protested, determined to dissuade the other woman from committing such a folly. "You might have more power, but that doesn't mean you would be free to use it. You would be naught but a reflection of him, and I can't see you settling for so meaningless an existence."

"Perhaps, but only if I married a man who has an opinion."

"What do you mean?"

Belle scooted closer to the edge of her chair. "What if I were to marry a young lord who is as indifferent to politics as we are fascinated by it?" she asked, her face glowing with eagerness. "Couldn't we then gently guide him along the correct path, perhaps even converting him to our way of thinking? He would vote the way we suggest, and at last we would have a voice in Parliament! Think about it, Pip!"

Pip thought about it. It made sense—in an awful sort of way, and she had to admit 'twas tempting. To actually have a say in the outcome of important political matters had long been a dream of hers. Why, it would almost be worth the bother of having some foolish man cluttering up one's parlor. In the next moment, however, she was shaking her head.

"No," she said firmly, "it would never work. Every man alive has opinions on something, and there is no guarantee you could convince him to vote the way you want him to."

"Not really. You know as well as I that 'tis not uncommon for over half the seats to remain unoccupied during session. Most of the members of the House of Lords don't give a fig how our country is governed, so long as their precious rights are protected! All we need to do is find some young lord who fits our needs, and then marry him. How difficult can it be? Come, Pip, what do you say? Will you help me?"

What the devil was he doing here? Lord Alexander St. Ives brooded, his dark face set with displeasure as he glanced about the crowded Assembly Room. He must have been bosky when he agreed to accompany Toby to Almack's—either that, or more bored than he dared admit. He had been in London for almost five weeks, and as far as he was concerned, 'twas time to go home.

"No need to look so Friday-faced, your lordship," the Honorable Tobias Flanders drawled in his affected manner, studying Marcus through his quizzing glass. "Surely things cannot be so wretched as all that!"

Alex quickly composed his expression, annoyed with himself for having allowed his feelings to be so evident that a cloth-head like Toby should take note of it. The other man was the younger cousin of one of his oldest friends, and he had promised Marcus he would keep an eye on him. What the earl had failed to tell him was that the young puppy was such an overweening dandy. A quick glance at his ornate cravat and multitude of fobs had Alex shuddering with fastidious displeasure.

"Nothing is wrong, Flanders," he answered in clipped tones, already weary of the younger man's presence. "I was merely thinking that it was time I was leaving."

"Leaving!" Toby stared at him with feigned horror. "I say, St. Ives, have you gone daft? The patronesses have yet to make their bows, and them old tabbies would cut up sharp was you to shab off now. 'Tis not done, old boy; not done at all."

The idea of Toby's taking him to task for a social solecism brought a glint of ironic laughter to Alex's dark blue eyes. "I wasn't referring merely to Almack's, Toby," he said, taking care to hide his amusement. "I was referring to the city. It is time I was returning to my estates."

"Quit London?" Judging from the dramatic way Toby clutched his chest, Alex could only presume he had deeply offended the dandy's sensibilities. "How can you even contemplate such a thing? London is the very center of our universe; how could you bear living anywhere else? 'Tis like that physician fellow said, "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life!"

"Johnson."

"Eh?" Toby blinked his brown eyes in confusion.

"It is Dr. Samuel Johnson you are quoting," Alex explained, wondering why he was bothering. Toby was an idiot, and he couldn't imagine how he'd bumbled along this far. On the battlefield, he wouldn't have lasted an hour.

"As you say." Toby waved his hand vaguely. "My point, sir, is that there is naught that ails you save boredom. After defeating Boney I gather society is all rather flat, what?"

"Perhaps," Alex agreed, surprised by Toby's acuity. In truth, he was bored, and more than a little disgusted by the mindless way society pursued its pleasures. Oh, it had been amusing at first, and he'd enjoyed many of those pleasures himself. But lately when he looked in the mirror he didn't care for the reflection he saw looking back. It was time to go home and resume the duties he had set aside for a long-overdue holiday.

"Of course that is it." Toby looked smugly pleased with himself. "My late father once said the very same thing after returning from wherever it was he returned from. Said that after battle even lovemaking lacked a certain something. What you need, St. Ives, is a challenge, something to fire your imagination and your blood."

"My blood has already been sufficiently fired, thank you," Alex said, his mouth lifting in a very wolfish smile as he thought of his newest mistress. He would miss Althea and her skilled ways once he was back in Hampshire, although he knew better than to think she would want to accompany him. She was far too cosmopolitan to enjoy the country.

"I wasn't referring to fashionable impures." Toby sniffed, holding his quizzing glass to his eye, studying two ladies standing in the opposite corner. His mouth curled in a mocking smile. "Indeed," he continued in the same affected voice, "your success with our budding beauties is such that there is simply no sport in wagering on the potential outcome, was you to set out to win some doxy. The same is true of society's fairer flowers. But one cannot help but wonder how you would fare with a different sort of species . . . say, a ragweed?"

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"Well," Toby's tone fairly dripped with malice, "as I say, given your rank and fortune, there is no doubt you could conquer whatever chit you set your sights on. But if you was to take on a lady whose dislike of men was as well-known as her sharp tongue, then that would truly be a victory, would it not?"

"Again, Flanders, what the devil are you prattling on about?" Alex's patience was evaporating along with his control of his temper.

"That." Toby pointed the ivory handle of his quizzing glass at a tall brunette attired in an unfashionable gown of pale blue silk.

Alex stared at the woman. "Who is she?"

"Miss Phillipa Augusta Lambert, a lady of modest looks and fortune who is possessed of a sharp tongue and even sharper mind. She is, in fact, regarded as the worst bluestocking in London, and five hundred pounds says you can't win her!"

"Not him!" Pip exclaimed, studying with loathing the blond man across the room. "Have you lost your mind? Flanders is an out-and-out idiot! You'd be better off marrying one of the royals than that lack-witted, prattling fool!"

"Of course I wasn't referring to Flanders!" Belle retorted, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "I am not nearly so desperate as all that! I was speaking of the man next to him."

Pip's green eyes moved obligingly to the other man, noting with disinterest his black hair and handsome countenance. "Who is he?"

"Lord Alexander St. Ives, the new Viscount St. Ives," Belle provided, pleased with herself for having chosen so excellent a candidate. "He is newly arrived from the country, unmarried, and in the past five weeks, he has appeared at only four sessions. He is perfect, don't you think?"

"Mmm," Pip returned, her brows wrinkling. St. Ives—the name rang a decided bell, and she struggled to make the connection. Then it came to her.

"St. Ives!" she cried, turning to look at Belle. "The man is worse than an idiot; he's a rake! He and Lord Colford all but had a duel over some doxy! Aunt said it was the talk of London for days. You couldn't possibly want to marry him!"

"Why not? It's not as if I love him, after all," Belle retorted, bristling over the mention of Lord Colford, whom she regarded as her own personal nemesis. "Besides, why should it matter to me whether or not he has a mistress? Let him take his pleasure where he will."

Pip found herself fighting a faint sense of shock. She liked to think of herself as an intellectual woman of the world, but there were times when Belle's cold practicality was more than a little disconcerting.

"Besides," Belle continued coolly, "the man also has a lovely country seat that is known for its hunting. Only think of the shooting parties we might stage! And everyone knows how politicians like to hunt."

"Yes, there is nothing like murdering scores of innocent deer and rabbits to turn a man up sweet," Pip retorted sourly, thinking that the more she considered this scheme of Belle's, the less she cared for it. It was one thing to agree when the whole thing was a nebulous plan, but quite another when the object of that plot was standing not twenty feet from her. Surely there was some way she could convince Belle to see the danger of her actions, she brooded, nervously chewing her bottom lip.

"That is so." Belle laughed, oblivious to Pip's concern. "But first things first; we must devise some scheme to meet him. I don't suppose Lady Jersey has forgiven you, and will introduce us to him?"

Pip shifted guiltily from one foot to the other as she recalled the patroness's displeasure at hearing a radical publication had printed one of her letters. "I still don't see how she found out," she muttered to hide her embarrassment. "I used a nom de plume."

"Yes, 'Phillip Augustus'; very clever of you, I agree. But that doesn't answer my question. Do you think she will provide the necessary introductions?"

Pip considered the matter, weighing the older woman's annoyance with her against her fondness for matchmaking. "Perhaps," she said at last. "Especially if you were to simper and blush at the mention of the viscount's name. You must know there is nothing Old Sal likes better than prodding along a romance."

"Simper?" One of Belle's dark blond eyebrows arched over her eyes. "In all the years you have known me, have you ever known me to simper?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Good. Neither has Lady Jersey. If I were to start behaving like some silly Bath miss, she would know at once that I was up to something. How many times must I remind you not to be fooled by her ladyship's prattle? The old cat is sharper than the pair of us combined."

"A daunting prospect." Pip's green eyes danced with laughter. "Well, if you won't simper, then how do you propose we arrange matters? You must know she won't do it for me."

"I don't know," Belle admitted, her golden eyes troubled. "But I shall think of something, never fear."

"Win her?" Alex regarded the young woman Toby had indicated with a worried frown. "Why the devil should I wish to win a bluestocking, of all things? Besides, Flanders, a gentleman would never bet on a young woman of breeding."

"Oh, posh." Toby tossed his head, causing the artfully arranged curls to tumble over his brow. "I don't mean you should bed her—"

"Toby, I warn you, if you say one more word . . ."

Toby sighed at the cold edge that appeared in Alex's voice. "You rakes are all alike. M'cousin's the same way. Wicked as the devil one minute, and then pokering up like a Methodist minister the next. Really, there is no understanding you."

"Good."

"What I meant to say is that you would win Miss Lambert's agreement to accompany you to some perfectly respectable social function—a ball, perhaps, or a play. That would be more than enough to prove your prowess."

"Rather flimsy proof, I should think," Alex said, although, of course, he had no intention of accepting the preposterous bet. He might be many things, but he wasn't so sunk he would bet against a young woman's good name. Even if she was a bluestocking, he added, noting Miss Lambert's bright-eyed expression with mild interest.

"That is because you ain't familiar with this particular lady," Toby said with a snicker. "The creature is as blue as a periwinkle, and a radical in the bargain. 'Tis said she even published an article in one of the more radical presses opposing the Corn Law."

"I see nothing so radical in that," Alex responded, although he frowned in slight disapproval.

"Perhaps not, but she was also heard to express the desire to vote; can you imagine? The only reason she ain't completely ostracized is because of her friendship with The Golden Icicle. There's few in society willing to cross half a million pounds, I can tell you."

"The what?" Alex could see the patronesses were lining up to receive their guests, and knew his torture was almost at an end. The moment he made his bows he would think of some emergency, and then make a discreet retreat.

"The blond statue standing next to her." Toby dutifully pointed out the other lady to Alex. "Worth a fortune, but you'd get more warmth from one of the Elgin Marbles."

"Are you discussing The Golden Icicle?" Reginald Kingsford drifted over to join them. "Wouldn't bother if I was you. The lady may be rich as Croeseus, but she's far too sharp for my liking. Almost as bad as that Miss Lambert there."

"Precisely what I was telling Lord St. Ives." Toby bobbed his head in agreement. "In fact, I just wagered him a monkey he couldn't get her to accompany him to a ball."

Alex's eyes flashed with fire as he rounded on Toby. "Damn you, Flanders, I warned you," he began heatedly, only to be interrupted by the other man.

"A wager! I say, Flanders, that is infamous! Another five hundred that says he'll succeed."

Alex turned his displeasure on him. "Gentlemen"—he emphasized the word with cutting anger—"never wager on a lady. Period. You will forget this conversation ever took place, both of you."

"No bottom for deep play, eh?" Kingsford, the youngest of the three, looked disappointed. "Pity. I made sure you would win. A viscount and all, and handsome as Adonis. Even a bluestocking like Miss Lambert would be bound to accept your invitation."

The accusation of cowardice had Alex's fists clenching in fury. It was an accusation no gentleman could let stand—not if he valued his reputation in the clubs. For a moment, he felt like accepting, if only to silence the other man. Still, he hesitated, not wishing to involve an innocent lady in something with such potential for scandal.

"Bottom has nothing to do with this," he said, his voice tightly controlled. " 'Tis just that the terms are too uncertain for my liking. Having Miss Lambert accompany me to a ball hardly seems worth so much money, and since I refuse to do anything else which might compromise her good name, that is all there is to be said."

"Not necessarily," Toby corrected, tapping the handle of his quizzing glass against his cheek as he considered the matter. "I agree that bringing Miss Lambert to just any ball would not suffice, but there must be something, a special ball or some such which would provide sufficient proof. But . . ."

"The prince's ball at Carlton House!" the other man interrupted, all but clapping his hands in glee. "It is the perfect choice. Miss Lambert's disdain of the prince and his circle is well-known, and if she was to agree to accompany St. Ives there, it would be as good as a declaration!"

"Kingsford, how very practical of you!" Toby approved with a smile. 'The prince's ball it shall be. Well, your lordship, what do you say?" He turned expectant brown eyes on Alex.

"I say you are both a pair of loonies, and I want no part of it," Alex responded through gritted teeth, making one last attempt to force them to see reason.

"Then you are refusing the wager?" Kingsford pressed, his thin mouth pursing in a smirk.

Alex roundly cursed him beneath his breath, admitting the little dandy had him. To refuse the bet would be tantamount to admitting defeat, and that was something he could not do. A gentleman's honor was a dicey thing, and he knew that once word got about to the clubs, he would be the laughingstock of London. Like it or not, there was nothing he could do but accept. His one hope was that word of the bet didn't spread beyond the three of them. For if it did, it would not be his name that suffered, but Miss Lambert's.

"Very well," he said heavily, "I accept, but with one proviso."

"And what is that?" Kingsford eyed him distrustfully.

"That neither of you tells a soul about this," Alex said, fixing them both in a steely blue glare. "This is among the three of us, and no one else. Agreed?"

"Well, if you do not think you will win," Kingsford began.

"Agreed?"

"Oh, very well." Toby gave a theatrical sigh. "Since you are going to be that way about it, I agree."

"Kingsford?" Alex turned to the younger man.

"As you wish, your lordship." He inclined his blond head mockingly. "I shan't tell another soul."

Alex gave him a hard look, wondering if he could believe him. There was something about his eyes he did not quite trust. "Very well, then, it is a bet," he said, glancing over to the corner to where Miss Lambert and the cool blond were standing, their heads together as if in earnest discussion.

At least the object of the bet was comely, he thought, his eyes lingering on the slender body displayed in the appalling gown. All that remained now was meeting her and convincing her to accompany him to the prince's ball. As Kingsford had said, he was a peer, and whatever airs Miss Lambert might choose to give herself, it was unlikely she would refuse an invitation from so eligible un beau parti. The bet was as good as won.

Two

"Introduce you to St. Ives?" Lady Jersey surveyed Pip with ill-disguised malice. "I should say not! The dear boy might be a Tory, but there are some things even I would not do to an enemy." And with a cutting smile she turned and stalked majestically away.

Pip watched her go, torn between amusement and chagrin. "I told you you should be the one to approach her," she said, flashing Belle a rueful smile. "It seems her ladyship hasn't quite forgiven me for my little indiscretion."

"Hinting that the Luddite riots are not without their merit is hardly a 'little' indiscretion," Belle replied, her slender brows gathering in a frown. "You're extremely lucky you weren't clapped into gaol over it."

"And so are you, considering you helped me draft it," Pip answered, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. "But I still fail to see why you are enacting a Cheltenham Tragedy over this. There are other patronesses, you know. I am sure Countess Lieven would be more than happy to perform the introductions, especially if she thought it would put Old Sal's nose out of joint. Or if worse comes to worst, you could push his lordship into the punch bowl. That has always been a time-honored way of attracting a gentleman's notice, or so I have heard."

Belle's lips twitched in an effort not to smile. "Brat," she accused without heat. "This is serious! The Season will be ending in a little over a month, and we shall have to step lively if we hope to fix his lordship's interest."

Lively indeed, if they hoped to wrangle a ring out of such a notorious rake, Pip thought, although she said nothing. Since Belle had fixed upon St. Ives, she had been recalling every single thing she had heard of the handsome viscount, and what she had heard was hardly reassuring. She'd rather see Belle married to a blustering tyrant like her father than shackled to a man who would surely disgrace his vows with every opera dancer and worldly widow who crossed his path.

As they always did, memories of her deceased father made her stomach tense with anger. Elias Lambert had been the worst sort of bully, using his cutting tongue and blazing temper to keep her and her timid mother firmly under his thumb. He had a low opinion of women, and he never let a day go by but that he didn't let Pip know he considered her a useless burden. The only reason he had left her his fortune was because there was no son to inherit, a blame he seemed more than willing to lay on her doorstep. As if it was somehow her fault she had been born a female, she brooded.

"I don't believe it!" Belle's fingers dug into Pip's arm, disrupting her reverie. "Lady Jersey is coming back!"

"If she's got a brigade of guardsmen with her, we'd best bolt for the border," Pip advised, shaking off her hurtful memories. "Despite what you may think, I've no desire to see the inside of a prison cell."

"No, there aren't any soldiers with her," Belle said in an odd tone of voice. "But she's not alone. Lord St. Ives is with her."

"What?" Pip whirled around, her jaw dropping as she watched a stiff-faced Lady Jersey threading her way through the crowds, the viscount striding boldly at her side. What on earth? she thought, and then the mismatched couple was standing before them.

"Miss Portham, Miss Lambert, how charming to see you again," Lady Jersey said, her stilted voice and wooden smile indicating she considered this meeting anything but charming. "You are enjoying yourselves, I trust?"

"Indeed, your ladyship," Belle responded with a serene smile. "In fact, Miss Lambert and I were just commenting on how delightful everything is. Weren't we?" She shot Pip a meaningful look.

"Utterly delightful," Pip agreed obligingly, thinking that while Belle might draw the line at simpering, she obviously saw nothing wrong with a bit of judicious toadying.

"How nice." Having dispensed with the niceties, the countess turned to the viscount, who had been standing quietly beside her. "Ladies, I do not believe you are acquainted with Lord St. Ives. He arrived in the city a few weeks ago."

"No, we have not yet met." Belle held out a slender hand, dropping a graceful curtsey as Lady Jersey performed the necessary introductions.

"Miss Portham, allow me to present you to Lord Alexander St. Ives. Your lordship, Miss Arabelle Portham."

"Your lordship."

"Miss Portham."

The two exchanged civil greetings, and then Lady Jersey's light blue eyes came to rest on Pip. "And this is Miss Phillipa Lambert, one of our more learned ladies. Miss Lambert, Viscount St. Ives."

"Your lordship." Pip also curtsied, her eyes demurely downcast as she sought to hide her amusement. She didn't doubt but that it must be choking the countess to perform the small, social task, and she couldn't help but wonder what incentive the viscount had brought to bear to force the introduction. She was fairly certain the meeting wasn't any of Lady Jersey's doing.

"Miss Lambert." Alex bowed over her hand, thinking that so far everything was going just as he had planned. When he'd seen the countess speaking to Miss Lambert and the pretty blond, he'd decided to request an introduction, and was surprised when she'd curtly refused. It had taken a great deal of persuasion on his part, but at last the older lady had grudgingly relented, muttering dire warnings beneath her breath as they made their way through the press of the crowd.

"Don't let that dowdy air fool you for one moment, sir. The creature is a hellcat and a minx. Writing tracts, if you will, and having them printed in some wretched journal. If she were a man, she'd be in Botany Bay by now, and good riddance I should say! No title and less than a thousand pounds per annum; hardly worth society's attention. Can't think why we keep letting her in."

He had not deigned to reply, although his curiosity was piqued. Glancing at the slender brunette, he found it hard to imagine how she had so successfully alienated so many influential people. Again he felt a stab of guilt for having accepted the bet, an emotion he hid behind his most winning smile.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lambert. May I request the next dance? Unless, of course, you have promised it to another?"

His request brought Pip's head jerking up in disbelief. She'd assumed he'd requested the introduction to meet Belle, not her. "But I don't dance," she blurted out, her eyes going to Belle as she sought advice.

"Nonsense." Alex retained her hand, determined to get all this behind him as quickly as possible. "I am sure Lady Jersey has no objections to our dancing. Have you, your ladyship?" His cold blue eyes flicked in the countess's direction.

"Certainly not," Lady Jersey replied quickly, relieved at having performed the requested duty. She didn't know why such a handsome and eligible man as St. Ives should be dangling after a quiz like Miss Lambert, but she meant to find out.

"Now if you children will excuse me, I really must be going. I see Lady Cowper speaking with Lady Bessville, and I must go rescue her. Goodbye."

There was an awkward silence, and then Pip turned to Alex. "You will note she did not say who it was who required rescuing," she said with a smile. "And as for yourself, your lordship, you may also consider yourself safely rescued."

"Rescued?" Alex raised a dark eyebrow.

"There is no reason for you to dance with me," she explained, as if to a child. "I am a wretched dancer and would most certainly make a cake of myself. Belle, however, is most accomplished, aren't you, darling?" She gave Belle an encouraging smile.

Before the other woman could reply, Alex took Miss Lambert's arm in a firm hold. "You must not put Miss Portham to the blush, ma'am," he said in a voice that was both teasing and firm. "And if I may refresh your memory, it was you Lady Jersey gave me permission to escort on the dance floor, not Miss Portham. We wouldn't wish to place her in an untenable position."

A lecture on propriety from a rake? Pip was sadly disappointed. She would have preferred the viscount to be a trifle more of an iconoclast and less of a prig. She was about to make her refusal more obvious when the first strains of the waltz reached her ears. Realizing she was trapped, she allowed the viscount to lead her out on to the dance floor.

They had made three successful rotations about the room when Alex said, "You have played me false, Miss Lambert. You dance with the grace of a zephyr."

"And you, sir, lie with the skill of a seasoned politician," Pip responded, mentally wincing as she brought her slippered foot down on his. "If you would like to beg off, I shall certainly understand."

"What a poor opinion you have of me, ma'am, to think I would quit the field before the battle is scarce joined. I am not so easily frightened."

His choice of words struck Pip as amusing. "So it is to be war, then?" she asked, feeling greatly daring. She'd never tried flirting before, and decided the sensation was oddly exhilarating.

"Is it not always war between a man and a woman?" Alex replied smoothly. Miss Lambert was proving to be far more biddable than he had thought, and he was amazed to find he was a trifle disappointed. He'd been rather anticipating taming a shrew. As it was now, he did not doubt but that he would prove successful. A few more flattering words on her dancing ability, and then he would invite her to the prince's ball. How could she refuse?

"Or a political debate," she agreed, deciding she'd had enough of playing coy. She was enjoying the waltz far more than she cared to admit, but it was time she kept her promise to Belle. The first step was to learn just for herself how he felt about political issues. She tilted her head back and gave him a look that was deliberately provoking. "Not that you would know about such things, of course."

Her mocking words brought Alex's foot down on the toe of her slipper. After an embarrassed apology, he gave her a confused look. "What did you mean by that?"

"Nothing." She gave him a superior smile. "The music is lovely, is it not?"

Alex ignored her, concentrating instead on her earlier remark. When the dance ended he escorted her off the floor, leading her to a private corner so that he could continue their conversation. He was hanged if he would allow her oblique comment to pass unremarked.

"I happen to be well-acquainted with political debate, Miss Lambert," he informed her in icy tones, his pursed lips and clenched jaw mute evidence of his displeasure. "I am a member of the House of Lords, you know."

"And haven't made it to more than a handful of sessions," she agreed, delighted at having incurred his displeasure. She would have to warn Belle of his pompous temper, she thought, with a hidden smile. Evidently the viscount took himself more seriously than they had first supposed.

This hint that he had neglected his duty brought a dangerous glitter to Alex's eyes. All his life he had put duty before all else, and her accusation flicked him raw on his pride. "I may not have been as devoted in my attendance as some," he admitted in a voice that would have made many a man back away, "but never doubt for a moment that I am not fully aware of my responsibilities."

"Then why did you miss the debate on Monday?" she pressed, with that same maddening smile. "You must know they are getting ready to vote on the proposed changes in the Corn Bill. The debate was crucial to the outcome of that act."

"The debate was on Monday?" he demanded in a low, furious voice. "It wasn't supposed to take place until tomorrow!"

"Ah, but you know how you Tories are," Pip drawled mockingly. "Always one step ahead of the game. And of course there was the fact the number of Tories greatly outnumber the few Whigs in attendance. Although I am sure that was only a happy coincidence."

"Blast it, I was supposed to give a speech," he muttered, the matter of the bet slipping his mind in the light of this latest development. "And to think I did nothing that day but visit my tailor," he added, more to himself than her. Unfortunately she heard, and was quick to make use of it.

"Duty to one's tailor must, of course, take preference over duty to one's country," she agreed derisively. "I understand. I only hope your fellow Tories share your sartorial sentiments. That way we Whigs shan't have any trouble defeating this ruinous bill."

Her bold declaration brought Alex's dark brows snapping together. "I had heard you were an impertinent bluestocking," he said cuttingly, deciding no bet was worth tolerating such abuse.

"And I had heard you were naught but a care-for-nothing rake," she returned in kind, still delighted. "How refreshing it is to know one may rely on the veracity of society's tattle, n'est-ce pas?"