The Pursuit Of Marriage (10 page)

“I do indeed. Although I admit I might be less approving were you to include this particular room in your plans.”

“As per your instructions, I was to leave your library alone. If you have changed your mind—”

“Absolutely not,” he said quickly and turned to study the library. “I don’t see a single thing in this room I would wish to change. I like the way it looks, and more, I like the way it, well, feels.”

His gaze moved slowly around the room as if to take in every detail, well known and cherished. Richly paneled walls were hung with ancient family portraits and far more contemporary paintings she recognized as the works of Mr. Turner and Mr. Constable. At either end, floor-to-ceiling shelves filled to overflowing with finely bound books with the appearance of age and use. It was a masculine room that fairly shouted of the affairs and concerns and business of men and men alone. She would have been surprised if Lord Berkley, or indeed any man, would want such a bastion of masculinity disturbed. Surprised and possibly disappointed.

“There is an air about it,” he said, in the manner of a man satisfied with his world.

“One could say that,” she murmured.

He glanced at her with obvious amusement. “I take it you don’t like the lingering scent of well-worn, comfortable leather chairs coupled with the hint of musty books?”

“You failed to mention the vague suggestion of tobacco and brandy. It’s a very…masculine atmosphere.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I daresay you’re right.” He raised a curious brow. “Does it bother you? Being in yet another male domain?”

“Not in the least.” She waved off his question. “We have already established that I have no qualms whatsoever about invading certain male territory, although I will confess there are limits to my boldness. For example, I would never set foot in a gentleman’s club. It wouldn’t be at all proper.”

He choked back a laugh.

She continued as if she hadn’t heard. “However, I quite agree with you: There is a comforting feel here of tradition and affection, too, I think.”

He cast her an approving look, then returned to his perusal of the room. “I admit, though, that, while I do love the very smell of this place, the air I speak of isn’t scent. Rather it’s memory. My father and I spent hours together here.”

“How long has he been gone?” she asked softly.

“Nearly a dozen years now, but in this room I feel very close to him. I liked him, a great deal really, and as a man, not merely a father, and I think he liked me as well. I think he was pleased with me.” He paused for a long moment, and Cassie wondered if he was recalling those long-ago days. At last, he glanced at her with a sheepish expression. “Forgive me, Miss Effington, I am not normally so sentimental.”

“Take care, my lord, that you don’t damage your reputation.” The light note in her voice belied how touched she was at his obvious affection for his father. “I don’t think you can be infamous and sentimental at the same time.”

He laughed. “I shall have to watch myself then.”

His gaze met hers, and she had the oddest sense that they had just reached an understanding. Perhaps they could indeed be friends. Perhaps they could be more.

Perhaps…

Absolutely not.

She firmly pulled her gaze from his and returned her attention to the sketches on the table, ignoring an odd fluttering sensation somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach.

“I’ve added paint here and there to indicate what I would suggest in terms of color, but as I employed watercolors, do keep in mind the shades are far paler than I ultimately intend. They are simply to indicate a family of color more than a specific hue. For example,” she indicated the drawing of the dining room, “the color on paper here is more approximating a pink than a deeper shade. Something akin to a pomegranate seed, I should think, would be perfect in that room.”

“Pomegranate seed?”

“Red?”

“Of course, yes, red,” he murmured. “Excellent color.”

She resisted the urge to grin. Whatever else Lord Berkley might be, he was very much a typical male, and in that respect, most amusing. “Thank you, my lord. And in this drawing room, I thought—”

“Forgive me for interrupting, Miss Effington,” he said abruptly. “But this talk of fathers has brought to mind a question that has puzzled me. Is the rest of your family, your parents in particular, as disapproving as your brothers about your work?”

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure.” She thought for a moment. “My father will tell you that Effington women, whether born into the family or married into it, are for the most part unique and even headstrong. They have a history of doing precisely as they wish.” She flashed him a smile. “Father says it’s in the blood.”

“I believe I may have heard something of the sort.” A teasing note sounded in his voice.

“He will further tell you that as long as a certain amount of scandal is avoided, he is content to let his daughters find their own way in life.” At once she realized she had never quite understood before how unique that was. “In that I think I am exceedingly lucky.”

“He is a most unusual man.”

“Indeed he is.”

“And what of your mother?”

“My mother is not overly pleased, although she is rather,” she grinned, “eccentric in her own right. My mother is dedicated to the belief that our futures and our fortunes and our very fates are written in the stars. She believes as well in all manner of oddities like reincarnation and the reading of palms and tea leaves and cards.”

“I see. She is superstitious then.”

“Not at all.” Cassie shook her head. “She considers it a science and will go on and on for hours in a detailed explanation of how such things were widely accepted by the ancients and have been employed for as long as man has been on the earth. Her vast knowledge of the subject, as well as her fervor, can be most fascinating.” She laughed. “As well as most annoying.”

“Perhaps she will do me the honor of espousing her convictions to me one day.”

“Perhaps.”

“After all, you and I have promised to be friends. I have already met two of your brothers, and I should very much like to meet your well-versed mother and your long-suffering father.” His amused gaze met hers.

The thought flashed through her mind that, were it not for his reputation, he would be very much the kind of man she would not mind meeting her parents. It struck her as well that he would not see her mother as eccentric, or the rest of the Effingtons as odd, but rather he would find them interesting and even delightful. Much as she thought of them herself.

What a pity he was the kind of man he was and not the kind of man she wanted.

“I’m certain you will meet them at one function or another.”

What kind of woman did he want?

She turned back to the drawings and forced a casual note to her voice. “Now then, while I am pleased that you like my proposals thus far, I confess to being at something of a disadvantage in not knowing what the lady who will occupy this house would like. She might not be the least bit fond of red.”

“Pomegranate,” he said with a grin.

“Or lemon yellow for that matter.”

“I wish I could be of assistance but, as we have already established, there is not as yet either wife or fiancée. Of course, I’m certain there will be any number of prospects at whatever social function I am to attend tomorrow night.”

“Lady Puget’s ball?”

“I believe so. I should be happy to acquire a future viscountess at that very event if it would help your efforts.” His lips didn’t so much as twitch, but there was a definite laugh in his eyes.

“Would you, my lord?” She widened her eyes in a show of mock delight. “That would indeed make my work ever so much easier, and I would be eternally grateful as, I’m sure, will any woman you choose to honor with your attentions.” She fluttered her lashes and gazed up at him. He laughed. “Well said, Miss Effington.”

“Better still, we can refurbish your house and then you can select a future wife on the basis of whether or not she matches the bed hangings,” she said brightly.

“Indeed we could. I’d hate to have a wife who didn’t match the bed hangings.” A wicked look gleamed in his eye.

She ignored it. “It seems as good a quality as many I’ve heard.”

“Ah yes, and you should know, as you have very definite requirements regarding the man you propose to marry. That being the mythical Lord Perfect, of course.”

“I must say, I do rather resent the use of the name Lord Perfect.” She pulled her brows together in annoyance. “It sounds ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous or not, it is accurate. Or have your sentiments softened since we last spoke of this matter?

Are you now willing to settle for a man who might be less than perfect? Lord Almost Perfect or Lord Nearly Perfect or even the Honorable Mr. Not Quite Perfect?”

“Lord Perfect is sounding better and better,” she snapped. “Although I don’t know why what I wish for in a spouse matters to you.”

“In truth, it doesn’t. I don’t care at all. Or at least no more so than I would care about anyone to whom I have offered my friendship. You have, however, piqued my curiosity. There is nothing more to it than that.”

He shrugged. “I simply do not understand how an intelligent woman with the courage of her convictions and any number of other admirable qualities would want perfection in a man rather than excitement or adventure or the passion inherent in such a life.”

“Then it’s to your advantage that you do not need to understand, as this entire subject has nothing to do with you whatsoever.”

She smiled firmly, turned on her heel, and crossed the room, stopping to give the appearance of examining an ancestral painting. In truth, however, her retreat was to hide her confusion, as well as to escape from the conversation.

The blasted man had gotten right to the heart of it with no effort at all. How could she possibly tell him, when she had only recently realized it herself, that such a man of excitement and adventure, a man with a wicked look in his eye and a confident smile on his lips, a man one might call infamous, would doubtless prove her downfall? That once she stepped on the path to ruin she would probably like it and there could be no turning back? No, a man who was perfect, or perfect by her definition at any rate, would provide a life without danger or difficulties. A life that was…perfect. And if the price for perfection was the sacrificing of a bit of adventure or excitement or passion, it was well worth it.

She turned toward him. “Lord Berkley, I have seen what happens to women who lose their hearts and their virtue to men of questionable reputations.”

“Infamous men?” He smirked.

“Yes.” She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. The annoying man obviously delighted in his infamous status. “As you have credited me with intelligence, you must admit it would be the height of stupidity to become involved with men of that sort, and most irresponsible as well. Why, anything could happen.”

“Indeed it could.” He narrowed his eyes in confusion. “What could happen?”

“Well, anything. Anything at all. And probably quite dire.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I can’t imagine that you, of all people, don’t understand exactly what could happen to a woman in that situation.”

“You are jumping to yet another conclusion, Miss Effington. In spite of my reputation, I cannot recall ever putting a woman in that situation, nor is it in my plans for the future.”

The look on his face told her more than his mere words, and she hadn’t a doubt as to his sincerity. Her opinion of him notched upward.

“I do apologize, my lord. I didn’t mean—”

He waved away her words. “Tell me what could happen.”

“Very well.” She drew a deep breath. “I could be embroiled in scandal. My reputation could be ruined, along with the rest of my life. I could—”

“You could fall passionately in love.”

She stared. “Why on earth would you mention love?”

He snorted. “Because you haven’t, which begs the question as to why not.”

“What do you mean?”

“My dear Miss Effington, not once in our discussions of what you want, or, more to the point, what you do not want in a match have you mentioned the word love.” He studied her curiously. “Aren’t you at all interested in love?”

“Well, certainly I—”

He stepped toward her. “Have you ever been in love?”

She debated whether or not to tell him the truth, then wrinkled her nose. “No.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Never?”

“Never.”

“Not even once?”

“No, not once, not ever.” She glared. “Have you?”

“Good God, yes.”

She raised a brow. “More than once, I gather?”

“Definitely more than once.”

“How many times?”

He thought for a moment. “After I reached my majority or before?”

“After, I should think,” she said slowly.

“Oh, after, well then.” His brow furrowed in thought. “I have no idea. Dozens?”

“Dozens!”

“Well, I shouldn’t think it was hundreds.” He shook his head. “It could be, I suppose, close to—no, no, it’s definitely dozens.”

She stared in disbelief. “Perhaps we are not talking about the same thing. There is a distinct difference between,” she searched for the right word, “amorous liaisons, lust if you will, and love. Precisely how do you define love, my lord?”

“The same way everyone else does, I presume. Love is…well it’s…that is to say…” He met her gaze directly, his voice level and unwavering. “Love, Miss Effington, is the process of standing at the edge of a precipice and allowing yourself to tumble forward, freely, with the sure and certain knowledge that you can fly.”

“What if you can’t?” she said without thinking. “What if you…you…plummet? What if, God forbid, you hit the bottom? What then?”

“Then you are bruised and battered and your heart is more than likely broken, but you pick yourself up. You mend. You heal, and when that precipice beckons once more, you do it again.” He smiled ruefully.

“The sheer joy of flying, Miss Effington, is well worth the risk.”

“Good Lord, you’re a poet!”

“Don’t be absurd. I’m not in the least—” He looked inordinately pleased with himself. “Do you really think so?”

“I didn’t say you were a good poet, but yes, I do. In truth, my lord, I think you are a romantic.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine such a thing.”

“And I cannot imagine a moment when you will not judge me based on who you think I am rather than who I really am.” He huffed in obvious annoyance.

At once Cassie realized that perhaps she had pushed him too far. She inched toward the door. “I should take my leave.”

“Not quite yet, Miss Effington.” His tone was firm, and there was a resolute look in his eye. Before she could protest, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to the bookshelves at one end of the room.

“My lord, what are you—”

“I know it goes against everything you believe in and your very nature but, for once, just once, do try to hold your tongue.”

She opened her mouth, caught the all too threatening look in his eye, and pressed her lips tight together.

“Excellent. Now, then,” he said, nodding at the opposite side of the room, “the shelves on that side of the library are filled with books of a factual or analytical nature. History, astronomy, geography, philosophy, and so forth. On this end, however, are works of literature and poetry and the creative genius of mankind.”

His hungry gaze wandered over the book-lined shelves that reached upward endlessly toward the heavens. She wondered if he remembered that he still held her hand.

“While I have read many of the books on the far wall of the library, they were read primarily as part of my school studies rather than choice, although admittedly, the knowledge I gained has served me well. But these books, Miss Effington”—intensity and, yes, passion colored his voice—“waited for me until I could appreciate them, I think. I did not read a great deal in my youth, but in recent years I have read them all, some more than once.”

“That’s quite admirable, my lord,” she murmured. Was he going to release her hand?

“Here are the works of Chaucer and Donne, Spenser and De Vere.” He scanned the shelves. “Malory and Defoe. Defoe was one of the few authors I was fond of as a boy.” He glanced at her. “Do you like Defoe, Miss Effington?”

“Most certainly,” she said lightly, searching her mind for any detail on Defoe. “Who on earth could possibly not like Defoe. All that…um…”