Miss Foster’s Folly Read online

  He gave her his best bland-but-pleasant smile. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Are all the men at this party out of their minds, or has someone drugged the punch?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

  Her gaze went from the gap at the top of Rosalie’s dress to him, and her lips straightened into a disapproving line. No small feat, that, because the top one curved deliciously. And the bottom one…a man might sell his soul for the chance to sample its lushness. The disarray of her hair and the fact that her dress wasn’t properly fastened added an air of wildness.

  She caught him staring at her mouth, and raised one expressive brow in return. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “David Winslow, Marquis of Derrington.” He gave her a small bow. “At your service, ma’am.”

  In true American fashion, she didn’t curtsey. “Juliet Foster. I don’t think I need the sort of services you were engaged in when I came in.”

  “Figure of speech.”

  She pointed at the young girl on the settee. “Did you explain that to her?”

  Rosalie roused some, moaning.

  “Rosalie Wilson, wake up,” Juliet Foster said. “Your mother must be looking for you.”

  The girl rose from the settee. She wore a sheepish grin, and her skin flushed with embarrassment. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And button your dress before you go back in public.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The young one skirted Derrington and nearly flew from the room, fastening her dress as she went.

  “You should be more careful,” Miss Foster said. “You might have been caught standing over Rosalie Wilson with the buttons to her bodice undone.”

  “My good woman, are you aware of the state of your own buttons?” he asked.

  “What?” She looked down at her chest—at where her bodice had come unfastened—and her eyes went wide. “Turn around, please.”

  “Certainly.” He couldn’t help but grin as he did. Someone had obviously been playing the same sort of game with her as the Wilson girl had played with him. She’d done her best to repair the damage but hadn’t succeeded. That explained her comment about “another one.” “Are you done?”

  “I am.”

  He turned back. She’d fixed her dress, but her hair still appeared tousled. The way it might look before he removed the pins and let it fall over her shoulders and his hands. How in hell did she have that effect on him? She was dressed modestly—perhaps even severely—and still, he could imagine her undressing for him.

  “Do I look decent?” she asked.

  “Perfectly.” Curse it all. “And I’m grateful for your help with Miss Wilson.”

  “I don’t know why you’d need protection from a mere girl.”

  “Young things can twist men into knots, as I’m sure you know.”

  She didn’t say anything but glared at him out of deep, brown eyes.

  “Or perhaps not,” he said. The silence dragged on.

  Foster. Her name was Foster. The whole party had been organized to celebrate the life of Gerard Foster. Or his death, depending on to whom you spoke. This woman wore mourning clothes. The widow. He should have offered sympathy before now.

  “My condolences on your loss,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I never met your husband, Mrs. Foster, but I understand he was a giant among men.”

  “Not my husband. My father.” Her voice dripped ice. “I’m Miss Foster.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Blast. Everything that came out of his mouth was wrong. “I only assumed…that is…it seems all American men have young and beautiful wives.”

  That seemed to please her even less. “I’m not beautiful, Lord Derrington.”

  “How preposterous. Of course you are.”

  That at least confused her rather than displeased her. She cocked her head and stared at him with frank curiosity, as if she’d never considered the possibility that a man might find her attractive. True, she wasn’t what most people would think of as pretty, but any young woman could be pretty. Real beauty—the kind that caught the eye and held it—came along much more rarely. This woman had it in abundance, from her lofty stature to the graceful arch of her brow, to that magnificent mouth. She’d make an absolute vision when fully aroused and flushed with passion. He could picture her with her lips parted and her lashes fluttering on her cheeks while he thrust slowly inside her.

  Damnation. He’d grown hard just thinking about it. What the little idiot hadn’t managed by throwing herself against him, this woman had accomplished with a glance. Miss Foster definitely had potential to meet his needs as a wife. He’d searched all over England for the right woman. He might have found her in New York.

  Whatever magic had wound around him seemed to have affected her, as well. Exactly the response he’d hoped for. Her eyes widened, and her chest rose and fell beneath the black fabric of her dress. “Well, I thought I’d escape into a book, but I’d better get back to the party.”

  That was a lie, of course, but he’d let it go unchallenged. “I’ll accompany you.”

  “No need. I’ll stay here and read, after all.”

  “Then so shall I,” he said.

  The disapproval settled back into her eyes. “All right, then. Take me back to the party.”

  ***

  Juliet finally lost the ridiculous man by sending him off to get her some punch and then disappearing into the crowd. He’d insisted that Rosalie Wilson had molested him and not the other way around. That wasn’t too hard to believe. Rosalie had obviously arranged the tryst. Naturally, Juliet had thought the worst of the situation given what she’d just escaped herself, but most likely, she’d judged Derrington wrongly.

  That didn’t explain his odd reaction to her, of course. For heaven’s sake…a handsome man like that—an English lord, of all things—insisting that she was beautiful and then looking at her as if he’d like to make a meal of her. She hadn’t imagined that, not one little bit. She’d caught the fever from him somehow, as well. All of a sudden, she’d had to drag air into her lungs, and her skin had grown warm. What a strange reaction. He hadn’t even touched her.

  One of them was insane, but it didn’t matter which one. She only needed to get away from him to make sense of it all.

  Finally, she found Jack some distance from the dance floor. He had Millie on his arm. The two people she most enjoyed in the world. Her haven.

  She slipped between them and twined her arms in theirs. “Thank heaven, I’ve found you.”

  “You look flustered, love,” Jack said. “Whatever have you been up to?”

  “More than flustered,” Millie said. “How did your hair get mussed?”

  “A little misunderstanding with one of Papa’s partners.” She scanned the room to see if the two conspirators had rejoined the party. No sign of either them or their wives. Maybe they’d left in disgrace.

  “What kind of misunderstanding gets into a lady’s hair?” Millie said.

  “The kind a lady doesn’t speak of. Especially when speaking of her father’s…now her brother’s…partners.

  “One of them tried something with you?” Millie said.

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Which one?” Jack said. “I’ll kill him for you. In a duel for your honor.”

  “I don’t know what’s funnier,” she said. “The idea that you’d fight a duel or that I have honor.”

  “That isn’t funny,” Millie said. “It’s disgraceful.”

  “It’s both, but then something else interesting happened. I just met the strangest man.”

  Jack patted her hand. “Tell Uncle Jack.”

  “An Englishman. He says he’s a marquis.”

  “Derrington,” Jack said. “That scoundrel. No wonder your feathers are all aflutter.”

  She pulled her hand back. “I don’t have feathers, and if I did, he wouldn’t flutter them.”

  “Is he really a scoundrel, Mr. Carter?” Milli
e asked.

  “No one in Manhattan seems to know of his reputation,” Jack said. “But I have sources overseas.”

  Interesting. Maybe she’d underestimated the English. She could hardly call that man stodgy. He groomed and dressed himself the way other men of her set did. Expensive, but understated. He would have blended into the crowd except for a wicked twinkle in his amber eyes. It had only flashed once or twice during their encounter. She’d thought she imagined it, but if Jack had the story straight, there was more to him than she’d thought.

  “Someone’s intrigued,” Jack said.

  “Hmm?” she said.

  “He’s captured your imagination,” Jack said.

  “He’s a curious sort,” she said.

  Jack laughed. “Maybe that’s what you call it.”

  She glared at him. “All right, let’s have the whole story.”

  “Well, do you know how half the inns in New England say ‘Washington slept here’? Derrington puts the general to shame.”

  “A rake,” Millie said.

  “Of the worst kind.” Jack leaned toward them. “And yet, there’s a mystery to him.”

  “Really?” Juliet said.

  “Word has it that since he arrived in Manhattan, any number of women have expressed interest in an affair of the heart,” Jack said. “He’s turned them all down.”

  “Why would he do that?” she said.

  Jack shrugged. “No one knows. It’s a complete mystery.”

  “Interesting,” she said.

  “Oh, no,” Millie said. “I don’t like that look.”

  “What look?” she said.

  “You’re making plans. I can see the wheels turning in your head.” Millie turned to Jack. “Has she told you her crazy idea for going to Europe, Mr. Carter?”

  Juliet glared at her. “Remember, this trip is for you. You’re ill, Millie. You’re very, very ill.”

  “Honestly.” Millie huffed. “I’ve never been healthier, and you know it.”

  “Juliet?” Jack said. “The truth.”

  “I’ll tell you later. You’ll approve.”

  Millie crossed her arms over her chest. “I doubt that.”

  “And you keep quiet, Miss Tattler.”

  Millie huffed again.

  “Can your sources find out where Derrington’s staying, Jack?” she asked.

  “Juliet, don’t you dare.”

  She shushed Millie and turned to Jack, placing a palm on his chest. “You can find out for me, can’t you?”

  “I can never say no to you, love.”

  ***

  The party for Gerard Foster went into the wee hours, but Derrington spent most of his time searching for the man’s daughter. Not the elder daughter. She was easy enough to find, along with her husband. And her brother and his wife. None of them interested him in the least. Juliet Foster, on the other hand, still occupied his mind even as he undressed and prepared for sleep.

  His valet moved around the room with his usual efficiency and nary a complaint about the lateness of the hour. But then, James had probably put the long evening to good use. With all of New York’s finest at the party, ladies’ maids had spare time and nothing to do with it. No doubt, James had found his way into a young lady’s good graces in one of the other houses.

  Derrington sat on his bed and picked up the letter that had instigated this trip to the wilds of the United States in search of a suitable wife, or perhaps more accurately, an unsuitable one.

  My dearest Bump, it began.

  I’d beg you to visit me again in Italia, but I’ve become reflective in my old age, and I don’t think you’d find the same collaborator in misbehavior I’ve been since you could first walk. I’ve taken to sitting quietly in the piazza with the other nonne and find I don’t even have the energy to bedevil the fishmonger any longer.

  He set the letter in his lap, remembering the day he’d first read those words. His stomach had sunk at the time. The feeling hadn’t improved since then.

  “That same letter from your grandmother, my lord?” James, his valet said.

  “The very one.”

  “You’ve read it several times. It always dims your spirits.”

  “It’s not like Harry to sit quietly for any length of time, not even in a piazza.”

  “Does she say she’s ill?” James asked.

  “Not in so many words,” he said. “But she’d never admit to anything like that.”

  He went back to reading.

  I do want to see my partner in crime, but when you come, I want you to bring a wife. I need to know you’re happy and, the Almighty willing, meet my great-grandchild—a new heir to the Derrington title and lands—before, well…

  “You see, here’s the problem.” Derrington slapped the paper. “She never exhorts the Deity. Never. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

  “She was in good health when you last saw her, wasn’t she?”

  “True, but at her age…even a mischievous spirit can’t keep her alive forever.”

  “Perhaps you should visit her and see how she is.”

  “I will, but I’ll honor her wish and bring the new Lady Derrington with me.”

  James paused in the act of brushing Derrington’s jacket. “So, you really have decided to marry.”

  “No one could force me to take a wife, but I could never deny Harry anything. Besides, at my age, most men in my station have an heir. It’s time I did the right thing—for the first time in my life.”

  James finished with the coat and set it aside. “As you say, sir.”

  Derrington went back to the letter.

  Now, you must remember your special circumstances, my darling child. You’ve inherited what some call the Winslow Curse. It skips a generation along the male line, bestowing on every other heir a rebellious nature that gives the rest of the family fits. I knew the moment that we named you Bump that you’d share my husband’s nature. That nature made us soul mates until the day he died.

  His few memories of his grandfather had faded over time, leaving only hazy impressions. He and Harry had adored each other and had given their Bump a special place within their love. His parents had thought his grandparents spoiled him. Successive generations of the Winslow family seldom understood each other as a result of the Curse. One marquis would do his duty—take his seat in the Lords, adore his sovereign, find a docile, adaptable wife, and have a son—only to have that child disrupt the dignity and tranquility his father had worked so hard to establish.

  The only hope for the son lay in finding exactly the right woman to tame his wildness by overwhelming him with her own rebellious nature. The two then spent the rest of their lives totally absorbed by each other, leaving everyone else around them in peace. Sadly, qualified women were few and far between. Over time, the requirements had assembled into a code of sorts, a list of characteristics the restless heir used while searching for a mate. When he found her, he settled down and produced another reasonable marquis to carry on the family duties.

  “What else does she say, sir?” James asked.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Your grandmother,” the valet said. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “The usual she’s recited to me all my life. The requirements a woman must meet to be my wife.” He cleared his throat. “For one, she must stir my loins.”

  “Your loins, my lord?”

  “I’m not entirely comfortable with my grandmother discussing my loins, but yes. That one’s extremely important,” he said. Miss Juliet Foster stirred his loins. More than stirred them.

  “She must have a quick mind and a quicker wit,” he went on. “She must have money and status of her own, or she must fiercely care for neither. That way, I know she hasn’t married me for mine.”

  “So, that’s why you came to New York?”

  “I’ve heard people are absurdly wealthy here,” he said. “And, with Americans’ love for equality, no one requires a title to rise in status.”

&nbs
p; “Wise choice.”

  “Then, the last,” he said. “She needs to have as many or more tricks than I do. I’m not completely sure what that one means.”

  He returned to the letter.

  Do come soon, my sweet Bump, but bring the lady with you. I hope to see your wife and child while there’s still time.

  Love, Harry.

  He folded the letter, slipped it into the envelope and put it back on the table beside his bed. “No, I don’t like the tone of that at all.”

  “Though Lady Derrington left the manor long ago, it would be odd to think of her never presiding there again,” James said.

  Derrington undid his neck cloth and handed it to his valet. “We all have to meet our Maker sometime, but harps and serenity aren’t Harry’s cup of tea. She’d drive St. Peter to distraction within a week.”

  “I’m sure she would, sir.”

  “No, I’m not ready to give her up yet.” He sighed. “Instead, I’ll do what she’s asked…marry. But only to the right woman.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be very happy, my lord.”

  He sat for a moment. “I wonder if I could ask you a favor.”

  “Anything, my lord,” James answered.

  “Do you suppose you could forge an alliance with someone in the Foster household?”

  “Already done, sir.”

  “I should have known.” Derrington removed the diamond studs from his dress shirt and handed them to James. “I hope your connection is a talkative creature.”

  “Very much so, sir.” James put the studs into their box. “She’s seldom quiet, even during…”

  “That must make things difficult.”

  “She has other advantages that make up for it,” James said. “Your sleeve buttons, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes.” He removed them and handed them to his man. He took off his shirt and set it on the bed. “Does she talk about her employers?”

  “Constantly.”

  “Tell me, are they as rich as they seem?”

  “That and more so,” James answered. “The Foster fortune is one of the greatest in the United States.”