Stealing Lord Stephen (Lost Lords, Book 3), page 7
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Because I enjoy it.”
A dark-haired lad ran up, all arms and legs and gangly besides. “Lord Stephen, we are setting up another match. You will play, yes?” A faint accent coloured his words, the cadence slightly off.
Lord Stephen grunted, tipping his chin up in affirmation. “Tell the other lads I’ll be there shortly.”
The boy beamed. “Yes, sir,” he said, and then ran back to the field. As he did so, he passed another player who was making his way toward them. The man said something to the boy to make him grin and then continued toward them.
Sera glanced at Lord Stephen as the man approached. The slightest of frowns touched his brow, but he said nothing as the man joined them. He was handsome, with a lean, rangy build, and sweat had made damp curls of his dark hair, wrecked by his fingers into sticking and standing from his skull in turn. His skin was tanned golden by the sun, and his features boasted a strong, aquiline nose while an easy grin pulled at his full lips.
“Greetings, my lady. It is a delight to have you at our training.” His words were coloured with the same accent as the boy. “It would be a delight also to have your acquaintance, if this surly chap will introduce us.”
Sera hid a smile as the man grinned at Lord Stephen.
“Franco, this is Lady Seraphina Waller-Mitchell. Lady Seraphina, Senor Christopher Franco,” Lord Stephen said flatly.
“Mr Franco, if you please. We are in England.”
Lord Stephen glanced at Mr Franco. “Since when do you refer to yourself as such?”
“My father and mother may claim Italy and Campania as their birthplace, but I was born here, Farlisle.” Mr Franco turned his dazzling smile on Sera. “My lady, are you here to donate?”
Lord Stephen’s frown turned ferocious. “Franco, that is not why—”
“We can show you more of our programme, if you give me a moment to make myself presentable.” Grinning, he gestured at Lord Stephen. “His lordship here, too.”
Glancing between them, she returned Mr Franco’s smile even as her thoughts raced. “Your programme?”
“Our charity receives patronage from some of the most prestigious people in the Ton, as I’m sure Lord Stephen has already informed you. I am certain, however, a lady such as yourself does not require my opinion when it is clear you are more than capable of forming your own.”
Mr Franco was very charming, flattering in the right places, deferential in others. No doubt he won many a patron to his side with his charisma, and his roguish grin would have the ladies flocking to bask in his glow and, she was certain, to his bed. “Mr Franco, do you find such an approach often works? I imagine you apply such flattery frequently.”
For a moment, he stared at her, then he burst out in laughter. “I do, Lady Seraphina,” he said. “Has it worked with you?”
“Perhaps. I will discuss it with my man of business, in any event. Being charitable is our duty and our privilege, do you not think?”
“I do.” He turned an amused glance on Lord Stephen. “You didn’t bring her here for the charity, did you?”
“I didn’t bring her here at all,” Lord Stephen said sourly.
“Va bene.” He looked at Lord Stephen. “Mi dispiace, my friend.”
Lord Stephen shrugged.
“I shall leave you now. As I said, a delight to meet you, Lady Seraphina.”
“And you, Mr Franco.” She gave him her prettiest smile.
Amusement lit his features. He glanced at Lord Stephen. “Good luck.”
Lord Stephen grunted.
With another dazzling smile, Mr Franco bowed and departed.
As Mr Franco rejoined those on the field, Sera turned to Lord Stephen. “A charity?”
His hands tightened on his biceps. “As Franco said.”
She digested this. She had heard nothing of Lord Stephen’s involvement with a charity and, if Maria and Elizabeth could not discover it, it meant he kept it very quiet indeed. “And what is this charity?”
He exhaled. “None of your concern.”
“It is my concern, if I am to contribute to it.”
He shot her a dark look. “You do not have to prevaricate for my benefit. Clearly, Franco could think of no other reason you would be here.”
“Your conquests do not often come to quiver and sigh over your physical prowess?”
His gaze sharpened. “Is that what you were doing? Quivering and sighing?”
Abruptly, she realised she had lost control of this conversation. “You run a charity?” she said instead.
He stared at her a moment, clearly torn. “I do,” he finally said.
“What is it?”
The tension drained from his body. “This one is to increase literacy and school attendance in factory children.”
She blinked. This one? “How?”
“We run a football league where participation is contingent on attending a certain number of hours of schooling. We also realise if children attend school, they are not earning wages for their family, so we pay them what they would have earned if they were working.”
Astonishment locked her jaw. He was— That— “This is what you want Sutton’s money for?”
He nodded sharply.
“Why did I know none of this?” she asked, almost to herself.
“The Ton is interested in pleasure, not toil.”
Hackles rising, she whipped her gaze to his.
Before she opened her mouth to defend herself, he said, “I mean no offence. We are raised to care of little but our own pleasure, especially if we are not a first-born son.” His lips twisted. “I know my father did not care to impress upon me the importance of duty to one’s fellow man.”
Studying him, she said slowly, “And you have found this approach successful?”
He nodded once. “We’ve had a significant increase in school attendance, but we always require funds, hence my attendance at balls and gatherings. We must go where the money is.” He grimaced. “That reminds me.”
“Reminds you of what?”
“I must see my brother.” He straightened. “So, you wished to see me?
Belatedly, she recalled the reason she had trudged out on this heath. The reason he had forced her to trudge out on the heath. Hiding her scowl, she opened her reticule and withdrew a folded sheaf of paper. “I have determined a plan for our courtship. As you can see, I have drawn up a schedule.”
Taking the sheaf, he leafed through it. “This is…comprehensive.”
She lifted her chin. “Of course. I am nothing if not thorough.”
“Thursday, three o’clock in the afternoon. Escort Lady Seraphina to Liddle’s Tea Shop,” he read. “Thursday, half three in the afternoon. Escort to Merriweather’s Book Emporium.” He raised his gaze to hers. “Only half an hour for an ice?”
“You will find all items allotted in thirty-minute increments.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Will I?”
“I find determining a unit of measurement helpful when planning. Thirty minutes seemed most effective—enough time to be noticed, not too much to be the subject of speculation.”
Almost smiling, he shook his head. “I cannot argue with that.”
“Look over my schedule. If you have any conflicts, mark them and return to me.”
He glanced at the paper. “Tonight I shall see you at the Canton-Smythe musicale?”
“You shall.”
“Excellent.” He smiled, widely and with genuine amusement. As he did on the field.
Her breath strangled in her chest. When he smiled, he was…dazzling. Overwhelmed, she fought to conceal her reaction, to maintain the fiction she was unaffected. But she was affected. Horribly.
“I will see you again this evening, Lady Seraphina,” he said, his smile fading to a warm glow. He gave no indication he had noticed her distraction. Thank goodness.
“If we are to pretend courtship, you must call me Seraphina,” she said, pretending now herself composed.
“Seraphina.” His rough voice caressed her name.
A shiver ran through her. What on earth was wrong with her? This could not be tolerated. “And I may call you Stephen?”
The corner of his mouth kicked up again. “You may.” Someone called his name from the field. “I must go,” he said.
“Of course.”
“Until this evening, Seraphina.” Again he caressed her name.
Unable to speak, she nodded.
With another enigmatic smile, he turned and rejoined the field.
She watched him go, her heart racing. His shirt still highlighted the lines of his back, and her mouth dried as he performed a stretch that pushed the long muscles against the cloth—
Hastily, she turned and made her way back to her carriage. The less she thought on a rumpled and dishevelled Lord Stephen, the better.
Chapter Eight
SERA RESISTED THE URGE to take her watch from her pocket and check it again. It was only two after the hour. Lord Stephen was not late enough as yet to warrant annoyance. At least, that was what she told herself. She was, in fact, annoyed. Vastly.
The street was bustling with afternoon traffic, and the tea shop was quickly filling up. She’d had Delphine reserve a table, and even now her maid sat at that table to ensure none would presume to think it available, a scowl and a torrent of angry French scaring away those who dared approach.
Her watch burned a hole in her pocket. They had attended the Canton-Smythe musicale two evenings previous, as per her plan. He’d been amiable and attentive, and any who observed would be hard pressed to assume anything other than the beginnings of a courtship between them. She’d even spied the Duke of Sutton spying on them, his mouth tight with annoyance. Pleased, she’d turned her cheek and pretended not to notice his ire, laughing and touching Lord Stephen’s arm to dig salt into the duke’s wounds.
Stephen now finally strode toward her, and she cast a critical eye. His clothing was better fitting and more fashionable than the garb he wore to the ball and the musicale, as if the more formal attire was less often employed and thus not as often replaced. Buckskin breeches outlined his powerful thighs more ably than those he’d worn to the ball, the material clinging lovingly to every muscle. A sable-brown coat stretched over his broad shoulders, and now she knew the shape of the arms beneath, it seemed obvious to her the strength in his lean frame. The tall hat concealed most of his blond hair, though pomade slicked the strands curled around his ears. He moved with confidence, light on his feet, and she could see the influence of the hours he spent on a football field in his every step.
“Lady Seraphina.” He halted before her, bowing sharply.
She was going to respond in kind but instead what came out was, “You’re late.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up. “My apologies, I know that disturbs your schedule. We won’t have the full half-hour for ices.”
“No, we won’t.” She arched her brow. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”
Still wearing that slight smile, he nodded solemnly as he held out his arm. “Shall we?”
Wrapping her fingers around his forearm, she allowed him to escort her into Liddle’s Tea Shop.
Delphine did indeed sit at the table, baring her teeth at a gentleman who attempted to take the table. “Thank you, Delphine,” Sera said. Turning an acid smile on the gentleman, she asked, “Did you wish something, sir?”
He balked. “No. I am sorry. I—” Hastily, he removed himself.
Stephen watched him leave. “Impressive,” he said softly.
She ignored the thrill his approval gave her. “Delphine,” she said to her maid. “You may order yourself an ice.”
“Merci, my lady. I have long desired the tangerine.”
Sera kept her expression mildly pleased. Tangerine. Ugh. “You may go, Delphine.”
Shooting a fierce glare at Stephen, she made her way to the counter.
“Why did she glare at me?” he asked.
Taking her seat, Sera replied, “She is protective.”
Amusement twisted his lips. “From what I’ve seen, you need little protection,” he said as he also took his seat. After summoning a waiter and placing their order, he said, “What shall we talk about?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“We are to sit here for the next—” He consulted his pocket watch. “Eighteen minutes. What shall we discuss?”
Mind blank, she stared at him. She had not thought that far. How could she not think that far? “It’s lovely weather we’re having,” she said, and dared him to comment on such an inane attempt.
“Yes, lovely weather.” Barking a laugh, the corner of his mouth kicked up further. “Surely we can do better than the weather?”
“Very well.” While she was still marvelling she’d somehow wrangled a laugh out of him, she cast about for something to say. “Why did you choose the flavour you did?”
“Because I like it.”
She frowned. “That is not very descriptive.”
“No,” he said, and did not continue.
Breath exploding in a huff, she said crossly, “You are very vexing.”
Again, that slight smile. “I know.”
The sight of that oh-so-slight smile did not cause her heart to race. It didn’t. “Let us try this again. What flavour did you choose? Why do you like it? If you couldn’t choose that one, what would be your second choice?”
“Lemon basil. Because it tastes tart and fresh. Most likely pistachio.”
“I chose strawberry and rhubarb.”
Staring at her, he rubbed his finger over his bottom lip. “And why did you choose strawberry and rhubarb?”
She smiled sweetly. “Because I like it.”
He laughed.
She sat back, absurdly pleased she’d made him laugh. Twice.
In a bustle of activity, their ices were placed before them. The sweet aroma of strawberries teasing her nose, and her mouth watered in anticipation.
Opposite her, Stephen lifted a spoon laden with ice, opening his mouth just enough to allow it to enter. Full lips closed delicately around the metal, his eyes fluttering as he absorbed the taste. The fabric of his gloves stretched his knuckles, long fingers cradling the delicate spoon in his large hand. His throat moved as he swallowed, his tongue darting out to caress the last of the ice from the spoon.
She made a sound.
He paused mid-lick. “I beg your pardon?”
Her head felt thick, and a fierce pulse pounded deep within her. “What?”
“You made a noise.”
“I— Nothing.” Hastily, she lowered her gaze to her own ice, her heart racing. Good God. How could he make the eating of an ice so…so sensual?
“Are you not enjoying your ice?” He frowned. “You haven’t touched it.”
“How goes your charity?” she asked, mostly to distract him.
“Good.” Still he frowned. “Thank you for your donation,” he added belatedly.
Regally, she inclined her head. “You are very welcome.”
“How did you organise funds so quickly?” He lifted his spoon again to his mouth.
Unwilling to be so affected again, she averted her gaze. “I have full control of the inheritance my mother left me. Apparently, she believed a woman should have wealth independent of any man in her life.”
“Ah.” He licked his spoon and she tried, very hard, not to notice every movement of his tongue. “It must be nice, to have such easy access to wealth.”
“Did you not have an inheritance of your own?”
He nodded, acknowledging the truth she spoke. “I did. And, if you ask those who know, I squandered it.”
The sheer bitterness of his words stopped her harsh rejoinder. “And if I asked you?” she finally said.
For a long moment, he stared at her. Then, he said, “Did you know I was in an accident?”
She could think of no reason to prevaricate. Slowly, she nodded.
He nodded also. “I was bedridden for two years. The only reason I now walk is blind luck: the physician who happened upon me had some radical notions and I was in no position to refuse his care. My prognosis was…not good. It was either submit to his wild theories or—” He swallowed. “They were going to amputate,” he finished softly.
She could not tear her gaze from him. He—he had gone through that?
“After my flesh knitted, I could not move—not well, not as I did before. Dr. Griffiths had me exercise, he and his assistant manipulated my muscles, and in time and with a huge amount of work, I was able to walk. Now, if I don’t exercise regularly, my muscles seize, the pain becomes worse, and I cannot move.”
Exhaling slowly, he raised his gaze to hers. “With what remained of my inheritance, I funded Dr. Griffiths so he could help others as he did me.”
Around them, other patrons laughed and ate their ices, and weren’t in the midst of their heart breaking. She cleared her throat. “Yes. Clearly, you squandered your inheritance.”
Startled dark eyes met hers.
She shifted under his intense stare. “Why do you look at me so?”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“What do you mean? You know who I am.”
After another long stare, he shook his head.
Uncertain why he’d asked such a thing, she firmed her shoulders. Ultimately, it didn’t matter why. “Who are these persons who believe your inheritance wasted?”
His lips twisted. “My brother.”
“Lord Roxwaithe?” she asked, surprised.
He nodded once, sharply.
“Why would he think that?”
“Why wouldn’t he think it? He has always thought me useless.”
Such bitterness. She wanted to ask him why. Why did his brother think him useless? Why did he allow it? But Stephen’s shuttered expression declared louder than a verbal protest he would not answer.
“I have only ever seen my father once, and my mother never.” She was more surprised than he that she’d spoken.
She saw again her father behind the desk in Tidswell House’s study, his fierce scowl. “My father is away to Ceylon, and returned to England only once upon my mother’s death. My mother, she never returned from Italy. She is buried there.”
