Page 14 of A Deal with the Rebellious Marquess
He couldn’t deny that he’d not been roused like this for ages, not since his one early and foolish foray into the realm of amour, his single lapse in Baconian-driven good judgement when he’d let emotions lead the way—nearly to disaster. Between that disaster and his father’s death, he had good reason not to indulge again and he hadn’t up until he’d met her. He’d had occasional affairs, yes. He wasn’t a rake, but he wasn’t a monk either. Passionate indulgences though, no. But hehadindulged today with that kiss.
Truth be told, he’d been indulging since he’d met her—the flirting at the theatre, the lunch that had veered far afield from a discussion of shared business. She’d tempted him from his usual path and he’d allowed it. That bore examination. Why her? Why now? It made little sense. She was not a logical choice for attraction.
You do see the contradiction, don’t you?His conscience laughed at him.You want to logically select a compatible wife and yet you can’t bring yourself to select a carefully curated girl from your mother’s list and be done with it.
But just picking a wife from a list wasn’t necessarily a good application of Baconian logic either. That damned list assumed his mother knew what he needed and that was a dangerous assumption to make.
Who knew better than he what he wanted in a wife? A partner, a strong woman with strong opinions unafraid to gainsay him when required. A woman who would help him with Rosefields, who would raise his children with him instead of consigning them to the nursery until they were ‘interesting’. A woman who saw more than a title and power when she looked at him. A woman who sawhim.
It wasn’t the fault of the girls on his mother’s list that they fell short in his categories. Debutantes weren’t raised to view a man in that way. How could he expect something of them they weren’t able to give? To see? The more powerful the man, the harder it was to see those things.
And so instead you rouse for Fleur Griffiths, who wakes your primal man, and you answer to it. You like it even though it flies in the face of your precious Baconian code. The attraction makes no sense. She’s the enemy, but you cannot get enough of her. Why?
Fleur Griffiths had not been daunted by his power or position. Perhaps because she was aware of her own.She’dboughthimlunch, she’d initiated correspondence with him, she’d initiated their kiss and there’d been a few moments on the divan when he’d thought she’d might initiate more than that. She’d asked meaningful questions this afternoon about him. She’d listened when he talked about his mother’s list. It was no wonder he didn’t feel she was a stranger even after so few meetings. When they were together they spoke their minds. They argued as freely and fiercely as they kissed.
An interesting conjecture began to take shape: had she really meant it today when she’d claimed to have simply used him to assuage her loneliness? It was certainly plausible. He did not doubt that she was lonely. She was not made for loneliness, for a passionless life.
Was thatalltoday had been? Was there no part of her that had kissed him just because she wanted to for herself? For the sake of satisfying the curiosity of exploring the spark between them? Because their attraction to one another was unique, despite her claims to the contrary?
It was a hypothesis that would be interesting to test. Testing it would require more research, more observation, more gathering of data. All of which could be done at the Harefield ball. Could he do it without giving himself away? It wouldn’t do now to be exposed as Meltham, not when there was so much yet to learn about her.
And learn for Orion, came the sharp reminder.
What was he thinking? This was what happened when one gave passions free rein and forgot logic. This was not all for pleasure, it couldn’t be. He needed to remember his original purpose, the only purpose that mattered. No matter how intriguing Fleur Griffiths was, her newspapers were putting his brother in jeopardy with their claims. He could not lose sight of that. Going to the Harefield ball was first and foremost for Orion. For the family. He needed to plan carefully.
His sluggish mind, which hadn’t been able to focus on crop yields, was suddenly vibrant and alive with planning. If he arrived late, no one would pay attention to his arrival. Even if he was announced, it would be too crowded for anyone to put a face with his name if anyone noticed at all. Arriving late also meant he could take advantage of others being already involved in their own evening contretemps to pay attention.
She would be none the wiser if he was introduced as Umberton or Meltham. Harefield’s would be a crush. The crowd would allow him to be anonymous among them, to have total control of when she saw him and when he approached her. He could waltz with her, take her out to the garden. They would definitely skip supper. That was too risky. He could suggest they have that discussion about business which had eluded them today. What had happened to that discussion anyway? She’d produced her list, and, oh, yes, then he’d produced his and they’d ended up talking about his mother and marriage. They’d never got back on track after that.
He hummed as he headed upstairs to change into evening attire. It was amazing what the prospect of the unusual, a little derring-do, could accomplish in livening up a normaltonnish evening. His inner voice wasn’t done with pricking, though, as it whispered the dangerous thought,Maybe it wasn’t the derring-do. Maybe it was a woman.
Chapter Eight
Awoman unescorted in a ballroom had to be careful to cultivate just the right amount of attention: enough to be noticed, but not enough to become too interesting, especially when it was that woman’s first ball in over a year. But not her first public appearance, Fleur reminded herself as she steadied her nerves, moving through the receiving line leading into the Harefield ballroom. There were other reminders she gave herself as well: being out alone was not new to her. She was used to being on her own in boardrooms and business offices, at the theatre. She was used to managing the precarious balancing act of attention. Tonight would be no different.
In the year since Adam’s death, Fleur had mastered the art of attraction. Her position as the head of the newspaper syndicate had left her no choice. She didn’t have the luxury of becoming invisible. She was expected to lead. The syndicate would never have survived if she hadn’t. And yet there were other expectations for her as well. Society expected her to mourn, to behave as a decorous, circumspect widow for the entirety of a year.
Business and society hadn’t stopped to wonder how those differing expectations might co-exist, how she might manage to straddle those obligations, or even unite them. Yet she’d found a way. Her theatre box had remained empty for a year, but not the chair at the head of the long table in theLondon Tribune’sconference room. When board members had questioned her decision, she’d reminded them that it was perfectly acceptable for the public head of a household—she did not dare use the term ‘man’ here—to discreetly carry on business affairs while in mourning. Her case was no different.
Fleur pressed a hand to her stomach in a quiet, steadying gesture. She had mastered boardrooms, but ballrooms were a different matter. Ballrooms held different memories—personal memories—and it was those memories that were with her now: intimate memories of dancing with Adam, of waltzing with him while he whispered interesting titbits about the guests in her ear that made her laugh and promises about later that made her burn, made her forgive whatever difficulties the day had held.
She reached the front of the reception line and offered her hand to her host. ‘Mrs Griffiths, it is a delight to see you this evening.’ Lord Harefield bowed over her gloved knuckles.
‘I thank you for the invitation. It is time I started circulating in society again. My husband would have wanted me to be abreast of all the political happenings first hand.’ She gave the little speech she’d rehearsed in front of her vanity mirror this evening. Two sentences were all she’d have time for with her host and she wanted those sentences to convey a strong message that she was firmly at the helm, carrying out business in a way Adam would approve of, and that she was personally involved in cultivating the high-quality news coverage people had come to associate with theLondon Tribune. She was fully back in circulation and it was business as usual.
‘I am working on a piece about dam infrastructure. I was hoping you could point me in the direction of a few members of Parliament who might be interested in commenting.’
‘Mr Elliott from Somerset.’ Lord Harefield nodded in the direction of a tall, blond-haired gentleman. ‘He’ll be eager. It’s his first term in Parliament,’ he explained in a low voice. ‘I’ll walk over with you and make the introduction.’
It was the beginning of a long evening. Fleur smiled, she chatted, she asked pertinent questions, she let the blond Viscount from Somerset lead her out on to the floor for a dance and then introduce her to a circle of his friends. More dances followed, more chances to make polite conversation. It helped to think of the evening as business. She was dancing as a means of building her support base, of establishing a network of those who might be called on to promote legislation regarding dam oversight. But all the reasoning in the world could not stop the hunger that was unfurling inside her.
These dances, these touches, meant nothing. They were empty and perfunctory, required for the activity of the dance and nothing else. It had never been that way with Adam and the absence of that heat only emphasised her loneliness all the more.There’d been heat with Umberton, came the reminder. Their kiss was proof that heat, that passion, with another was indeed possible for her.
It was something she’d wondered about after the disappointment of taking that first lover. She’d thought perhaps she was doomed to never feel such things again. But she’d felt something with Umberton, something wild and reckless and wonderful. But Umberton was not here. Maybe that was for the best. Adam’s empire was on tenuous ground. The last thing she needed to invest her time in was a personal affair. It was Adam’s empire that required her attentions. But quelling her need was easier said than done.
By eleven o’clock she was feeling worn out from the effort of useful conversation and she was feeling keenly vulnerable in her craving for meaningful interaction, something,anythingthat would fill her. It wasn’t the first time since Adam’s death she realised how empty she felt. Until now, she’d attributed that emptiness to the isolation that came with her position at the paper and being in mourning. She’d assumed once she re-entered society social interactions would fill that emptiness. She’d been wrong. She could fill her days with work and her nights with entertainments, but quantity was no substitute for quality.
Fleur detached herself from the group she was currently with and made her way to the garden. The cool air felt good on her cheeks and helped to settle the riot of her thoughts. She found a quiet bench near a fountain and idly fanned herself. She missed Adam, imperfections and all. At least with Adam she’d never been lonely. If Adam were here...
