The Last True Gentleman (True Gentlemen #12) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,11

in here, as were the candles, but he’d chosen to entertain her in this room because this was his private place to idle about when at home. He wanted her to see his bound collections of satirical prints, the French novels any school girl could translate at sight, the botanical sketches every self-respecting Dorning considered necessary to any decoration scheme.

“Deadly nightshade?” her ladyship murmured, studying the frame to left of the dart board. She moved to the frame on the right. “Night blooming jasmine?”

“My father was a passionate amateur botanist. We all take an interest in plants, my own talent being the growing of potted ferns.”

Her ladyship eyed the massive specimen situated in the bow window. “We all?”

“We Dornings, of the Dorsetshire Dornings. I am one of nine.” She likely knew that, and knew as well which siblings were married into which respectable and titled families, because all of them—every blessed one of them—had married quite well.

“While I have only the one brother,” her ladyship said, applying a finger to the fern’s soil.

“You borrowed your brother’s coach tonight because you didn’t want anybody to know of this call, and yet you haven’t told me exactly why you’re here. Would you join me in a nightcap?”

She dusted her hands together. “Armagnac, if you have it. Early spring nights are both chilly and damp.”

Early spring nights were lonely. Sycamore poured two servings of a lovely year and passed one to his guest. “To interesting propositions.”

Lady Tavistock eyed Sycamore over the rim of her glass as she sipped. “This is delightful.” Her second taste was less cautious. “You have something I want.”

Were Sycamore not tired, were he not missing the most recently married of his many recently married siblings, he might have replied with a reference to passionate kisses, a comfortable bed, or talented hands.

But he was tired and lonely, and no longer the randy boy her ladyship would dismiss at a glance.

“I have something you want.” He gestured to a pair of reading chairs near the hearth. “Or do I have something you need?”

Her ladyship settled gracefully onto the cushions, glass in hand. “Want assuredly, need possibly. I don’t know as I’ve ever seen a collection of knives decorating an informal parlor before.”

Sycamore took the other reading chair. “My brother claimed displaying them elsewhere was in poor taste.” And why had she saved remarking on the knives for after her polite notice of ferns and botanical prints?

“You are reported to be quite handy with a blade, Mr. Dorning.”

By firelight, her hair was a palette of myriad colors. Gold, russet, garnet… If asked, Sycamore would have said her hair was firelight-colored, while her hands wrapped around the crystal glass put him in mind of purring cats and sleepy cuddles.

“I am skilled with a blade,” Sycamore said, not allowing himself to imbue that statement with even a hint of prurience.

“Will you teach me how to throw a knife?”

Of all the things she might have asked of Sycamore, that hadn’t even been remotely on the list.

“Why, my lady?” Women took up the bow and arrow for diversion. They might on rare occasion participate in a shoot, particularly on their own family’s land. A few intrepid women followed the hounds, usually in the second or third flight.

But knife throwing?

“You ask me why.” She set her drink aside. “Because a knife doesn’t have to be kept dry at all times and loaded with shot prior to each use. Because a knife can be carried in a reticule or pocket or sheathed to the body. A knife is silent and can be used again if the first throw misses—or if it doesn’t.”

Sycamore had only two sisters, and neither of them had much use for their Dorning menfolk. His mother had been a perpetually disappointed and disappointing virago, and by design, his lovers were more interested in pleasure than the man providing it.

He did not, in other words, have experience fathoming the labyrinth of the adult female mind to any useful depth.

“I understand the allure of knives,” he said, “but why do you want to acquire skill with them?”

She picked up her drink and took another visual inventory of Sycamore’s private parlor. “I am not in the habit of explaining myself. Will you teach me or not?”

Her ladyship was very good at the subtle set down, but not quite good enough. “You are asking not only for instruction, but for my utmost discretion.”

“I am.”

She was a widowed marchioness of substantial means and considerable self-possession, and she wanted to learn—in