The Last True Gentleman (True Gentlemen #12) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,55

him to commence a seduction in the very foyer.

“You arrive on my doorstep alone,” he said, “late at night, in a disgracefully ancient conveyance, and you speak to me of propositions. Are you hoping I will make amorous advances, or fearing I won’t?”

Her cloak bore a faint scent of jasmine, a light scent for woman of such… such…presence? Such consequence?

Sycamore did not know exactly how to describe her ladyship, which was characteristic of her appeal. Her smiles were rare and startlingly warm. She was ferociously protective of her step-son; at the card table, she was a shrewd and disciplined gambler, of one few in Sycamore’s experience who knew enough to walk away from both winning streaks and losing streaks.

“I assumed you would flirt,” she said, “and you are welcome to make whatever advances will flatter your male vanity, but I came to talk rather than dally.”

“As it happens, I am equally talented at conversation and dallying.” Sycamore offered the lady his arm. His longsuffering butler had gone to bed an hour ago, and Sycamore did not employ a night porter.

“You would rather dally,” her ladyship said, wrapping her fingers lightly around his sleeve. “You are an unattached, increasingly wealthy young man from a titled family. Dallying for such a one is almost a civic duty.”

Unattached, like a boot discarded by the side of the road, a wagon wheel left leaning against the wall of the garden shed.

“What I prefer might surprise you,” Sycamore said, ushering her into his personal parlor. The fire was lit 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