As a final seal on his fate, there was the undeniable fact that he was fiercely attracted to Augusta. His whole body tightened with awareness whenever she was near.
There was a feminine energy about Augusta that captured his sense. The image of her had begun to haunt him when he was alone at night. When he was near her he would find his gaze lingering on the curve of her breasts, which were far too prominently displayed in the scandalously low-cut gowns she wore with such natural grace. Her small waist and sweetly flaring hips teased and tantalized as she moved about with a subtle swaying motion that never failed to make the muscles of his lower body clench.
Yet she was not beautiful, he told himself for the hundredth time—at least not in the much-admired classical style. He conceded, however, that there was an undeniable charm and vivacity about her faintly slanting eyes, tilted nose, and laughing mouth. Lately he had grown increasingly hungry for a taste of that mouth.
Harry stifled an oath. It was very much as Plutarch had once written about Cleopatra. Her beauty was not remarkable in itself, but her charm and presence were irresistible, even bewitching.
He was no doubt mad to be plotting to wed Augusta. He had set out looking for another sort of woman entirely. Someone serene, serious, and refined. Someone who would be a good mother to his only child, Meredith. Someone who would devote herself to hearth and home. Most importantly, he had intended to marry a woman who was completely free of any taint of gossip.
Previous Graystone brides had brought disaster and scandal to the title and had left a legacy of unhappiness that stretched back for generations. Harry had no intention of marrying a female who would continue that sad tradition. The next Graystone bride must be above reproach. And above suspicion.
Like Caesar's wife.
He had set out to find that treasure which intelligent men had always considered more valuable than rubies: a virtuous woman.
Instead he had found himself a reckless, headstrong, extremely volatile creature named Augusta who had the potential to make his life a living hell.
Unfortunately, Harry realized, he seemed to have lost interest in all the other females on his list.
2
Augusta arrived at the door of Lady Arbuthnott's imposing town house shortly after three on the day following her return to London. She had Rosalind Morrissey's journal safely tucked into her reticule and she could hardly wait to tell her father that ail was well.
"I shall not be staying long today, Betsy," she said to her young maid as they went up the steps. "We must hurry home to help Claudia prepare for the Burnett soiree. This is a very important evening for her. The most eligible males in Town will no doubt be there and we want her to look her best."
"Yes, ma'am. Miss Claudia always looks like an angel when she goes out, though. I don't expect tonight will be any different."
Augusta grinned. "How very true."
The door was opened just as Betsy was preparing to knock. Scruggs, Lady Arbuthnott's elderly, stoop-shouldered butler, glared at the newcomers as he saw two other young women out the door.
Augusta recognized Belinda Renfrew and Felicity Oatley as they came down the steps. They were both regular visitors to Lady Arbuthnott's home, as were several other well-bred ladies, all of whom came and went on a regular basis. The ailing Lady Arbuthnott, the neighbors frequently noted, was never short of visitors.
"Good afternoon, Augusta," Felicity said cheerfully. "You are looking well this afternoon."
"Yes, indeed," Belinda murmured, her eyes speculative as she took in the sight of Augusta dressed in a fashionable dark blue pelisse over a sky blue gown. "I am delighted you are here. Lady Arbuthnott has been most anxiously awaiting your arrival."
"I would not dream of disappointing her," Augusta said as she went past with a laughing smile. "Or Miss Norgrove, either." Belinda Renfrew, Augusta knew, had wagered Daphne Norgrove ten pounds that the journal would not be returned to its owner.
Belinda gave her another sharp glance. "All went well at the Enfield house party?"
"Of course. I do hope I shall see you later this evening, Belinda."
Belinda's answering smile was wry. "You most certainly shall, Augusta. And so will Miss Norgrove. Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon. Oh, hello, Scruggs." Augusta turned her smile on the glowering, bewhiskered butler as the door was closed behind her.
"Miss Ballinger. Lady Arbuthnott is expecting you, of course."
"Of course." Augusta refused to be intimidated by the irascible old man who guarded the Arbuthnott front door.
Scruggs was the only male member of the Arbuthnott household and held the high honor of being the only man Lady Arbuthnott had hired in ten years. He was new to her staff this season and in the beginning no one had understood quite why Sally had taken him on. It was obviously a gesture of kindness on her part because the aging butler was clearly unable to cope physically with many of his duties. There were entire days and evenings when he did not appear at the door at all due to his rheumatism and other assorted complaints.
Complaining was one of the few things Scruggs apparently enjoyed. He complained of everything: his painful joints, the weather, his duties in the household, the lack of assistance he received in carrying out those duties, and the low wages he claimed Lady Arbuthnott paid.
But somewhere along the line the ladies who visited here so regularly had concluded that Scruggs was the finishing touch they had been needing all along. He was eccentric, original, and vastly entertaining. They had adopted him wholeheartedly and now counted him as a valuable addition to the premises.
"How is your rheumatism today, Scruggs?" Augusta asked as she untied her new feather-trimmed bonnet.
"What was that?" Scruggs glared at her. "Speak up if you want to ask a question. Don't understand why ladies are always mumbling. Think they could learn to speak up."
"I said, how is your rheumatism today, Scruggs?"
"Extremely painful, thank you, Miss Ballinger. Rarely been worse." Scruggs always spoke in a deep, raspy voice that sounded like gravel being ground under a carriage wheel. "And it don't help none having to answer the door fifteen times in one hour, I'll tell you that much. All the comings and goings around here are enough to drive a sane man straight into Bedlam, if you ask me. Don't understand why you females can't stay put for more than five minutes."
Augusta clucked sympathetically as she reached into her reticule and drew out a small bottle. "I have brought along a remedy you might wish to try. It was my mother's recipe. She used to make it up for my grandfather, who found it very effective."
"Is that right? What happened to your grandfather, Miss Ballinger?" Scruggs took the bottle with a wary expression and examined it closely.
"He died some years ago."
"From the effects of this medicine, I daresay."
"He was eighty-five, Scruggs. Legend has it that he was found dead in bed with one of the housemaids."
"Is that a fact?" Scruggs eyed the bottle with renewed interest. "I shall try it straightaway, in that case."
"Do that. I only wish I had something equally useful to give to Lady Arbuthnott. How is she today, Scruggs?"
Scruggs's bushy white brows rose and fell. There was a gleam of sadness in his blue eyes. Augusta was always fascinated by those beautiful aqua-colored eyes. They struck her as surprisingly sharp and disconcertingly youthful in his heavily lined and whiskered face.
"This is turning out to be one of her good days, Miss. I believe you will find she is anticipating your arrival with great enthusiasm."