A Gentleman Says I Do Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2012 by Amelia Grey

  Cover and internal design © 2012 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover illustration by Chris Cocozza

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Conents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  An excerpt from A Gentleman Never Tells

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  One

  Anger can be an expensive luxury.

  —Italian Proverb

  Iverson Brentwood was out for blood.

  It hadn’t taken him long to locate the address of the person he was looking for. His body tense, he lifted the collar of his greatcoat and stepped down from the comfort of his dry, warm carriage and into the chilling spring rain. Settling his hat lower on his forehead, with keen purpose, his boots splashing the puddles, he walked toward the front door of the elegant house in Mayfair. Banks of cold fog drifted in from the Thames and swirled in the dreary late afternoon air. The one bright spot was a lone light that shone from a front-room window of the place he sought.

  Droplets of water fell from the brim of his hat as he stepped under the overhang of the stoop. Unclenching his tight fist, Iverson lifted the heavy door knocker and rapped it quickly a couple of times. The clang seemed to rattle the windowpanes in the house and reverberate down the quiet street. He waited impatiently in the fading light of day as the seconds ticked by, and then rapidly struck the brass plate a few more times.

  It was hell being a twin, or so Iverson had thought until he arrived in London and found out hell was actually realizing the man he always thought was his father wasn’t. The easiest thing for him and his brother to do would have been to sail back to Baltimore on the first ship. Instead, he and Matson had decided to keep with their original plan and move to London, and prove to their older brother and the gossipmongers that they weren’t going to hide from anything. And the questioning glances and whispers about their parentage had settled down, until today.

  A tall, buxom woman wearing servants’ attire jerked open the door. Her thin, graying brows scrunched together in an irritated line across her forehead, as did her lips on her flat, pinched face. She looked him up and down with peculiar, deep-set brown eyes and then sniffed with annoyance.

  “Ye didn’t have to hit the knocker so hard. I’m slow, not deaf, ye know.”

  Iverson had never been taken to task by a servant and was momentarily surprised by the woman’s insolent manner. He was in no mood to be hauled over the coals by a peevish maid. But before he could gather his wits and put her in her place, she snapped her large hands to her ample hips, glared at him once again, and said, “What can I do for ye?”

  The woman clearly wanted him to know she had better things to do with her time than bother with him. Her surly attitude made him even angrier with her employer. It shouldn’t surprise him that the scoundrel he was after had such a disrespectful servant in his employ. Iverson should have expected it.

  Refusing to let go of his temper until he faced his intended prey, Iverson held his offensive retort in check and remained in what he considered a civil attitude. “I’m Mr. Iverson Brentwood here to see Sir Phillip Crisp.”

  The servant rolled her eyes beneath puffy lids and lifted her rounded chin as if to dismiss him. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “And why isn’t that possible?” he asked, his ire growing stronger.

  “He isn’t here.” She extended her hand, palm up, and added, “I’ll be happy to take your card and give it to him when he—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Iverson answered, assuming this woman’s brusque attitude was merely a ruse to keep people away from Sir Phillip. Iverson wasn’t going to be duped that easily and certainly not by a churlish servant who didn’t know her place. He swept off his dripping hat and laid it in her outstretched hand. “I’ll stay until the man returns.” He then stepped past her and entered the well-appointed, dimly lit vestibule, unbuttoning his damp greatcoat as he went.

  Sharp disapproval flashed across her face. “What are ye doing? Ye can’t just come in here without an invitation.”

  Iverson had no quarrel with the woman, but he was tired of her disagreeable manner. He gritted his teeth, scowled, and said, “On the contrary, madam, I can, and I just did.” He draped his wet coat across her extended arm. “I intend to see Sir Phillip before I leave this house today.”

  “But I don’t know when he’s returning,” she barked, clearly outraged.

  Her shrill voice grated on Iverson’s ears, but if he had to endure the noise of the banshee in order to get to Sir Phillip, so be it. Anger burned in his chest, and he would not be put off so easily.

  “That won’t be a problem,” Iverson said, peeling his well-fitted leather gloves from his hands and plopping them on top of his hat. “I’ll wait. No doubt he’ll be here by supper time, or for sure bedtime.”

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  At the sound of the softly spoken feminine voice, Iverson turned and saw one of the loveliest ladies he’d ever beheld. She was tall, graceful, and beautiful. Thick and shiny chestnut-colored hair was attractively arranged on top of her head, leaving nothing to distract from the lovely shape of her face, the slender column of her neck, or her gently rounded shoulders. She was dressed in a modest, pale-lilac gown that suited her ivory coloring perfectly. The high waist of her frock fit snugly under the fullness of her breasts, causing Iverson to take a second glance. There was a distinctly wholesome quality about her that immediately caught his eye, and Iverson was instantly drawn to her.

  His hot anger toward Sir Phillip Crisp started cooling.

  She stopped a short distance from him, but he saw no fear in her delicate features—in fact, just the opposite was true. She seemed confident, very much in command of herself and unruffled by the situation she was confronting. With deliberate concentration, he watched her and couldn’t help but wonder about her connection to Sir Phillip: daughter, sister, mistress, or wife?

  She looked suspiciously at him and said, “I must ask who you are and why you are frightening Mrs. Wardyworth.”

  There was a slight tilt to her head and lift to her shoulders that immediately let him know she was challenging him. Her bright green eyes blazed with more questions than she had asked. The firm set to her gorgeous lips insisted he state his case without delay or face her judgment.
>
  Iverson knew the polite thing was to introduce himself, but for the life of him, the only thing that came to mind was to say, “Frightening her?” He glanced around to the peevish servant smugly watching him. “No man, woman, or beast could frighten her. I doubt Napoleon’s army in their heyday could have terrified this ill-mannered harpy.”

  “Did ye hear what he called me, missy?”

  Keeping her imperious demeanor, the young lady turned to the woman and calmly said, “Yes, Mrs. Wardyworth, I heard.”

  “The bugaboo insisted on coming inside. Brushed right past me as if I weren’t standing right in the doorway, he did.”

  Iverson couldn’t believe his ears. Had the servant called him a bugaboo right in front of her mistress?

  “I understand. I’ll handle this now. Why don’t you have Nancy make you a cup of tea?”

  Mrs. Wardyworth sniffed again. “I think I’ll do that. Would ye like for her to make a cup for ye, too?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Mrs. Wardyworth smiled sweetly at the lady and then looked down at Iverson’s coat, hat, and gloves in her hands as if she didn’t have the faintest idea what to do with them.

  “Let me take those from you,” the young woman said and lifted the damp things from the servant and laid them on a nearby table.

  “Thank you, missy,” she said. “You always know exactly what to do.”

  Mrs. Wardyworth glowered at Iverson as she turned and lumbered down the corridor. He had never seen a servant be so openly rife with impudence to a guest and not be thoroughly chastised by her employer.

  Iverson grunted a laugh that rumbled softly in his throat as he slowly shook his head. He looked at the poised lady before him and said, “I’ve heard of pampering the help, but I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed it in such dramatic fashion until just now.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she looked at him intently. “Then you are by far a richer man for having seen how a few kind words can brighten a person’s day and lift their spirits.”

  Iverson was near speechless again. Not only was the servant surly, now he was being chastised by this unflappable, overly self-confident lady. What kind of household did Sir Phillip have?

  “Is that so?” Iverson quipped, not wanting to be scolded by such a delectable-looking female. “Then please tell me why my pockets don’t feel any heavier.”

  A hint of a smile twitched at one corner of her mouth. “I wasn’t referring to money, and you well know it. Now, tell me, what can I do for you, Mr.—?” Her light green gaze slowly swept down his face to settle on his lips.

  A flash of awareness tightened his chest and quickened his lower body as she looked at his mouth, letting her attention linger there for much longer than necessary. “Brentwood,” he said and swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure he liked being attracted to her. “Mr. Iverson Brentwood.”

  Her gaze flew back up to his eyes in a brief moment of panic, and he would have sworn he saw her swallow hard, too. No doubt she had read or at least heard about the rubbish that blasted poet, Sir Phillip, had written about Iverson and his twin brother’s arrival in London. And if that had been all the man had written, Iverson might have been inclined to overlook it or even laugh it off, as Matson had suggested they do, but there was no way he could let pass the slur it cast on his mother.

  That had Iverson fighting mad. His mother was no longer alive to defend herself, and he wouldn’t let anyone besmirch her memory and get away with it.

  Iverson had a feeling Sir Phillip would be as easy to control as Lord Waldo Rockcliffe. Shortly after Iverson arrived in London, the Duke of Rockcliffe’s youngest brother had the gall to ask him why he and his brother looked so much like Sir Randolph Gibson, given he wasn’t their father. The answer Iverson gave him was a quick punch that left him with a black eye for a few days. Lord Waldo had never mentioned the subject again, and neither had anyone else. That one unplanned cuff had put a stop to much of the churning gossip, until today, with the publication of the parody A Tale of Three Gentlemen.

  It wasn’t that Iverson had enjoyed or wanted to hit Lord Waldo. In fact, it was distasteful to him. It was a gut reaction. Only later did Iverson realize if he had let Lord Waldo get away with asking such a personal question, others would follow suit, and before long, his family would have been the laughingstock of London. Once again, his honor dictated he quell anyone else’s tendency to ask probing questions or write unforgiving humor about his parentage.

  Iverson was determined to put the rumors, gossip, and ill-mannered remarks back in the closet where they belonged by scaring the devil out of Sir Phillip. Everyone had to know there would be a price to pay for making comments or writing about something that was none of their concern.

  “I see you recognize my name,” he said, his simmering anger at Sir Phillip rising again.

  “It would be difficult not to.”

  “No doubt because you read Sir Phillip’s claptrap in The Daily Herald today?”

  Her delicately arched brows raised a fraction. Her shoulders lifted ever so slightly before she pinned him with an intense stare. “Mr. Brentwood, I heard your name shortly after you arrived in London last fall, as did anyone who stepped inside a ladies’ parlor, a gentleman’s club, or the gaming hells near the wharf. Surely I don’t have to tell you that by now the name Brentwood has been whispered in every taproom and manor house in London.”

  Iverson’s breath caught in his throat. She was absolutely stunning when her feathers were ruffled, and he had obviously done that by denigrating Sir Phillip’s writings. He’d never met a young lady who was so bold. He didn’t mind that she hadn’t pulled her punch or shied away from the cold, hard truth, but instead threw an insult right back into his face. She certainly had backbone and wasn’t afraid to let him know it. That made her extremely attractive to him. He had never cared for the timid, retiring wallflower. He didn’t know that he’d ever met anyone—let alone a lady—who had the nerve or fire to take him on and give him such a face-to-face dressing down.

  He chuckled to cover his admiration for her courage and his slight discomfort at the veracity of her words. He gave her a perfunctory nod. “Gossip does travel fast and long, especially when it’s salacious.”

  Assuming she had gotten the better of him, at least for the time being, she relaxed her shoulders. Another hint of a smile played around the corners of her attractive mouth and Iverson found it very inviting. In fact, much to his immediate distraction, there wasn’t much about her he didn’t find greatly appealing.

  “Quite frankly, Mr. Brentwood, I didn’t know there was any other kind.”

  Her admission reminded him that the poet was often in the gossip columns, too. In just the few months Iverson had been in London, he’d known of Sir Phillip’s name being linked to a married actress, a widowed countess, and a madame by the name of Shipwith.

  “Tell me, who you are?” he asked.

  Pride shone in her sparkling eyes, and her feminine chin lifted another notch. “Miss Catalina Crisp. I am Sir Phillip’s daughter, and his only child.”

  Iverson didn’t know why, but he felt a sense of relief she wasn’t Mrs. Crisp, but he sure as hell wasn’t happy this beautiful and enticing young lady was Sir Phillip’s offspring. She was, by far, the most intriguing person he’d met since coming to London.

  Shortly after his arrival, Iverson had been introduced to her father, and he’d seen the man at several parties during the winter, though surprisingly, his daughter had never been with him. Sir Phillip wasn’t at all like the pompous poet Lord Snellingly, who was an irritating fop, demanding attention from everyone and constantly wanting some poor soul to listen to him recite his dreadful poetry. Sir Phillip enjoyed the ladies. He was always talking, laughing, or dancing with a lady. In fact, the few times Iverson had been around him, he didn’t think he’d even heard the man mention his poetry. He didn’t have to, because his poetry was actually good.

  Unlike Keats, who had recently been ridiculed in The Ex
aminer as a “complete failure,” and by Blackwood’s Magazine as an “unsettled pretender who had no right to aspire to poetry,” Sir Phillip was constantly being lauded and praised for his poetic genius. Iverson certainly had no reason to think the man would ever write a parody about him and his twin brother.

  Clearing his throat and his thoughts, Iverson said, “In that case, Miss Crisp, I would like to speak with your father.”

  “My father is not here.”

  “Yes, your maid told me he was gone,” he muttered under his breath and rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. “And as I told her, I’ll wait for him to return.”

  She gave him an understanding smile. “First, Mrs. Wardyworth is my housekeeper, not my maid. And second, my father has been gone almost a week. If you plan to stay until Papa returns, you will have to take up residence, and I’m afraid I can’t allow that, because it would shred my reputation.”

  “On that point I will agree with you.” Iverson took in a deep breath. “So tell me, when is he expected back?”

  “Sir, I can’t possibly tell you what I don’t know.”

  “And if you don’t know,” Iverson echoed, “then how can you be certain he won’t return tonight?”

  “I’m not.” She looked thoughtful for a moment before adding, “There are times when my father simply packs his trunks and follows his dreams and his muse. It often keeps him away for days at a time, but whatever road he takes, it eventually leads him back home. Perhaps you could check again in a few days to see if he has returned.”

  That gathering storm of anger rose in him again. Iverson wanted to see her father now and put a death scare in him so he wouldn’t have any desire to print more of that sensational, obnoxious, and completely false drivel about his family.

  “No, no, Miss Crisp.” Iverson shook his head impatiently. “I’m afraid that answer is not good enough.”

  She sighed softly, folded her hands together in front of her and pleasantly said, “I don’t know where he is, so I don’t know what more I can do for you.”

  A wave of sweet anticipation swept over Iverson, and his lower body hardened. Iverson knew exactly what she could do for him. He had an intense desire to pull her into his arms, press her soft breasts against his chest, and kiss her delectable lips. Impulsively, he took a step toward her with that in mind, but the reality of what he was about to do raced through him like a wild fire through dry brush, and he stopped just as he went to reach for her.