title. They were long, slender hands. Elegant. And empty. Devoid of a ring. But she was not devoid of a title. It did make for a bit of mystery and perhaps therein lay the whiff of scandal the Duke alluded to: an Englishwoman married to a foreign marquess.
She folded her hands, covering her empty finger as she spoke. He hadn’t been as circumspect as he had hoped. ‘I am told, Lord Taunton, you are interested in importing alpacas.’ Her eyes were steady on him as he took his seat and accepted a cup of tea. She was assessing, studying, her gaze as bold as her question. What did she see in that raking inquisition of a gaze? A man she could trust with her money? A man with an enterprise worth investing in?
Well, two could play that game. Conall returned her gaze with an inspection of his own. He would make it clear from the start he would not be intimidated. He might need investment money, but that didn’t mean he’d play the sycophant. Nor did it mean he’d take funds from just anyone. This had to be a good fit for him. His reputation and that of his family were on the line.
They finished their tea and the conversation flagged for the slightest of moments. The Marchesa smiled expectantly at him, a hint of challenge in her blue eyes. ‘Perhaps you would care to take a turn about the gardens with me and explain your venture further? We can spare the Duchess and Lady Brixton our boring business talk.’ She rose, her confidence in his acceptance obvious. She knew he wouldn’t or couldn’t refuse the request. It was the whole purpose he’d come down the hall, after all, and they both knew it.
‘I would be delighted.’ Conall understood perfectly well this was his audition. What he said and did in the next few minutes would determine the future of Taunton. He offered the Marchesa his arm. ‘Shall we?’
She should not have touched him. The arm he offered her was firm and steady beneath her fingers, sending an unlooked-for warmth to her stomach. She’d been on her own too long, defending herself against lechers and men like Lord Wenderly, who’d made her the most indecent of offers, men who were too ready to objectify her simply because she was beautiful and alone—easy prey in their minds. As a result, she’d not been prepared for her body to react this way. She’d not been prepared for him, the handsome Viscount in his prime, with intelligent eyes and a certain energy that filled up any space he occupied. He was electricity personified. At some point when the alpaca investment had been under consideration by the Prometheus Club, her mind had decided viscounts interested in alpaca farming were portly, short, middle-aged eccentrics with rather less hair than more. After all, that description represented in some part all the men in the Prometheus Club and it stood to reason that like sought out like. But Taunton defied expectation. She’d been entirely unprepared for the man who had sauntered into the Duchess’s sitting room full of masculine charm and confidence.
Looks and charm should not have affected her like this. If anything, those attributes should have put her on edge. She’d fallen victim to looks and charm before. She thought she’d become immune to handsome faces a long time ago, once she’d figured out handsome faces did not necessarily indicate handsome intentions. And yet, Taunton had a dangerous magnetism to him, a charismatic edge.
Sofia gave him a long considering look, tallying his assets in what she hoped was a more objective sense as they walked the gardens of Cowden House. Forewarned was forearmed. She would study him, discover the source of his charm and he would not catch her by surprise again. As a male, he did not disappoint. He was young still, but not too young, in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. He was grey-eyed and dark-haired and had a face that was saved from chiselled sternness by his smile—something he brandished often, a charming weapon of sorts. It would be interesting to know if he used it offensively or defensively—to engage or to hide. He had height and was elegantly built for fashion, a tailor’s dream without being foppish, while still maintaining a certain breadth of shoulder and an athletic trimness of waist. She noted the excellent cut of his blue morning coat and the expensive wool of his cream trousers, cut narrow in the latest fashion.
Those were just the top notes. She’d wager the pristine white linen that peeped above the layers of his coats was fine Irish and the ankle boots that emerged from beneath his cream trousers were expensive Italian leather. No wonder he was interested in alpacas from Peru—wool from halfway around the world. The man was a walking calling card for international trade and a very handsome one at that. But his best feature was how he sounded, the most sibilant of tenor baritones, a murmuring quicksilver stream of words that matched his eyes.
She could have listened to him all day. As it was, she didn’t need to. She’d read the report, of course. Much of what he shared wasn’t new information to her. The purpose of this walk was to learn about him. What sort of man was asking for her money, for her partnership? If this were to be done without the backing and comfortable insurance of the Prometheus Club, it was imperative he be a man of great integrity—an asset, unfortunately, not many men of her acquaintance possessed. Misjudging a man’s character wasn’t a mistake one could afford to make twice. If the Viscount fulfilled this first requirement, there would be time for discussing alpacas later.
At the end of his exposition, Taunton’s grey eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave her a friendly smile. ‘Do I pass?’ They’d reached the end of the garden where a small, round pergola, more decorative than useful, adorned the far corner by the high fence that kept aristocrats in and street riff-raff out, a discreet reminder of power and who belonged inside its circle.
She’d straddled that fence quite precariously since her return to England. One wrong move and she could be entirely on the other side. Her presence on this side of the fence was accepted by very few like Helena Tresham, tolerated by some—namely those who wished for Helena’s favour—and considered downright dangerous by many who worried what would happen to their womenfolk if she was allowed to run amok among them with her ideas of freedom and equality. She wondered where the Viscount would land on that scale of tolerance if he knew just how many scandals were attached to her? Or did he need her money badly enough to ignore them?
Sofia met the Viscount’s gaze with a light laugh and a tap of her fan on his immaculate, expensive sleeve. ‘Have you passed? So soon? That would be a rather hasty decision made on limited acquaintance.’ Perhaps he was used to women making impulsive decisions where he was concerned. He was good looking and affable, easy to be with and easy on the eye. Women probably poured their hearts out to him regularly and much more. She was not foolish enough to trust a handsome man with her secrets or her heart, or the contents of her bank account without further investigation. ‘Such action would be rather impulsive, wouldn’t you agree, my lord? I don’t think you would want to do business with an impulsive investor who threw money around indiscriminately to any who asked.’
She smiled to lessen the scold. She wanted to be sure of him, not alienate him. She needed him as much as he needed her, perhaps more. His need was simple: money. For him, money was the end goal. She, however, needed more than money. For her, money was the means to other, grander, ends. She needed the things money could buy, but only if she had a lot of it and relatively soon. Freedom and financial security were expensive commodities these days and she needed both for her own well-being and for the well-being she wanted to ensure for others.
‘Touché, Marchesa. You are quite shrewd. I can see why Cowden trusts you.’ He inclined his head in a nod to her reprimand, his grey eyes becoming serious, and she recognised she’d been wrong about part of her earlier assumption. Women might be imprudent around him, but he was not impulsive. This was not a game. She knew, too, in that narrowing grey gaze of his he was vetting her as much as she was vetting him. The realisation gave her a moment’s anxiety. She did not like to be scrutinised, talked about, guessed about, as if her life was a trivial game. Sofia usually tried to prevent such speculation by taking
