Elizabeth Powell by The Reluctant Rogue Page A

lord; I understand your anger. You blame your father for your brother’s death.”
    “I do, and I have made no secret of it.”
    “We have more in common than one might think; your father sounds very much like my mother.”
    His lips quirked in a faint, sardonic smile. “With one possible exception: my father does not breathe fire. He prefers to ignore me.”
    “Then I envy you. If my mother had enough sense to do the same, I would be the happiest girl in the world.” Jane clapped a hand over her mouth. “I should not have said that.”
    The viscount chuckled. “You little hypocrite. It’s all right to think such things, but God forbid you should actually say them.”
    She pulled a face at him.
    “I take it your mother is the cause of your blue devils?” he asked. Then, more softly, “Did something happen last night?”
    Jane sighed. “No, nothing happened, and that is precisely the problem.”
    “Indeed?”
    “My mother has decided that my sister must marry a peer,” she explained. “Preferably an earl or a marquess.” She glanced sideways at him. “Although she has not ruled out viscounts, especially those who are heirs to earldoms.”
    “So I gathered,” he drawled. “And … ?”
    “And Pen is not making her choice fast enough to please my mother.”
    “Penelope choosing from among her suitors,” murmured Lord Langley. “An irony of mythical proportions. But the Season has just begun. Surely Lady Portia does not wish your sister to make a hasty decision, one she might later regret.”
    “Then you do not know my mother. I have a theory, my lord. I believe she wishes my sister to marry well because she herself could not. If Pen makes a brilliant match at the beginning of the Season, Mama can crow about it to everyone who snubbed her in the past. If my sister refuses too many offers or takes too long to make her choice, my mother will feel humiliated.”
    “A cork-brained notion if ever I heard one,” he muttered.
    “Last night she berated Pen mercilessly because she did not encourage your attentions—or those of any of her other illustrious admirers, for that matter.”
    “I assume your sister has a reason for doing so.”
    “Of course she does!” Jane exclaimed. “She cannot choose a husband on the merit of his title alone. She is entitled to know something of a man’s character before she accepts his proposal of marriage. One dance does not constitute grounds for an engagement.”
    “Very sensible of her,” he replied. “I take it Lady Portia does not see the wisdom of this approach.”
    “No. And it does not help that Pen is shy of strangers. You seem surprised, my lord. Had you not noticed her reticence?”
    “Yes, but I merely thought her unreceptive to my charm.”
    “My sister would like to take her time and make a prudent match, but Mama is growing impatient. Let me put it to you this way, my lord. My mother wanted her to accept the Earl of Haydon simply on the basis of his rank.”
    “Haydon?” Lord Langley’s brows rose in surprise. “That old reprobate? The man’s a loose screw if ever there was one.”
    “Which is precisely why my sister refused him. Mama was most displeased. And when she is displeased … My mother has quite a temper, my lord, and can be very cruel when she wishes to be. But last night—last night she was in rare form. Pen took to her bed in tears.”
    “Poor creature. Is there anything I can do to help you cheer her up?”
    Jane eyed him speculatively. Did he ask out of genuine concern or because he wanted to win Pen’s favor? “What did you have in mind?”
    “Is she fond of any particular sort of sweet? Ices, perhaps? Or flowers?”
    “Every day her other admirers send so many posies that every flower shop and greenhouse in London must be stripped bare. And Pen has never been one for sweets—anything with almonds in it, especially marzipan, gives her a dreadful rash. But she likes Spanish oranges very much.”
    “Do you think such an