A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (11 page)

“Of course not,” Colin said. “And of course I'm aware that such predilections exist, Hudson. I wouldn't be required to participate in them, would I?” He focused very hard on the man, trying to keep the image of Hudson, and not the possibilities he had just suggested, firmly fixed in his mind. Some of them held no interest, but he would be lying to himself if he pretended that none of the acts Hudson had clinically named held any spark of intrigue.

“It would be odd if you didn't take a woman to bed. It is the point of the exercise,” Hudson said. “But you wouldn't be expected to, ah, do anything more than the usual.”

“I am not going there to indulge in carnality,” Colin said crossly. “I am engaged, after all.”

“Right,” Hudson said, though he didn't seem to think that had much to do with the question. “It's up to you. Only saying it would be suspicious.”

“I believe I have enough information to make a plan,” Colin said. He ran a hand over his face. “Very well. I'll attend this godforsaken party. And in the meantime, I have a ball to prepare for.” He would be announcing his engagement scant days before he departed for a week to the most notoriously immoral event in England. God help him if Levenbane found out.

Or, heaven forbid, his sisters. May they be spared ever knowing such things even existed.

*   *   *

“Now you're making things up,” Phoebe said accusingly.

“No, not at all,” Elinor said, deadpan. They'd devolved to sketches now, and all of them were red and gasping with laughter.

“But that doesn't
bend
that way,” Phoebe said, pointing. “You'd break something!”

“And there's an extra hand in this one,” Maddy said.

Phoebe peered at it. “Yes, that's definitely an extra hand,” she agreed.

“Now, now. Who among us has actually experienced the act?” Elinor asked archly.

“
The
act,” Phoebe groused. “Not
these
acts.” She paled. “Wait, you haven't . . . Oh God! I don't want to think about it!”

Elinor laughed. “Of course not. And I made that one up, but Maddy's is no more likely.”

“No, it's real,” Maddy insisted. “Joan told me about it.”

“Oh, no,” Elinor groaned. “Oh, God, now I'm thinking about Joan and Martin.”

“No, no!” Phoebe waved her hands frantically. “Think of anyone but that! Think about . . . Harken!”

Elinor snorted. Captain Harken barely reached her shoulder, and had hardly spoken three sentences to her in the space of their acquaintance. He was entirely too distracted by his morose and enduring love for Kitty.

An image flashed through her mind: Lord Farleigh, his exquisitely ordered clothes mussed, his lips closing over hers. She stilled. That was not a pleasant memory, she reminded herself. It had been alarming. Unwanted. Unskillful.

She straightened up. “Well,” she said briskly. “That's enough of that, I should think. Back to business?”

The others gaped at her a moment. Then, slowly, they put themselves in order, smoothing their hair and taking steady breaths until the color left their cheeks.

Maddy wiped tears from her eyes. “Madame Lavigne can take it from here, I suppose. Assuming she can hook Foyle—and Joan says she can—she'll have five solid days of wine and conversation to get information from him.”

“I'd like to speak to this Madame Lavigne in person,” Elinor said. “If we're to entrust such an important matter to her.”

“You can't be seen speaking to a courtesan any more than you can be seen at Beauchene's party,” Phoebe pointed out.

Elinor sighed. “I suppose you're right. I must be at least forty before I can be
that
daring.”

“You have to at least wait until you've found me a husband,” Phoebe said sourly. “Speaking of which, the Copeland ball is tomorrow evening. I should probably select a gown.”

“You're going to their ball?” Maddy asked. “But aren't they the ones that swindled your sister?”

“I have to,” Phoebe said, making a face. “Mother insisted. It's my ‘last chance of making a match this whole Season, and you're not getting any younger.'” She let out an anguished moan. “I wish I could just burn the place down instead.”

“I've got a better idea,” Maddy said slyly. She slid a fingertip beneath the fine gold chain that habitually hung around her neck. It was a long chain, and vanished inside her modest bodice. Whatever pendant hung at its end, Elinor had never seen. She lifted it now, though, and Elinor gasped. A large, perfectly clear diamond winked at its end.

“You kept it,” Elinor said with slight awe. It could only be one of the three stolen from Lady Copeland—one of Marie's. “I thought you'd sold them all.”

“I bought it back after Joan's investments worked out and had it recut,” Maddy said. “There's no way to prove it's the old one, but I thought . . . Well, the Copeland lot wouldn't know, but you would. It might make it bearable.”

“It's perfect,” Phoebe declared. “Maddy, I should be ever so pleased if I could borrow it for the night.”

“Well,” Maddy said, and flushed. “It ought to be yours anyway, by rights. Your family's. The least I can do is let you flash it around for one night.”

It was good to see them all smiling again, however much of the gallows was in their humor. “I look forward to watching you dazzle the whole of the ballroom, Phoebe,” Elinor said. She'd forgotten about the damn thing, but she resigned herself to going. She had promised to play escort and matchmaker for Phoebe, after all.

Besides, it was the one ball in the whole Season that she could be absolutely certain Lord Farleigh would not attend.

The Copeland ball had reigned the past several years as the most popular end-of-season gala, if not the most storied or pedigreed. There were balls yet in the Season, but Lady Copeland somehow always managed to schedule hers for the week before the heat grew too sweltering and the company too repetitive. She bedecked her house in the exotic finery of India; she even had a pet monkey she'd brought back with her, and Colin had once earned a swat from Phoebe for pretending to confuse it with her daughter.

The end result of Lady Copeland's social skill was that Colin's engagement was about to take the fastest possible route from secret to common knowledge, and it was making him feel ill. Or maybe it was the heat of so many bodies in close proximity, or the thick, meaty quality of the air overstuffed with perfume—which did only feeble battle against the stink of sweat. The whole ballroom was a whirl of fashionable chaos, blobs of clashing colors thrown haphazardly amongst one another.

“Farleigh.” Lord Levenbane had found him. Colin clutched his glass of champagne and tried to look busy. Not easy, given that he was standing alone at the edge of the room. “Perhaps
you should dance,” Levenbane suggested pointedly, and nodded his head in his daughter's direction.

Penelope was radiant. She wore a soft wreath of lilac in her yellow-gold hair, matched in the minute decoration of her frock. She wore lace in abundance without excess, evoking the emergence of spring flowers from a field of crisp, white snow. Her pink cheeks were dimpled with so bright and sweet a smile a charging bull would have paused to let her wreathe his horns with blossoms, and sighed contentedly at her touch.

“My God,” Colin muttered. Levenbane grunted approvingly, but Colin hadn't meant it as approval. He was going to destroy this girl, he realized. His bitterness would spoil that smile. He could never make her smile the way she did now, never give her the gentle attention she deserved. And it was far too late to do anything about it.

He left Levenbane and crossed to her, waiting for her to catch notice of him. Her friends, as round-faced and sweet as she, giggled and curtsied out of his way. “May I have this dance?” he asked, voice smooth as the silk glove she slid into his hand. He was practiced in seduction. He knew the proper way to make a debutante blush or a widow smirk, to make a mistress crook her finger in invitation. He could make her love him for a while.

All it would take would be a few whispered words, the soft brush of his lips against her curls—not her ear, not her skin, but close enough to make her wonder what that would feel like. He would tell her she was beautiful; he would ask her a question just as the dance carried them apart. When they came back together, he would prompt her for her answer, scold her for keeping him waiting.

“Lord Farleigh,” she said, tentative, and he was not certain if it was a greeting or a question.

“Lady Penelope,” he replied, and smiled blandly. They danced; she asked if he enjoyed the ball; he allowed that he did. The music ended. He deposited her back with her friends, his duty done, and kissed her hand. “You look lovely
tonight,” he told her warmly, sincerely, chastely. She gave him an uncertain smile.

He was practiced in seduction, but he had no idea how to treat his future wife. How to be kind, without risking the illusion of affection. How to tell her by his actions, his glance, his touch—
We will not be blissfully happy, you and I, but we will be content.

He had known for a long time it was all he could expect. He had not considered until now what a burden it was to lay on her shoulders.

“Your sister is dazzling,” Lady Penelope said.

“My what?” He looked dully at her. She inclined her head to indicate a point behind him, and he rotated with a sinking heart.

They were here. Phoebe, exuberant in cream and lace, a positively massive diamond he did not recall owning glittering at the end of a chain around her neck; her official escort, Mrs. Lindon, a subdued gray-blue giving her an appropriately gaolerlike look. And Elinor, in a gown so plain it was nearly a scandal. It didn't matter. She was the most beautiful woman in the room. Any gown would only be a distraction. Hell. He'd somehow managed not to think about the fact that they'd be here. He hadn't even thought to travel with them. And now they'd all be here for the announcement—and he hadn't told them. They were going to kill him.

Elinor started to turn in his direction.

“I beg your pardon,” Colin said to his intended. “There's something I must attend to.”

He ducked behind the nearest knot of conversationalists, cast around for an exit, and fled.

*   *   *

Elinor had forgotten how much she despised the Copeland ball. She hadn't come since her first Season, before Lord and Lady Copeland left for India, but little had changed. The music was gay, the dancing lively, the food superb—and the crowd so thick she could barely move without knocking into someone. She'd already lost Phoebe and her official escort,
Mrs. Lindon, in the crush. At least Mrs. Lindon would keep a close eye on Phoebe. She took her duties seriously—though she was perfectly happy to leave the matchmaking to Elinor, who, being unmarried, was not qualified for the Phoebe-wrangling role in such rarified environs.

In previous years, she had always had one or two offers of dancing by this point in the evening, but it would appear that she had finally reached expiration. She dodged a flute of champagne, clutched in the fist of a rather sweaty viscount, and pivoted toward the wall, seeking some refuge from the throng.

She came face-to-face with a woman she almost didn't recognize. “Lady Theodosia,” Elinor said, more of a startled exclamation than a proper greeting. The woman in question drew back, examining Elinor for a second longer than was necessary for an identification before a smile spread over her features—with the deliberation of spreading butter over toast.

“Lady Elinor. It's such a pleasure to see you. It's been ever so long. Though it's Lady Pelbourne now.”

“Of course! My apologies.” Elinor flushed. Theodosia had married Lord Pelbourne seven years ago; they'd exchanged a few rote pieces of correspondence in the months following, and Elinor had never made the error in writing. They'd come out in the same year, and for a time they were almost what Elinor would call close.

A mustachioed man with a tidy potbelly drew up, and Theodosia's smile broadened a fraction of an inch. “Darling, you simply must meet Lady Elinor Hargrove. Lady Elinor, may I present my husband, John Ashton, Earl of Pelbourne. Lord Pelbourne, this is Lady Elinor, an old friend.”

They exchanged thin-lipped
my pleasure
s, and then Lord Pelbourne lit up.

“Oh,
that
Lady Elinor,” he said. Elinor stiffened. “The witty one.”

“Quite,” Theodosia said. “She was always such a treat. You always seemed to know something about everyone, Elinor, and everything about quite a few somethings. So
quiet, but then you'd pop out with some scrumptious bit of commentary.”

It was almost complimentary. Perhaps it was meant to be. But something in the way Theodosia was looking at her made Elinor's stomach turn.

“It was such a pity when you got sick,” Theodosia went on. “Things were never quite so entertaining when you were gone. And you never did find a match, did you?”

Entertaining. She had been that. It was the only thing she had to catch their attention, those gorgeous girls with their easy conversation. She would be at the edge, trying desperately to grab hold of the thread. They'd hardly even noticed her, until one day she'd said—

She'd said something perfectly innocent about Lady Elise and Mr. Wyle, and all eyes had turned to her. No one else had realized they were infatuated with each other, she'd realized, and it was as if she suddenly held a great deal of power in her hands. She knew so much simply from watching and listening, and soon she knew how to phrase her little treasures of information so that everyone laughed.

That was when they'd become her friends. But they hadn't been friends, had they? She'd been their pet monkey. An
entertainment
. And worse than that, she'd earned her place with common gossip dressed up in wit. No wonder her friends had dropped away so quickly when she'd gotten ill. If she couldn't make them laugh, what good was she?

The press of people lurched forward. Someone bumped into Elinor from behind. The August heat was cloying, the close quarters nearly unbearable. “Please excuse me, I think I need some air,” she said, and extricated herself from the unexpected reunion.

She shook her head as she moved away. What a fool she had been. She'd been young, but that was no excuse. She'd savaged other girls to earn laughter. When she thought back to the company she'd earned herself, there was not a single person she cared to remain in contact with.

Thank God she'd gotten ill. All those fluttery half friendships had departed, leaving her with the people who mattered.
Marie and Martin, Kitty and—and Lord Farleigh. He'd always been so kind to her when she was sick, on the rare occasions they saw each other. So much so she'd asked him if he was ill himself, and he'd promised he'd go back to being a beast as soon as she was well.

Perhaps I'll stay sick forever, then
, she'd said. He hadn't laughed.

She pushed her way further in the direction the crowd was already carrying her, shouldering past chattering women and nervous men without apology. She cut along the wall and pushed through the first door she came to. The door swung shut behind her, instantly muffling the sounds of the dance, but she kept moving. The hallway was cool and dark, unused. It was still early in the evening, and she was unlikely to come across couples stealing away for a few minutes in private, but she still made plenty of noise before she went through another room. She'd found herself in a library. A large globe stood in the center of the room, and the walls were lined with books that looked too uniform. Probably bought as a set for the aesthetics, she thought, rather than for their contents. What a shame.

Elinor pressed a hand against her stomach, gulping down musty, thick air. Thank goodness for libraries. They were so much more her natural habitat than that swirl and crush. She couldn't believe she'd ever tried to pretend otherwise. “At home in solitude. And isn't that the essence of a spinster? I'm clearly talented.”

“Obviously,” Lord Farleigh said.

*   *   *

Elinor whirled with such speed that for a moment, Colin feared she would tumble over. He sat forward in the armchair where he had draped himself, setting aside his empty glass.

“I didn't see you there,” she said. “I didn't think you'd be here.”

“In a library? I do know how to read,” he said. She flushed.

“At the ball,” she said.

“Ah. Yes. I have . . . business here,” he said. Business that seemed very firmly locked on the other side of that closed door. “It's all a bit too much though, isn't it? We had the same idea, finding a quick escape,” he said, nodding back toward the door. “Though I had resigned myself to a few minutes of silence, whereas you brought along a charming conversationalist.”

“I assure you, I do not normally talk to myself.”

“More's the pity. I doubt there are many others who can keep up with you,” Colin said. She frowned. He always did seem to say the wrong thing around her, even when he was attempting a compliment. When he was younger he'd enjoyed provoking that frown. Now he couldn't seem to break the habit.

“I made plenty of noise before coming in,” she said. “You might have warned me you were here.”

He bristled. “Was that what I was meant to do? I thought there was a baby draft horse loose in the hall, given the clatter, and was considering herding it back into the ballroom in the hopes of improving on the night's entertainment.” Yes, that would certainly improve matters. Well done, Colin.

“A baby draft horse?” Elinor repeated. He summoned his aristocratic training and managed not to flinch at her wintry tone. “Excellent; I have been overheard wallowing in self-pity, and now been compared to a clumsy foal. This is certainly an evening to remember.”

“Self-pity? I imagined it was self-congratulation.”

Her mouth shut with a click of teeth. She glared at him. He glared at her.

“Well?” she said.

“Well what?”

“Are you going to apologize? Or leave, at least?”

Colin rose. He came toward her, step by deliberate step, his gaze tracking from the crown of her head to her feet. She would never be as
attractive
as Lady Penelope, because such beauty did not attract. It commanded. No wonder she had never married. No man would dare shackle her to a life of mere contentment, and she had spent her love already.
She imagined she was undesirable. He wished he could prove to her how wrong she was.

“I was here first, I might remind you,” Colin said. “As such, I refuse to leave. And what is it you wish me to apologize for?” he asked. “Failing to be deaf?”