A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (12 page)

“You compared me to a draft horse,” she reminded him.

“So I did. I can see now that I was wrong in my comparison,” he said. She gave a
hmph
of satisfaction, and God help him, he couldn't let it be. “Still, it must be noted that you have a rather long face.” He reached out a finger, touching her chin. She froze, anger beginning to spark in her eyes. He smiled. “Elegantly so, however, an attribute one does not normally associate with gamboling foals. I did once see a rather magnificent stallion whose coat was this same shade of auburn.” His hand went to the curl hanging beside her neck, and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger.

In a few minutes, Lord Levenbane would make his cheerful announcement. In a few minutes, Colin would be clapped on the shoulder and offered one congratulation after another, while Lady Penelope blushed and giggled. He had no chance of ever having Elinor. He was not fool enough to believe otherwise. But for the next few minutes, in the darkness and solitude of this room, he could pretend.

“Lord Farleigh, you have embarrassed yourself once where I am concerned. I would remind you that you have expressed deep regret at having implied that you might find me attractive. Your current nonsense is bordering dangerously close to repeating that sin, so for both our sakes, you ought to stop.”

He huffed. “Don't be ridiculous, Elinor. You are beautiful. It would take a eunuch not to be attracted to you.”

“You've been drinking,” Elinor said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It's a marvelous occupation. You should try it.”

“When you are sober—”

“When I am sober, I will be wise,” he said. “Too wise to see the wisdom in correcting my earlier mistake.”

“What mistake?”

“I kissed you,” Colin said. She stiffened. He tilted his head, considering the implication. No, that wouldn't do at all. “I kissed you badly. I fear I have left you with the impression that such a kiss is my standard, whereas I assure you it was an aberration.”

She licked her lower lip nervously. He tracked the movement, not bothering to hide the direction of his gaze, and her cheeks went red. He expected her to push him away, then. She had always had far more sense than he.

“Well,” she said. “It clearly bothers you that you performed so poorly. If it will set your mind at ease, you may make the attempt once more.”

He paused, somewhat surprised that his ploy had worked. “My first error, as I recall, was that you declared that you did not want to kiss me. And an unwanted kiss is never good. So: do you want me to kiss you?” He touched her cheek with the very tips of his fingers.

“Very well,” she said. Her voice wobbled. “I would not want to deny you the chance to redeem yourself. One kiss, that's all.”

He slid his hand around to the back of her neck, drawing her toward him. “One kiss.”

One kiss. What harm could there be, in one kiss? Call it a farewell. An exorcism. He harbored no delusion as to its meaning. He did not imagine that her interest was in
him
. She had, after all, been alone for a very long time.

He bent his head toward hers.

“Only one,” she reminded him. “And this doesn't mean anything.”

“Nothing at all,” he promised her.

His other hand found her waist, resting lightly upon it. At first, his lips only brushed against hers, a touch so light it brought a little gasp from her. Then he pressed against her more forcefully, his mouth matching hers. She tasted of champagne and sweetness, her lips soft against his. His lips moved with hers; he employed teeth and tongue nimbly, and she mirrored his explorations, her fingers tightening on his
arms until they dug into his sleeves. He pulled her against him, the heat of her body shooting through him.

She broke away from him, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He stared at her, hunger in his gaze. There was nothing of
contentment
in that kiss. There was nothing of contentment
after
that kiss. He reached for her again. She pulled away and smoothed her skirts. “Well,” she said. “That was indeed an improvement.”

He made a choked sound. “That's all you have to say?” he said.

“Is there more required?”

He forced himself to take a single long breath without speaking. One kiss, he reminded himself. An exorcism. He was done with her now. “No,” he said. “I believe our business is concluded. It would have been a great shame, to leave you with such a terrible kiss as the most recent in your memory.”

“Because it would be so difficult for me to acquire another?” Elinor asked coldly.

“You aren't attached to anyone, are you?” He smothered the note of panic in his voice. He had no right to jealousy.

“No, and I am unlikely to be, as you well know.” She glared at him.

A clock in the corner chimed, and both of them jumped. Colin swore softly. “The announcement,” he said.

“What announcement?”

He paused. This was the second-worst way for her to learn of his engagement. Unfortunately, the worst would be when Lord Levenbane made the announcement, and she was guaranteed to hear it.

“I am announcing my engagement,” he said.

Elinor could not speak. Her limbs were cold. She folded her hands together precisely in front of her. “Engagement,” she said. Her voice sounded as if it were being forced through a grate. “To whom?” she asked, pitching her voice to express exactly the right degree of interest and detachment. If it was one of her friends, she thought she might retch. But no, it wouldn't be; her friends were all wed and vanished into the management of their households and their husbands.

“Lady Penelope Layton,” he said.

“Ah,” she said. She thought perhaps a hornet had taken up residence in her ear. There did seem to be a monotonous drone drowning out her voice. “Felicitations.”

“Yes. Well. I should go,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “You should.”

He hesitated a moment longer, then turned, and left her alone in the dark. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands, trying not to think. It was an impossible task.

When he'd offered to kiss her, she'd thought, for one fleeting, fanciful moment, that perhaps she had been wrong about him all this time. He'd called her beautiful. He'd wanted to kiss her. And then the kiss had been incredible. She hadn't been kissed like that since—

She'd never been kissed like that. Matthew was a merely competent kisser. She hadn't minded; she'd assumed she'd have time to train him. Lord Farleigh had clearly looked after his own training. But she'd thought she detected more than skill and practice; she'd thought she tasted true desire in that kiss.

But of course she was wrong. She was an entertainment. A last bit of fun before he married Lady Penelope Layton.

Elinor pressed her hands to her cheeks. She was crying. She was crying over Colin Spenser.

She couldn't stay. She couldn't listen to that announcement.

She slipped out of the library and down a dark hallway until she found an exit, a feeling like panic clawing at her throat. She startled a footman, taking a break around the side of the house. She sniffed back her tears and gave him a charming smile.

“Oh, good. Will you get word to Mrs. Lindon that Lady Elinor has gone home with a headache? Tell her that she is not to let Lady Phoebe out of her sight under any circumstances. Thank you ever so much. Good night.” Still smiling brightly, she glided past the blinking footman without another word and hurried for the street. The night was late enough that the near-constant blockade of carriages had thinned as only the truly late arrivals straggled in. Unfortunately, her own carriage would not make the return journey for hours yet. She froze on the street corner, suddenly uncertain where to turn. As she stood, one of the late-to-arrive carriages, having deposited its gowned cargo, started to pull by—and came up short.

“Are you all right, miss?” the driver asked, leaning over to get a good look at her.

“Perfectly fine,” Elinor said firmly. As soon as she remembered how to breathe in an orderly fashion.

“Only, you look like someone's made you cry,” the driver said. She looked at him in affront, but there was only kindness in his eyes. “Can I take you home, miss? My mistress will be hours yet, and I've got nowhere to be.”

Elinor assessed the wisdom of accepting such an offer, and weighed it against the wisdom of striding off through London at night on foot. “Thank you,” she said. “I would be very much obliged.”

“I'd eat these reins before I left a lady crying on the street,” he said, and hopped down to open the carriage door for her. “Just tell me where to.”

She gave him the address and climbed into the carriage gratefully. It lurched forward, and for a moment she listened to the cluck of the driver's tongue, his soft, affectionate tones as he spoke to his horses.

She had left without saying a single good-bye. Her absence would not be noted. She would go home, and she would sleep, and in the morning this would seem like a bad dream.

She buried her face in her hands. How had she let this happen? How had she let herself care whether Lord Farleigh kissed her—and whether he meant it? How could she have let herself be so stung when he all but called her a dried-up spinster?

Well damn him. And damn Lady Penelope Layton.

Who was a terrible match for him, anyway. Penelope Layton was twenty years old, plump and pretty, perhaps the sweetest girl Elinor had met in all her life. There was nothing beneath that sweetness, though, no edges to catch against. You'd sink through her like a pudding and plop out the other side, sticky with her goodwill. She would bore Colin, and he would make her miserable. She needed someone who saw the stars when he looked in her face, and delighted in presenting her with sweets and flowers on a whim. Colin would buy sweets and flowers, but they would be calculated gifts, and Penelope was not a stupid girl; she would know it. Still, she was the daughter of an earl and the grandniece of a duke, with enough siblings and aunts and uncles to prove her line was fertile. It was a prudent match. Thoroughly prudent.

“Damnit,
I
am the daughter of an earl,” Elinor said, and hated herself for it.

It didn't matter that she was the daughter of an earl. She
was over thirty, she had a reputation for being sickly, and she'd spent five years putting off any interested man that came her way.

She shut her eyes. The sway of the carriage lulled her, soothing her. She was losing everyone. Marie and Matthew, years ago; Martin and Joan to each other; now even Lord Farleigh. They were leaving her behind.

They drew up to the town house in short order, and the driver waited as she climbed the steps and slipped in the front door. The house was all but empty, but the butler greeted her in the foyer with a concerned expression.

“I'm afraid I'm not feeling well,” Elinor said. “I'll be going to bed.”

“Of course, my lady,” the butler said. “There is a letter for you, when you are recovered adequately to read it.” He indicated the tray near the door.

Elinor crossed to it, and instantly recognized the elaborate scrolls of the handwriting. She opened it with trepidation, and read.

Lady Elinor—

There is a problem. Come to see me as soon as you can.

—Mme. Lavigne

Elinor crushed the letter in her palm and closed her eyes. “I have to go,” she said, and turned back to the carriage.

*   *   *

Colin listened through Levenbane's protracted toast, understanding only every fifth word as Penelope Layton beamed beside him. He was a fool.

No. That night in the hallway, he had been a fool. A drunkard as well. Tonight, he had been cruel. He did not even have the excuse of drink; he'd had only a few sips, wanting to be clear-eyed for the announcement. Now he
wished he'd downed an entire bottle. What had he been thinking? He had wanted one last taste of what he was losing before he consigned himself to his engagement. He had wanted one last chance to have Elinor, however briefly.

He had not thought for a moment what it might be like for her. Did she think he had been toying with her? Using her as one last bit of adventure before he settled down? She would not be wrong. If he had hoped that some affection might remain between them after he was married, he had dashed that hope to the ground and stomped it to pieces with his ill-considered ploy.

He had better pray that Martin never found out about this. The man would skewer him through with a saber.

Levenbane concluded, and Colin was swarmed with well-wishers. He accepted their congratulations, clasping one hand after another and somehow remembering the names that went with each face. He spotted Phoebe off to the side, her chaperone standing by at attention. They were looking at him with something akin to reproach. As soon as he was able, he made his way over, steeling himself against Phoebe's reaction.

“Well, well,” Phoebe said. “Engaged. Fascinating.”

“I forgot to tell you,” he said. Or rather, he'd kept putting it off. It wasn't that he was ashamed of the girl or the engagement, individually; it was just that he felt somehow that he was letting his sisters down, marrying in such a businesslike fashion. His mother would be appalled; for all her matchmaking, her aim was love, not merely satisfaction.

“I want you to imagine, for a moment, what Mrs. Hargrove would say to you under these circumstances,” Phoebe said.

Given Joan's vocabulary, he could imagine that quite vividly.

“And now I want you to assume I have said all of those things.” She punched him lightly on the arm. “You cad! You ought to have told us. I hadn't even known you were courting her!”

“It was a brief courtship,” he admitted.

“Are you madly in love?”

He fell silent. There were too many ears, listening in. “I am extremely pleased,” he said, but even that was a lie.

Phoebe looked crestfallen. “Oh,” she said. “I see.” Mrs. Lindon looked awkward, and as if she wanted to be somewhere else. He felt the same.

“It's all out in the open now,” Phoebe said lightly, recovering. “And no harm done. Now. I believe your betrothed is in need of a dancing partner, Lord Farleigh.” She sounded cheerful enough, but she only used his title when she was angry with him. He was going to have to bribe her with something later. Or possibly grovel. “You should see to that.”

He gave her a bow. No harm done. Was it too much to hope that she was right?