The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown (Lady W 1) (38 page)

“I love my brother,” David said softly, “but he has his flaws, and he required a wife who would need him and depend upon him. Someone who would force him to become the man I know he can be. If Clive had married you—”

He looked at her. She was staring at him with frank eyes, waiting patiently for him to formulate his thoughts. He could tell that his answer meant everything to her, and he knew that he had to get it right.

“If Clive had married you,” he finally continued, “he would have had no need to be strong.
You
would have been strong for the both of you. Clive would never have had any reason to grow.”

Her lips parted with surprise.

“Put simply, Miss Ballister,” he said with startling softness, “my brother wasn’t worthy of a woman like you.”

And then, while she was trying to comprehend the meaning behind his words, while she was trying simply to remember how to breathe, he stood.

“It has been a pleasure, Miss Ballister,” he murmured, taking her hand and gently laying a kiss on her glove. His eyes remained fixed on her face the entire while, glowing hot and green, and searing straight into her soul.

He straightened, curved his lips just far enough to make her skin tingle, and quietly said, “Good night, Miss Ballister.”

Then he was gone, even before she could offer her own farewell. And he did not reappear in the box next to her.

But this feeling—this strange, breathless, swirling feeling that he managed to stir within her with only a smile—it wrapped itself around her and didn’t leave.

And for the first time in her life, Susannah wasn’t able to concentrate on a Shakespearean play.

Even with her eyes open, all she could see was the earl’s face.

Chapter 3

Once again, Miss Susannah Ballister is the talk of the town. After achieving the dubious distinction of being both the most popular and the most unpopular young lady of the 1813 season (thanks, in whole, to the occasionally vacuous Clive Mann-Formsby), she was enjoying a bit of obscurity until another Mann-Formsby—this one David, the Earl of Renminster—graced her with his undivided attention at Saturday night’s performance of
The Merchant of Venice
at Drury Lane.

One can only speculate as to the earl’s intentions, as Miss Ballister very nearly became a Mann-Formsby last summer, although her prefix would have been Mrs. Clive, and she would have been sister to the earl.

This Author feels safe in writing that no one who saw the way the earl was looking at Miss Ballister throughout the performance would ever mistake his interest as fraternal.

As for Miss Ballister—if the earl’s intentions are noble, then This Author also feels safe in writing that everyone would agree that she has landed herself the better Mann-Formsby.

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN
’
S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
,
31 J
ANUARY
1814

O
nce again, Susannah could not sleep.

And no wonder—
My brother wasn’t worthy of a woman like you
? What could he have meant by that? Why would the earl say such a thing?

Could he be courting her? The earl?

She gave her head a shake, the sort meant to knock silly ideas right from her mind. Impossible. The Earl of Renminster had never shown signs of seriously courting anyone, and Susannah rather doubted that he was going to start with her.

And besides, she had every reason to feel the utmost irritation with the man. She had lost sleep over him. Susannah never lost sleep over anyone. Not even Clive.

As if that weren’t bad enough, her restless night on Saturday was repeated on Sunday, and then Monday was even worse, due to her appearance in that morning’s
Whistledown
column. So by the time Tuesday morning came along, Susannah was tired and grumpy when her butler found her and Letitia breaking their fast.

“Miss Susannah,” he said, inclining his head ever so slightly in her direction. “A letter has arrived for you.”

“For me?” Susannah queried, taking the envelope from his hand. It was the expensive sort, sealed with dark blue wax. The crest she recognized instantly. Renminster.

“Who is it from?” Letitia asked, once she’d finished chewing the muffin she’d popped into her mouth just as the butler had entered.

“I haven’t opened it yet,” Susannah said testily. And if she was clever, she’d figure out how not to open it until she was out of Letitia’s company.

Her sister stared at her as if she were an imbecile. “That’s easily remedied,” Letitia pointed out.

Susannah set the envelope down on the table beside her plate. “I will deal with it later. Right now I’m hungry.”

“Right now I’m dying of curiosity,” Letitia retorted. “Either you open that envelope this instant or I will do it for you.”

“I am going to finish my eggs, and then—Letitia!” The name came out rather like a shriek, as Susannah lunged across the table at her sister, who had just swiped the envelope in a rather neatly done maneuver that Susannah would have been able to intercept had her reflexes not been dulled by lack of sleep.

“Letitia,” Susannah said in a deadly voice, “if you do not hand that envelope back to me unopened, I will never ever forgive you.” And when that didn’t seem to work, she added, “For the rest of my life.”

Letitia appeared to consider her words.

“I will hunt you down,” Susannah continued. “There will be no place you may remain safe.”

“From you?” Letitia asked dubiously.

“Give me the envelope.”

“Will you open it?”

“Yes. Give it to me.”

“Will you open it
now
?” Letitia amended.

“Letitia, if you do not hand that envelope back to me this instant, you will wake up one morning with all of your hair cut off.”

Letitia’s mouth fell open. “You’re not serious?”

Susannah glared at her through narrowed eyes. “Do I look as if I’m jesting?”

Letitia gulped and held the envelope out with a shaky hand. “I do believe you’re serious.”

Susannah snatched the missive from her sister’s hand. “I would have taken several inches off at the very least,” she muttered.

“Will you open it?” Letitia said, always one to remain intractably on subject.

“Very well,” Susannah said with a sigh. It wasn’t as if she was going to be able to keep it a secret, anyway. She’d merely been hoping to put it off. She hadn’t yet used her butter knife, so she slid it under the flap and popped the seal open.

“Who is it from?” Letitia asked, even though Susannah hadn’t even yet unfolded the letter.

“Renminster,” Susannah said with a weary sigh.

“And you’re upset?” Letitia asked, eyes bugged out.

“I’m not upset.”

“You sound upset.”

“Well, I’m not,” Susannah said, sliding the single sheet of paper from the envelope.

But if she wasn’t upset, what
was
she? Excited, maybe, a little at least, even if she was too tired to show it. The earl was exciting, enigmatic, and certainly more intelligent than Clive had been. But he was an earl, and he certainly wasn’t going to marry her, which meant that eventually, she would be known as the girl who’d been dropped by two Mann-Formsbys.

It was more than she thought she could bear. She’d endured public humiliation once. She didn’t particularly want to experience it again, and in greater measure.

Which was why, when she read his note, and its accompanying request, her answer was immediately no.

Miss Ballister—

I request the pleasure of your company on Thursday, at Lord and Lady Moreland’s skating party, Swan Lane Pier, noon.

With your permission, I will call for you at your home thirty minutes prior.

Renminster

“What does he want?” Letitia asked breathlessly.

Susannah just handed her the note. It seemed easier than recounting its contents.

Letitia gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Susannah muttered, trying to refocus her attention on her breakfast.

“Susannah, he means to court you!”

“He does not.”

“He does. Why else would he invite you to the skating party?” Letitia paused and frowned. “I hope
I
receive an invitation. Skating is one of the few athletic pursuits at which I do not appear a complete imbecile.”

Susannah nodded, raising her brows at her sister’s understatement. There was a pond near their home in Sussex that froze over every winter. Both Ballister girls had spent hours upon hours swishing across the ice. They’d even taught themselves to spin. Susannah had spent more time on her bottom than on her skates during her fourteenth winter, but by God, she could spin.

Almost as well as Letitia. It did seem a shame that she hadn’t yet been invited. “You could just come along with us,” Susannah said.

“Oh no, I couldn’t do that,” Letitia said. “Not if he’s courting you. There is nothing like a third wheel to ruin a perfectly good romance.”

“There is no romance,” Susannah insisted, “and I don’t think I’m going to accept his invitation, anyway.”

“You just said you would.”

Susannah stabbed her fork into a piece of sausage, thoroughly irritated with herself. She hated people who changed their minds at whim, and apparently, for today at least, she was going to have to include herself in that group. “I mis-spoke,” she muttered.

For a moment Letitia didn’t reply. She even took a bite of eggs, chewed them thoroughly, swallowed, and took a sip of tea.

Susannah didn’t really think her sister was through with the conversation; Letitia’s silence could never be mistaken as anything but a momentary reprieve. And sure enough, just when Susannah had relaxed sufficiently to take a sip of her tea without actually gulping it down, Letitia said:

“You’re mad, you know.”

Susannah brought her napkin to her lips to keep from spitting out her tea. “I know no such thing, thank you very much.”

“The Earl of Renminster?” Letitia said, her entire face colored by disbelief. “Renminster? Good heavens, sister, he’s rich, he’s handsome, and he’s an
earl
. Why on earth would you refuse his invitation?”

“Letitia,” Susannah said, “he’s Clive’s brother.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“He didn’t like me when I was being courted by Clive, and I don’t see how he has suddenly revised that opinion now.”

“Then why is he courting you?” Letitia demanded.

“He’s not courting me.”

“He’s trying to.”

“He’s not try—oh, devil take it,” Susannah broke off, thoroughly annoyed with the conversation by this point. “Why would you think he wanted to court me?”

Letitia took a bite of her muffin and said rather matter-offactly, “Lady Whistledown said so.”

“Hang Lady Whistledown!” Susannah exploded.

Letitia drew back in horror, gasping as if Susannah had committed a mortal sin. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“What has Lady Whistledown ever done to earn my undying admiration and devotion?” Susannah wanted to know.

“I adore Lady Whistledown,” Letitia said with a sniff, “and I will not tolerate slander against her in my presence.”

Susannah could do nothing but stare at the deranged spirit she was certain had overtaken her normally sensible sister’s body.

“Lady Whistledown,” Letitia continued, her eyes flashing, “treated you rather nicely throughout that entire awful episode with Clive last summer. In fact, she might have been the only Londoner to do so. For that, if for nothing else, I will never disparage her.”

Susannah’s lips parted, her breath going still in her throat. “Thank you, Letitia,” she finally said, her low voice catching on her sister’s name.

Letitia just shrugged, clearly not wanting to get into a sentimental conversation. “It’s nothing,” she said, her breezy voice belied by her slight sniffle. “But I think you should accept the earl’s offer all the same. If for no other reason than to restore your popularity. If one dance with him can make you acceptable again, think what an entire skating party will do. We’ll be mobbed by gentleman callers.”

Susannah sighed, truly torn. She
had
enjoyed her conversation with the earl at the theater. But she’d grown less trusting since Clive had jilted her last summer. And she didn’t want to be the subject of unpleasant gossip again, which would certainly arise the minute the earl decided to pay attention to some other young lady.

“I can’t,” she said to Letitia, standing up so suddenly that her chair nearly toppled over. “I just can’t.”

Her regrets were sent to the earl not one hour later.

Precisely sixty minutes after Susannah watched her footman depart with her note for the earl, declining his invitation, the Ballisters’ butler found her in her bedchamber and informed her that the earl himself had arrived and was waiting for her downstairs.

Susannah gasped, dropping the book she’d been trying to read all morning. It landed on her toe.

“Ow!” she blurted out.

“Are you hurt, Miss Ballister?” the butler asked politely.

Susannah shook her head even though her toe was throbbing. Stupid book. She hadn’t been able to read more than three paragraphs in an hour. Every time she looked down at the pages, the words swam and blurred until all she could see was the earl’s face.

And now he was there.

Was he
trying
to torture her?

Yes, Susannah thought, with no small measure of melodrama, he probably was.

“Shall I inform him that you will see him in a moment?” the butler inquired.

Susannah nodded. She was certainly in no position to refuse an audience with the Earl of Renminster, especially in her own home. A quick glance in her mirror told her that her hair wasn’t too terribly mussed after sitting on her bed for an hour, and so with heart pounding, she made her way downstairs.