A Most Scandalous Engagement

by Gayle Callen

  “I’m not an artist,” he said. “I don’t know how one resists a beautiful naked woman day in and day out.”

  “It was professional. It was art. We didn’t even talk, for it disturbed his concentration.”

  “How did you—”

  “I don’t wish to speak of this anymore. It is time for me to converse with our hostess. Oh, Lady Fogge!” she called, raising a hand and smiling as she left Peter alone.

  He watched her go, keeping his expression neutral even as his mind turned over and over her reaction to his investigation of the artist—and what it might mean.

  Chapter 4

  The next day, Elizabeth desperately wanted to make morning calls with her mother. She didn’t wish to be in the house to receive, but her mother, so excited by this new interest in her daughter from so many men, was determined to see for herself.

  Elizabeth almost took a nap midday before the men arrived, but restrained herself. She’d had a hard time sleeping the previous night, feeling strangely alone in Madingley House, the great palace where her mother and aunt slept, not to mention dozens and dozens of servants. But her brother, Christopher, and cousins Daniel and Matthew, were gone, and she hadn’t imagined how much she would miss the security of their presence, their deep booming laughs, even their protectiveness.

  At three o’clock the men began to arrive, by singles, or twos and threes. To her surprise, Lord Thomas made an appearance. She and her mother exchanged looks. He slowly circulated about the room as one by one various men took their turn conversing with her.

  Always, her gaze would go back to Lord Thomas. He was one of the highest ranking in attendance, the younger son of a duke. He could have approached her at any time, and all would have made way for him. Instead he admired the intricately carved fireplace that stretched up to the ceiling, then wandered past each painting as if in a museum.

  At last the duchess seemed to be wilting under the demands of being hostess, after so recently recovering from a fever.

  “Take your ease, Mama,” Elizabeth said, bending over her. “There are only a few gentlemen left, and surely you’ve spoken to them all.”

  “That nice Lord Thomas is so thoughtful.”

  “Yes, isn’t he,” Elizabeth said, glancing at him again, only to find him watching her, a faint smile on his handsome mouth.

  “He always brings me word from his mother.” She lifted a folded letter from her lap. “I’ll retire and read it.”

  Bows followed the duchess as she left the drawing room. The last three men finally took their leave, and Elizabeth faced Lord Thomas. As he came to her slowly, she found herself more and more curious.

  He stopped before her and said nothing, simply studying her face.

  Almost nervously—and she was never nervous!—she said, “I still regret that we did not have the chance to dance the other night, Lord Thomas. I hope you have forgiven me.”

  “I have, my lady. I contented myself to look upon you from afar.”

  And then he allowed his gaze to travel slowly from her face to her bodice. She kept waiting for him to catch himself, as men usually did, but . . . he did not. Her skin began to burn with humiliation and the first touch of worry.

  “Lord Thomas?” she said coolly.

  He smiled when at last he met her eyes again. “You are a lovely creature, Elizabeth.”

  He didn’t use her title. “Creature? Not exactly what a lady wishes to hear.”

  “But are you still being treated as a lady?”

  She swallowed, remembering Lord Dekker trying to force her to waltz out on the terrace. Why did Lord Thomas bring that up? Only one man had treated her as less than a lady in his eagerness to spend time with her.

  “I think you should leave.” Her voice was cool now, full of the noble hauteur that she’d been bred to.

  He chuckled softly, glancing over her shoulder at the matching footmen lining the double doors to the entrance hall. He held out his arm. “I think we should stroll about the room. Such lovely artwork.”

  She wanted to leave, but something terrible would happen if she did. All she could do was control her trembling as she laid her hand lightly on his forearm. He led her toward the far wall, where large French doors opened onto the terrace.

  “I believe we can be seen together out in the open,” he said. “So much more private out there, too.”

  It wasn’t any more private than inside the servant-filled house, for many gardeners worked in the extensive beds that made one believe one was in the country, rather than in the heart of Mayfair. But on the terrace, though they were in view of servants, they could not be overheard.

  He guided her to the balustrade. She removed her hand from his arm, resting her palms on the marble, as if enjoying the view.

  “What do you want?” she asked coldly.

  He waited until she was forced to look up at him. His smile faded as he said, “I know about the painting.”

  She inhaled so swiftly it was as if she’d been struck a blow to the stomach. Oh God, she thought, and it was a fervent prayer. Clutching the balustrade, she stared with aching eyes out at the gardens, unable to look at him for fear of giving herself away.

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” she said, wishing she sounded less formal. “My cousin Susanna is an artist, not I.”

  “No, but you’re the model. I admit, I did not deduce it myself. Another gentleman—if you can use that word—whispered it to me. He said he saw Miss Rebecca Leland wearing the same jewel as in the painting—and of course, since she wore it, she can not be the model, nor, of course, her spinster sister.”

  It was exactly the same reasoning Peter had used.

  She tried once more to bluff her way out of the accusation. “Again, I don’t know—”

  “Stop, Elizabeth. I don’t know if you realize where that painting hangs, but many men of my acquaintance have seen it.”

  This explained Lord Dekker’s belief that he could be alone with her on a terrace and she wouldn’t protest. If more people found out, she’d be ruined, her family’s name disgraced.

  “I don’t know why you risked yourself in such a way,” he continued, “but I know you need protection.”

  She took a shaky breath, not certain what he was saying.

  “I can ensure that the rumors go no further, that Madingley never needs to know the truth of his sister . . . as long as you marry me.”

  Her shocked gaze flew to his. He was watching her closely, his expression solemn but his eyes glittering faintly. She’d rejected him, and perhaps he felt humiliated enough to find another way to have what he wanted. The painting had played right into his hands.

  “Marry you?” she whispered, as if the words didn’t want to make sense.

  “Yes. You were not so interested before.”

  There was a hard edge to his words, and now she knew that he had not taken the blow to his pride well.

  “But by marrying me,” he continued, “all of your problems will go away. My name will protect you. We’ll join two ancient families together, and make them even more powerful. No man would dare spread rumors if he knew he’d face my wrath.”

  She still gaped at him, her mind frantic, her fear growing into fury and desperation.

  “I can’t marry you,” she said, almost breathless. “I’m already engaged.”

  Where had that lie come from? she thought wildly. What if he became furious over another rejection and told everyone the truth? An engagement would only protect her from marriage to him, not her secrets.

  To her surprise, he chuckled. “I don’t believe you. There has been no word—and you, my highborn lady, could not hope to keep such news a secret from the gossips.”

  “But it is a secret,” she said desperately. “I can’t even tell you his name until he’s able to speak to my brother.”

  That, at least, was a realistic barrier to a public announcement.

  Thomas shook his head. “Ah, Elizabeth, you’re making this so much more chal
lenging. I don’t mind a challenge. I’m determined to have you. But my patience will only last so long. If there is an engagement—which I doubt—I suggest you break the poor man’s heart.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You can—and you will. After all, you can’t go to your brother with this dilemma, for then you’d have to reveal what began all of your problems—posing for that painting.”

  Her mind was racing—he was right, she had no one to fall back on for help, no one she could risk telling—and no fiancé! What was more, she did not doubt that Lord Thomas’s proposal would soon be a matter of public knowledge within the ton.

  “I assume the duke is returning in time for the Kelthorpe Masked Ball?”

  She could only nod helplessly.

  “You have three weeks, then, to see this settled. You won’t be able to keep the painting and your guilt from your brother. But with my help, together we can solve all your problems. I’ll even do my best to control knowledge of the painting—for now. What else would protect your reputation better than marriage to me?” With his finger, he lifted her chin until her mouth closed. “Three weeks, Elizabeth, to make me the happiest man in the world.”

  With a smile, he turned and walked across the terrace, disappearing into the drawing room. Sinking onto a wrought-iron bench, she put her face in her hands. The rest of her family might enjoy scandal, but she did not. She’d spent her childhood thoughtlessly doing whatever she’d wanted—and saw the toll such a life had taken on her brother, and her mother. With maturity, she had realized she’d be content with a simple life and the man of her dreams. What was she supposed to do now?

  Could she spend three weeks pretending she had a fiancé? But . . . another man—maybe even more—knew about the painting, according to Thomas. Though Thomas said he could control them, they might believe they could press their advances, as Lord Dekker had. Somehow she had to protect herself.

  That night, at Lady Marlowe’s dinner party, Peter looked for Elizabeth. Lady Marlowe could seat fifty people at her dining table, and they’d all crowded into her overheated, overdecorated drawing room, conversing before the meal. He’d had no time to get Elizabeth alone, so now that the meal was over, and the gentlemen were reunited with the ladies in the drawing room, perhaps he would have a chance.

  He had tried his best to visit Elizabeth that afternoon, but with his promise to his mother weighing heavily on his mind, he felt obligated to escort his sister on several morning calls. She was as polite as always—to the women. With the occasional man, she seemed to lose her tongue and her good sense. She’d never been hesitant to speak her opinion, to women or men. On the way home, he asked her what had changed, but she pretended ignorance. When he pressed her harder, at last she said she didn’t intend to marry, that she wanted an independent life, that there was nothing he, or their mother, could do to force her.

  She flung herself from the carriage at their town house, and he watched her march away, astonished. What had happened to his even-tempered, friendly little sister?

  Since she had refused to attend the dinner this evening, he concentrated on Elizabeth. At last he caught a glimpse of her across the drawing room, where she stood with her friend Miss Gibson and family. The carpets had been rolled back, the small orchestra warmed up and playing the first country dance. Elizabeth stood beside William Gibson, to whom Peter had never been introduced. He perfectly expected her to be led away by Gibson before he reached her.

  But that didn’t happen. She looked frustrated, and her toe tapped, a sure indication, but Gibson was ignorant. Fool.

  Peter stopped before her and bowed. “Good evening, Lady Elizabeth.”

  Her curtsy was brief and perfunctory—and then her gaze sharpened on his face.

  He raised his eyebrows in response.

  “Mr. Derby.” She drew his name out, as if in consideration.

  “Lady Elizabeth,” he repeated, grinning. At least she looked more like herself tonight. “May I have this dance?”

  Without a single hesitation, she put her hand in his. Surprised, pleased—then wary—he led her out onto the floor. It was a quadrille rather than his favorite waltz, so the steps took them apart and brought them together, circling other couples, before they could link hands again.

  When they came together, she murmured, “I need to speak with you in private.”

  He smiled. “You know I am at your command.”

  As she rolled her eyes, the dance separated them again. Several minutes later they spun together and she whispered, “I knew you’d have no problem—I heard you’ve been alone a time or two with questionable women.”

  He widened his eyes with innocence. “Why, Elizabeth, I have no idea what you’re saying. You almost sound jealous.”

  She ignored his taunt. “Meet me in the family parlor at the end of the main hall.”

  “The men are playing cards there.”

  “Drat.”

  And then they were separated, and he couldn’t help chuckling at her frustration. She seemed desperate to be alone with him—an enjoyable thought.

  When they were together again, she said, “The library.”

  “And if that’s occupied,” he said, “we could adjourn to the gardens.”

  Instead of quickly overruling his suggestion, she gave him such a troubled look that his amusement faded.

  “Elizabeth—” he began, frowning, but she interrupted before the dance separated them.

  “The library,” she repeated. “You go first and make sure it’s unoccupied. I’ll follow five minutes later.”

  And then she curtsied, he bowed, and they walked off the dance floor in different directions.

  He was waiting in the library beside the door when she entered. She gave a start to see him, but he silently held up the key, and she nodded. After locking the door, he leaned back against it and watched her.

  Her usual calm grace had deserted her. Her movements were hurried, restless, as she circled the leather wing-back chairs, and looked up at the bookshelves as if about to choose a title. Peter waited and watched, curious but patient.

  At last she took a deep breath and turned to face him. Those dark eyes seemed to roil with emotions, uncertainty and determination mixed with anger. He approached her, his unease growing.

  He took her hands and she didn’t even stop him. Though her skin was soft and supple, her fingers were cold. “Elizabeth, tell me what’s wrong. I’ve known for several days that you’ve been upset, but I can’t believe it’s simply because of this wager.”

  She opened her mouth, hesitated, then the words seemed to tumble from her lips quickly. “I need you to pretend to be my fiancé for the next few weeks.”

  That was certainly nothing he’d ever imagined. Stunned and worried about her, he still felt a jolt of desire as he wondered what it would be like if that were real. But she didn’t want it to be real. Something was making her desperate.

  She tried to yank her hands away. “Say something, Peter!”

  He didn’t let her go, saying mildly, “You can hardly propose to me and not tell me why.”

  “It’s not a proposal! Not really,” she added, shoulders slumping.

  “Elizabeth—”

  “I can’t talk about this, Peter. I thought, for the sake of our friendship, you would help me.”

  “Elizabeth—”

  She interrupted again. “And if our childhood friendship isn’t enough, then I will make a bargain with you. If you agree to a false engagement, and allow me to break it off when I need to, I will tell you the truth about the painting. You’ll defeat your friends.”

  She watched him closely, waiting, not even breathing, Peter thought. Something had driven her to such a desperate act, and he had to understand why. To hell with the wager.

  “Elizabeth, you could not possibly have thought that I wouldn’t have questions about something so outrageous.”

  “I won’t answer your questions, Peter. That’s part of the bargain. In return for yo
ur help and your silence, you’ll defeat your friends. What more do you want?”

  He pulled her hands up to press them flat to his chest. “Elizabeth, this is . . . insane. You’re going to tell your mother we’re engaged? Your brother? All of your friends? Why would you do something so drastic?”

  Stubborn, she seemed determined not to confide in him. But did she not realize that if he agreed to her insane plan, they would be forced to be closer than ever? Certainly then he could find out the truth, help her somehow. He’d always been the one who rescued her, who hid her secrets—and now she was asking for that again.

  She stared at her hands where they rested on his chest. He rubbed her fingers gently with his palms, wanting to warm her, to ease her. Again she pulled away, and this time he allowed it.

  “Peter, this is not something I’ve asked lightly.” She didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I understand how it will affect me, what I’ll have to do. But it’s temporary, and it will not affect my family. But you—how will it affect you? Will you mind lying to your family?”

  I once lied to yours, he thought, then submerged his uneasiness. That was the past.

  “Or is there a woman you’re courting?” she continued.

  Now she searched his eyes, and he was able to say, “There’s no one.” And it was only partly the truth. There was no one else he’d ever seriously considered. Since Elizabeth had grown up, she was the one always lingering in his thoughts.

  “And those women I heard about?”

  Though he smiled, her expression didn’t ease. “We only amuse each other, games and not commitments.”

  Nodding, she looked away. Only in mourning had he seen such unhappiness shadow her face. He felt sympathetic, and had to try reasoning with her one last time.

  “But Elizabeth, I’m not sure you have thought this through. To convince your family, we’ll have to appear as if we’ve suddenly fallen in love.”

  She bit her lip even as she nodded.

  “And your mother will believe that?”

  “She has to.” Her words were low and tense, fraught with anxiety.

  But Elizabeth wouldn’t confide in him, ask him for his help directly. She wanted subterfuge, regardless of who might be hurt.