by Gayle Callen
The girl had lost her family, her friends, the people she’d grown up with—all because of a man. Much as Elizabeth was grateful that her own situation was not so desperate, if she’d been truly ruined by one of her bold suitors, she might never have been welcomed into the homes of friends again, even if she married. She could have been forced to live in the country so that she wouldn’t infringe on her brother’s political life. A man who would hurt her reputation could also be a man who would beat her. And what could she have done about that? In her work with the charity, she’d met more than one woman who suffered such a fate.
That wouldn’t be her. She’d taken steps to solve her problems. True, she’d needed Peter’s help, but he was a partner, and would be compensated after all. Defeating two men was more important to him than her friendship, so he should be satisfied.
During the day’s at-home, another group of men paid their calls. She had to force herself not to wonder who knew about the painting, who’d revealed it to Thomas. He’d promised to stop his friend from spreading the rumor, but had it worked? She could almost swear that men laughed behind her back when she passed, but she could never catch anyone.
Almost a dozen suitors had arrived when Thomas Wythorne sauntered in. His smile was easy with confidence, and he touched his brow to her in a show of supposed respect that made her grit her teeth. He didn’t approach her, simply watched from afar, daring her to produce what he thought was a fictitious fiancé.
She would be happy to do so.
In the middle of a discussion with two men about a new Society marriage, she was able to blush prettily and say, “I am so thrilled that soon I, too, will be making an important announcement.”
The men glanced at each other in surprise.
She covered her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh dear, I was supposed to wait for the official announcement, but I can’t seem to stop my good news. I’m engaged to be married!”
She said the last sentence rather loudly, and heard rumbles of male conversation from behind her. Thomas arched a dark brow as if to say he’d heard this before and still didn’t believe it.
And then Peter arrived, his hair disheveled from the outdoors. When he spotted her, his smile fairly beamed with pride and adoration. She felt a jolt of warm pleasure before reminding herself what they were to each other.
She reached her gloved hands to him, and he brought them to his lips.
“Elizabeth.”
He murmured her name as if just seeing her put a shine on his day. Several men glanced at each other at his informal use of her Christian name.
“Peter,” she breathed quietly, smiling up at him. “I hope you don’t mind, but I could not keep quiet about our news.”
No one bothered to pretend a conversation; she had every man’s attention.
Peter grinned and surveyed the other men. “Elizabeth has done me the great honor of agreeing to become my wife.”
Elizabeth watched the shock and whispers sweep the room. More than one man looked at Peter with astonishment as if there had to be a mistake—he was a commoner, she was the daughter of a duke. Their families certainly wouldn’t have arranged such a match. Love could be the only reason—except for scandal or ruination, all of which she hoped to prevent. The scandal of marrying a commoner seemed minor to her. If only William had been here to see it!
For a short while the men mingled and talked and watched them. Peter never left her side, playing his part to perfection. One by one the guests politely congratulated them and took their leave. Even Thomas did so, although when Peter looked aside to speak to someone, Thomas raised an eyebrow at her and grinned. She desperately wished she could give him a smug look, but she didn’t want to antagonize him. He still knew about the painting. Surely he wouldn’t say anything . . .
Thomas’s last unreadable look was for Peter, and then he left. Elizabeth told herself to calm down, to wait and see if Thomas made a counter move.
When it was just she and Peter, they shared a long glance as the footmen departed. Peter looked at her as if the kiss was still on his mind—it certainly was on hers. It was wrong of her to remember the wildly exciting feelings he had stirred inside her. He kept watching her mouth, his eyes smoldering with memories. She put a table between them.
“Peter, please sit down. Would you care for tea? Oh dear, I should have asked the footmen before they left.”
His grin was arrogant, as if he knew she was flustered and regretful but didn’t care. He waited while she stepped into the hall to speak with a footman, rather than pull the bell for another servant. When she came back to sit across from him, he slid a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.
At her puzzled glance, he said, “It’s from my mother. She knew you would be putting an engagement announcement in the paper, and these are her suggestions.”
She read through it, as well as the lovely words of congratulations. Though she was well acquainted with Mrs. Derby, of course, there had always been a reserve about the woman that Elizabeth knew was because of the Cabot family’s noble status.
“Give her my thanks, Peter. Promise her I will have this to the newspapers later this afternoon. Do you wish to add your own advice on the wording?”
He grinned. “I trust you. I know you want this out in public as quickly as possible. With the men who called on you today, word will have spread by nightfall.”
Again he was looking directly at her mouth, instead of into her eyes. It made her feel fluttery and nervous inside. In a low voice, she said, “You do not have to look at me so . . . intently when we are alone.”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “It would be a mistake to act differently in private, Elizabeth.”
Pressing her lips together, she nodded.
“You don’t like me looking at you?”
She hesitated.
“Men have looked at you for years, even before you emerged from the schoolroom. Surely you are used to it.”
“But it’s . . . you, Peter. I am not used to that.”
They said nothing as a maid entered with a tea tray and left it for Elizabeth. She poured silently, preparing Peter’s tea as he liked it, then handing it to him. She met his amused gaze and responded with a faint smile, reminding herself that she’d asked for this.
After he took a sip, his smile faded and he considered his china cup for a moment. “Elizabeth, I have a favor to ask.”
“We seem to be asking much of each other lately.”
“Friends often do.”
She didn’t answer, and that seemed to amuse him.
“You have never been close to my sister, Mary Anne,” he began.
Surprised, she said, “She and I both tried for a deeper friendship. But we seemed to have nothing in common.”
He smiled. “Believe me, I do not blame you. As a child, Mary Anne was always more interested in tree forts and reptiles than the gentle pursuits of a young lady.”
“I seem to recall an occasional fascination with reptiles myself,” she said dryly. Her escapades were more about dares and challenges.
“But your interests matured,” Peter said.
Her interests, perhaps, but she was feeling far less than mature, with the crazy direction her life had taken.
“Mary Anne’s interests turned from reptiles to billiards,” he continued.
Elizabeth blinked at him. “Billiards?”
“She even won money from several friends the other night.”
“She wagered on her game?” Elizabeth asked, then added pointedly, “I wonder where she comes by that trait.”
He ignored her taunt. “You don’t understand. She deliberately misled them about her skill and lured them into a game.”
“Oh dear,” she murmured in understanding.
“If she continues in such a way, she’ll be ruined. And although she promised me she would no longer play for money, she is obsessed with the game, playing for hours every day. She tells me she values her independence and doesn�
��t want to marry. But I think something else is at the heart of her rebellion, and she has not yet found a way to confide in me, nor our mother. As for another female relative, we only have a distant aunt, and she’s not a close relation. Would you consider taking her under your wing, perhaps guiding her through the shoals of Society in a way that two brothers cannot?”
“Billiards,” Elizabeth mused, setting down her teacup and studying Peter. The knowing smile he’d been sporting for too many days was gone. She knew he loved his sister. “Who taught her the game?”
He sighed. “You probably know, or you wouldn’t ask. I did, several years ago. She enjoyed watching me practice, and soon she was asking intelligent questions. Before I knew it, she was handling the cue with talent. But misrepresenting herself to men, trying to take their money—”
“Yes, that is a different thing. I will admit your dilemma intrigues me.”
To her surprise, he rose suddenly and came around the table to sit beside her. She leaned back, but all he did was lift her hand.
“No man would believe that I could sit for long without touching you,” he murmured, squeezing her fingers gently.
She looked down at their joined hands, now resting on her knee. His was larger, rougher than hers, and she remembered it on her waist, pulling her against him. She’d had no choice, had never imagined that Peter would need strength to force her to do anything. But soon she’d wanted to be within his arms, she thought with guilt. Soon his kiss had made her forget their mistrust, and worse, her love of another man. What did that say about her?
“Do you need more time to consider?” he asked sharply.
“Of course not,” she assured him. “Mary Anne is important to you. I would be grateful for the chance to do something for you in return—even though I’ve already promised you the truth about the painting.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” he said. “That is something between men, where Mary Anne is close to my heart. What do you think we should do?”
“We? I do believe you’ve asked me to guide Mary Anne. I do not believe it wise for you to be a part of it, or she might suspect your involvement.”
“But—”
“For now she thinks I am to be her new sister by marriage. That will give me the chance to begin a closer friendship.”
Peter looked away.
“Peter, what’s wrong?”
He sighed. “Mary Anne might have her own impediment to your deepening the friendship. She is not happy that I’m marrying you.”
Elizabeth straightened. “Excuse me?” She tried to pull her hand away, but he didn’t allow it.
“She is concerned that I am setting my sights too high, that a marriage between two such different social classes will never work.”
“You’re not a chimney sweep, Peter,” she said, feeling cross and even offended. “Does she believe I cannot love you for the man you are, that I’d prefer a title?”
“I don’t know—do you need a title?”
“The man I love has a very minor one,” she said coolly. “It is unimportant to me.”
He looked at her without speaking, and she knew he was considering her words as a clue. Of course Peter would be curious about William Gibson. He was curious about the painting—curious about everything. She had never imagined it would be so difficult to keep things from him.
But there was also the mystery of why she had never been able to befriend Mary Anne, when she usually got on well with everyone. There was always an awkwardness when they were together. Had she avoided Peter’s sister deliberately, as her one failure?
“You know how important my father considered a title,” Peter said. “It bothered him so much that your father was a duke that he couldn’t even be civil. His attitude was a source of pain for my mother.”
“Was it because of my mother’s heritage?” Elizabeth asked. “There were many who did not agree with the marriage.”
“I don’t believe so. I think my father simply felt there was a competition for respect in the countryside, and that he was always the loser. His own fault, of course.”
“I’m sorry, Peter. Do you think Mary Anne feels the same?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t say so, but frames her objection as caring about me.”
“Then you should assume that’s what it is. She’s always been blunt and outspoken.”
“She used to be,” Peter said musingly. “Something has changed.”
Was the problem of Mary Anne even larger than he was letting on?
“I thank you for agreeing to help,” he said.
He raised her gloved hand to his mouth and kissed the back, looking at her as he did so. He’d always had laughing eyes, and sometimes she still glimpsed the old Peter. But long ago she would have been sharing his amusement, and now she felt like she didn’t understand him anymore. Something had changed him.
He gave her his easygoing smile. “My mother would like you to come for luncheon tomorrow morning. Mary Anne will be there.”
“Then I accept.” Again she tried to remove her hand from his, but although he lowered it again, this time their hands rested on his knee.
“I have something else we need to discuss. After I left here last night, I went to my club.”
She stiffened, and he gripped her hand even more tightly.
“I can see your mind working,” he continued in a chiding voice. “Much as I stood beneath the painting for a long while to admire it—”
“Ooh!” She pulled harder but she couldn’t escape him.
“—the painting was not my purpose there. I went because of the men pursuing you.”
She froze, and her every fear threatened to materialize. What would happen if Peter discovered Thomas’s manipulations? What if they confronted each other—would someone be hurt, all because of her?
Chapter 11
Good, now I have your attention,” Peter said, trying not to show his satisfaction.
“Peter—”
“Did you think once I knew your fears, I wouldn’t try to uncover the truth?”
“But it doesn’t matter anymore. I am engaged to you, and the news of that will protect me.”
Peter studied her beautiful face, willing her to tell him the truth. There was more she wasn’t saying; she was forcing him to pull secrets, one at a time, from that clever brain of hers. If she wanted to play this game, he would do so.
“I heard one man claim he tried to be alone with you on a terrace.”
“We were dancing,” she said tightly.
“That’s all I could uncover. I heard no one mention the painting in connection with you. But I will keep searching.”
“Peter, what if you’re making things worse?”
“But as your fiancé, it would be expected of me to protect you.”
She could not dispute that, he realized, although she obviously wanted to. She must think she’d defeated . . . someone . . . with her false engagement. But Dekker? He seemed harmless, but perhaps Elizabeth hadn’t felt that way. There must be more he didn’t know.
But he let it go, allowing her to think she’d solved all her own problems. He could not force her trust, but wanted her to grant it willingly.
“Thank you for informing me of what you’re doing,” she said, rising to her feet.
He did the same.
“I have a dinner engagement to prepare for.”
“And since I do not, then I will only see you tonight in my dreams?”
She rolled her eyes, then glanced at the door. “Really, Peter, who would even overhear such—”
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. He ran his tongue along her lips, which tasted of sweetened tea with cream. To his surprise, she didn’t push him away, but parted her mouth in invitation. Did she crave his kisses the way he now craved hers?
“Sweet dreams, Elizabeth,” he murmured against her mouth. Then he stepped back. “I will call for you at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
She nodded, pressing her w
et lips together, saying nothing. She looked a bit dazed, he thought with satisfaction.
He bowed to her and left the drawing room.
Elizabeth wrote a letter to Mary Anne, inviting her on a shopping expedition, and had it hand delivered. Surely they would become better acquainted as they roamed Bond Street. All women had the love of such a pastime in common.
She then put Peter, his kisses, and his closeness to discovering Thomas’s deeds, out of her mind—though she found it surprisingly difficult. She was having dinner at the Gibson home, and Lucy had assured her that William would be in attendance. It was time to see his reaction to the announcement of her engagement. She took extra care with her toilette, having her maid style her hair to look its best. She wanted William to see what he was missing.
In the Gibson drawing room, small but cozy, with warmly colored paintings and family knickknacks scattered across every table, Elizabeth stood with Lucy and Lady Gibson, awaiting the arrival of the Gibson brothers.
“William had business in the city,” said Lady Gibson, a plump woman whose blond hair had gone white.
Lucy rolled her eyes where her mother couldn’t see. She mouthed the word “horses,” and Elizabeth smothered a laugh. She had always enjoyed William’s devotion to the equine world, even if it meant watching a race to determine the next horse he meant to invest in. But obviously he wasn’t as good at racing them, for Peter had beaten him in Hyde Park. For a moment she was back at Peter’s side, the wind in her hair, the horses stretching out gloriously in front of them. She and Peter had exchanged eager smiles.
Realizing where her mind had drifted, she pulled her attention back to the Gibson drawing room. William liked racing horses, too, she reminded herself.
At last William and his younger brother Bernard came through the doors, their hair windblown, their faces wide with smiles. Elizabeth softened as she looked at William, who took such joy in life. His light hair only set off the devilish green gleam in his eyes.
