“I would say that you like to court scandal. Then again, so do I. Tell me more.”
Swallowing against the knot in her throat, she did just that.
Five evenings later, Edward stood aside as Claire was led onto the dance floor by her latest partner. Looking beautiful in a gown of creamy lemon silk, she glided across the room like a sunbeam whose radiance put the candlelight completely to shame. Her cropped golden curls bounced around her head with a lively impudence, her blue eyes gleaming with magic and mystery as she worked her charms on the young man with whom she’d agreed to dance.
The amazing thing was that Claire wasn’t even aware of her power over the opposite sex. All she had to do was smile and men fell over their feet trying to please her. Lately he found himself fighting the urge to send the whole lot of them scurrying away, so he could keep her all to himself. But Claire had drummed up enough raised eyebrows and disapproving stares all on her own without him creating an entirely new stir.
At least she seemed to have finally accepted the reality of their engagement.
Or so he hoped.
Since their encounter in his study, she’d been a model of propriety. She never went anywhere without an appropriate chaperone, her behaviour as circumspect as the most demure of maidens. Initially, he’d been suspicious, alert for any sign that she was up to her old tricks. But as the days passed without incident, his worry eased, leaving him to wonder if she had truly given up waging her campaign to convince him to let her go.
So unassuming was she, in fact, that he’d even overheard one of the patronesses remark that perhaps they’d been too harsh with Claire and should rethink their decision to revoke her Almack’s vouchers. Of course, their change of heart might also stem from the fact that Claire was more popular than ever.
Rather than Claire becoming a social pariah, as was generally the case after expulsion from the Ton’s most exclusive gathering place, her absence was apparently thinning numbers inside the hallowed assembly rooms on dance night. Many of the younger set, it seemed, were opting to attend whatever ball Claire decided to visit rather than spend their Wednesday evening on King Street.
Apparently Claire was de rigueur even in disgrace.
Edward would have found it all rather amusing were it not for one thing—she still hadn’t set a wedding date.
He considered pushing the issue, and pushing it forcefully, but decided that perhaps she needed just a little more time to adjust. His patience was dwindling rapidly, however, and if she didn’t choose soon, he would choose for her.
Since he had no interest in dancing, at least not with any lady other than Claire, he turned and made his way into the nearby library. There he found a group of gentlemen engaged in an enthusiastic debate about the war. Accepting a glass of port, he leaned against the fireplace mantel and listened.
Inside the ballroom, the dance drew to an end. After curtseying to her partner, Claire allowed him to escort her from the floor. They were halfway across when she faltered, weaving slightly as she came to a sudden halt.
“Oh, good heavens,” she declared. “I think I’ve stepped on my hem.” Glancing down, she inspected her skirt, while the man at her side stood by with an expression of bemusement on his face.
“I’m afraid I’ve torn my gown,” she told him after a minute. “Forgive my clumsiness, but I am going to have to excuse myself to effect a repair.”
Releasing her, he stepped aside. “Of course. Do you require assistance?”
She shook her head. “I’m sure there will be a maid in the ladies’ withdrawing room who can help me. I shall be fine.”
With a bow, he accepted her word and stepped aside.
The instant he was gone, Claire whirled around and hurried toward the doorway. There was nothing wrong with her gown, of course, but she’d needed some plausible excuse in order to get away. She was late, the clock having struck ten some minutes ago, the time she was supposed to have met Lord Islington for their planned evening ride. They’d agreed they would rendezvous outside and then be on their way.
Her tardiness was Edward’s fault. She’d thought he would never leave the ballroom and she’d had no choice but to accept another dance, even though the appointed hour was already upon her. Then, finally, she’d looked up and Edward was gone. She knew if she wanted to proceed with her plan that this was the moment.
The only moment.
Her heart pounded beneath her breasts, nerves jangling, as she moved into the corridor leading to a side exit that Islington had suggested might aid her departure. Reaching the garden door, she took hold of the curved brass handle, then paused.
Do I really want to do this?
Do I honestly want to keep an assignation with Lord Islington that will ruin me utterly and completely in the eyes of Society?
More importantly, one that will damage me forever in Edward’s estimation?
Of course she had no intention of making her ruin an actual fact, since she wasn’t about to let Gregory Islington touch her. But if Edward believed he had, if he thought she’d given her innocence to another man, all his talk of duty and responsibility would cease. For what man would abide a sullied bride? What duke would want a duchess who had been unfaithful to him even before the vows had been said?
Her hand trembled on the doorknob. It wasn’t too late to change her mind. All she need do was return to the ballroom and no one would realize what she’d been contemplating. A queasy swell crested in her stomach, knowing that once she set foot outside this house, her path was fixed. Then again, her path was fixed if she turned back. She would marry Edward. The battle between them would be done.
A murmur of voices sounded in the distance and she knew it was now or never. Stay or go, the choice was hers to make.
Five seconds passed, then ten.
Drawing a sharp breath, she opened the door and stepped outside.
Edward tossed back a draught of port, then set his glass aside. He’d listened to the conversation and had gleaned nothing of particular import. Most of the men gathered liked to puff around as though they were privy to all sorts of vital secrets. Edward knew for a fact that they were not.
The only man in the group with any real connections was Lord Lymehurst and he was a close-lipped sort. Actually, he rarely spoke freely about any subject unless it had to do with horses or women; he was always available for a conversation about those. The last Edward heard, Lymehurst had been dallying with Jack’s old flame, Philipa Stockton. But then Lady Stockton dallied with a great many men. If rumours were to be believed, she’d taken several lovers since Jack had ended things with her, as though she was trying to erase his memory.
Maybe his brother really had broken her heart—assuming she had a heart to break, that is.
Edward was shrugging off that train of thought and considering whether to return to the ballroom and Claire when Adam Gresham strode into the room.
Moving with purpose, Gresham crossed to his side. “Hallo, Clybourne,” he said in a low voice. “Sorry to interrupt, but I wonder if I might have a word?”
Edward lifted a brow, but didn’t hesitate. “Yes, of course.” Keeping his curiosity to himself, he made his excuses to the other men, then followed Gresham. But Gresham didn’t stop on the other side of the room, as Edward had expected. Instead, he led him out of the room and into an empty study, where there was no possibility of being overheard.
“What’s this all about?” Edward asked the moment they arrived, the other man closing the door.
“Lady Claire,” Gresham explained without preamble.
Edward’s mouth tightened. “What about Lady Claire? What has she done now?”
“Left, that’s what. I was outside in the garden smoking a cigar not five minutes ago, when I saw her traipse across the side lawn.”
“And?” Edward encouraged in a glowering tone.
“And she got into a carriage.” Gresham paused, as though reluctant to continue. “I think she’s with Islington.”
E
dward froze, his body ceasing to function for a full count of five.
Islington!
What in Hades was she thinking? Was this another one of her ridiculous escapades? Or had she actually run off with him? Surely not? Either way, though, she’d gone much too far this time. Whatever her reasons, she’d put herself at far greater risk than she could conceive. Fury and fear twisted like slippery serpents in his gut, as he considered all the possibilities.
Edward met Gresham’s gaze. “Did you see which direction they took?”
Gresham nodded. “I thought of following them myself, but sent a groom instead. He’s to trail them, then come back. I told him if it was very late that he was to go straight to Clybourne House with the news.”
“Thank you.”
A brief silence fell.
“We’ll hope Islington’s only taken her out for an evening drive around Mayfair,” Gresham volunteered. “With luck, they’ll be back within the hour.”
“Yes. Let us hope.”
But Edward knew they wouldn’t be back, since he was certain Islington had no intention of returning Claire anytime soon. Meanwhile, there was little he could do. The pair of them could be anywhere in the city by now. Or anywhere out of it as well.
“I know I can count on your discretion,” Edward said, relieved Gresham was the one who’d seen Claire leave. If it had been anyone else, there would be no hope of recovering her without her reputation ending up in irreparable shreds. As it stood, the chances weren’t terribly good anyway.
Suddenly Edward realized what she’d done and why.
Good God, she’s deliberately trying to ruin herself. She’s going to truly force my hand.
Edward raked his fingers through his hair. “If she doesn’t return within the hour, we’ll put about that she’s taken ill and has gone home for the evening.”
“I’ll keep Lady Mallory and your cousin occupied in the meantime,” Adam said. “I’ll escort them home as well. Try not to worry. We’ll get her back.” Again, he paused. “Assuming you want her back.”
Something fierce clenched inside Edward’s chest. “Oh, I want her back.”
And he did.
He wanted her. And he would have her, at any cost.
God help Claire, though, when he caught up to her. For once he did, she would have a reckoning in store.
Chapter 19
“Mayhap we should turn around now,” Claire suggested from where she sat in the phaeton next to Lord Islington. “We’ve been gone for well over an hour now.”
Time enough, she thought, for people to have started noticing her absence. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, hoping that Mallory and Cousin Wilhelmina weren’t too alarmed by her disappearance. She’d considered leaving them a note, but had decided against it, not knowing precisely what to say under the circumstances.
As for Edward…she didn’t want to think about his reaction, or about him. She assumed he would be livid. Or perhaps he would only be mortified instead. And once his initial outrage faded, she suspected he might be relieved. He would be free of her and of his obligation.
Given the seriousness of her indiscretion, he would have the absolute right to wash his hands of her without suffering the least injury to his conscience. Society would expect him to walk away, to turn his back and never wish to gaze upon her again.
The only thing she knew for certain was that he would hate her. From this day forward, she would be as good as dead to Edward Byron.
An ache formed as though a hole had been sliced in her chest. But better a sharp stab now than a lifetime of heartache married to a man who’d wed her for convenience rather than love. Eyes stinging, she bent her head against the light summer breeze that rushed into the open carriage.
She and Islington had travelled into the countryside that surrounded London, far enough now that night creatures could be heard singing in the fields. The air smelled sweeter here than in the city, damp and grassy. The night sky was dark, only the low-hanging half-moon providing any illumination to light their way on the quiet country road.
She wished now she’d taken the time to retrieve her pelisse. She would have liked its comfort, even if she didn’t require its warmth. “At the next opportunity,” she said again. “I really think we should turn around.”
Islington shifted the reins in his hands and turned his head to give her a smile. “There’s a very nice inn up ahead. I thought we might stop and enjoy a meal. We’ve both missed supper and I’m sure they’ll have something delicious to satisfy our palates.”
“Oh, I don’t know…” she began, never having considered the idea of stopping at an inn.
But now that she did, she supposed the detour would only bolster the notion of her being ruined. Once she’d taken supper alone at an inn with a gentleman, there would be no retrieving her reputation.
“Come now, Lady Claire,” he said. “I thought you were up for a lark?”
“Oh, always. You know that, my lord.”
“Well then, what’s an hour to take refreshments? Besides, who’s to know but us? A cup of tea, a biscuit, and we’ll be back on the road.”
She hesitated, wondering if she ought. “I suppose a light repast would not go amiss. Just tea, however,” she stated in a firm voice.
“Of course. Just tea,” he agreed.
As the horses continued along the road, she wondered if she was doing the right thing agreeing to his suggestion. But the inn was sure to be full of people and Lord Islington was only stopping because he was hungry. Once he’d eaten, they would be back on the road to London—back to explain exactly where it was she’d been these last few hours.
Anyway, she was safe enough with his lordship. In all the time she’d known him, he’d never attempted to so much as hold her hand. He wasn’t interested in taking liberties. Even on the slight chance that he was, she could manage him. He was only rebelling against Society’s rules, just as he assumed she was doing herself. They were both just having an adventure and nothing more.
Then it was too late for second thoughts as the inn appeared on the road ahead. As soon as Islington pulled to a stop, a sleepy-looking hostler trudged forward to tend to the horses. Leaping to the ground, Islington came around the phaeton to help her down. Threading her hand over his arm, he escorted her inside.
The inn was crowded, just as she’d expected, especially the common room where men were gathered to drink, smoke and carouse. For that reason, she didn’t balk when Lord Islington requested a private parlour, silently relieved to be away from the drunken, ogling stares being sent in her direction.
The innkeeper was genial and polite, leading them to a pleasant room on the second floor, well away from the noisy crowd. If he thought it odd for her to be wearing an elegant ball gown rather than a carriage dress, he made no remark.
Accepting a seat at the round wooden table spread with a clean white linen cloth, she prepared to take tea. What arrived only minutes later, however, left her dismayed, as dish after dish was served in what turned out to be a full supper.
Nearly two hours later, a dessert of fruit and cheese was laid on the table, the innkeeper withdrawing with a bow before closing the door behind him.
“More wine, my dear?” Lord Islington inquired, picking up the half-empty decanter of Burgundy.
“No.” She laid a hand over the rim of her glass and refused to let him pour. Despite his urgings, she’d barely touched the wine he’d ordered rather than the promised tea. He’d drunk the vintage largely on his own, keeping up a robust conversation while they ate—or rather while he ate.
She’d scarcely touched her meal, picking at her food while offering the requisite remarks and observations. Initially, she tried to be cheerful, even witty, but as the first hour elapsed and moved into the second with no apparent willingness on his part to restart their journey back to Town, she became increasingly irritated.
And increasingly worried.
By now, her plan had obviously succeeded. She was well and tho
roughly ruined, and by the time she returned to London, everyone would know she’d left the party and gone night driving with Lord Islington. What worried her, though, was when Lord Islington was going to take her back to the city. Or if he was going to do so at all.
As though aware of her thoughts, he gave a slow smile. “Dear me, it’s grown rather late, has it not?”
“Yes, it most certainly has, as I believe I have previously pointed out. If you are quite finished now, my lord, I should like to depart.”
Rather than making ready, however, he relaxed back in his chair and swirled the wine inside his glass. For some reason it reminded her of blood, especially when the rivulets flowed downward in crimson streaks. She shuddered as he downed a leisurely swallow, then set the glass aside.
“Actually,” he mused aloud, “it’s a long drive back and the roads aren’t terribly safe at this time of evening. Perhaps we should stay here tonight.”
She stared, her muscles growing taut. Pushing back her chair, she stood, then tossed her napkin down onto her uneaten dessert. “Perhaps we should not. I wish to return to the city right now.”
“Don’t carry on so,” he replied smoothly. “There’s no need to be coy, you know.”
Coy? What on earth is he talking about?
“We both know why we’re here,” he continued, as he took up his glass again and drained the contents. “So why continue the pretense? In fact, I’ve already made arrangements with the innkeeper for his best accommodations. He assures me the sheets are clean and that the mattress is very soft.”
Mattress!
Her stomach lurched. “Clearly, you misunderstand, my lord. Drive me back now, or I shall find someone else who will.”
He chuckled. “You won’t find anyone willing to drive you to London at this time of night.”
With a lowering sensation, she realized he was right. Then again, if she could secure a carriage she could drive herself back. Reassured by the thought, she held her ground.
At The Duke's Pleasure Page 24
