A Regrettable Proposal

by Jennie Goutet

  She knew the minute he walked in. He sought her gaze and raised his hand in a half-salute, eyes sparkling. Eleanor trembled with anticipation. Gone was the agony of indecision, of not knowing how he felt. She fought to keep her mouth demure, though she felt like grinning.

  When Eleanor turned, she was glad she hadn’t worn her heart on her sleeve. Harriet Price had caught the exchange and fairly bared her teeth in animosity. Eleanor was dreading the day when Harriet’s mean-spirited jealousy would cause her harm, but she decided not to worry about what Harriet Price was thinking tonight. This evening contained too much to enjoy.

  Eleanor turned her attention to Lydia. “Who are you looking for? Although, if it’s who I think it is, he’s over there.” She gestured with her chin.

  “I don’t know that I’m looking for anyone in particular,” Lydia said, raising an eyebrow, but she peeked at Major Fitzwilliam. As if drawn by a cord, the major strode toward them.

  “Miss Ingram, how glad I am to see you this evening. I spoke with your brother before coming, and he invited me to a family dinner next week. He has promised to be seated at the dinner table for the occasion.” Major Fitzwilliam bowed and spoke and smiled all at once, so clearly smitten to be in Lydia presence. As an afterthought, he added, “Good evening, Miss Daventry.”

  “Well, if my brother has promised to be at the table, he will surely accomplish it. He has always done whatever he set his mind to.” Lydia opened her fan and shielded her profile, ignoring a gentleman who was trying to catch her attention.

  Major Fitzwilliam stepped between the gentleman and Lydia, cutting her off from the man’s line of sight. “In the meantime, do say you’ll dance with me for the next waltz? Save the country dances for some other poor fellow.” Eleanor suppressed a smile. Lydia would not stand a chance. One accustomed to commanding men on the battlefield would know the way to conquer a woman’s heart.

  “Very well,” Lydia said. “This next one. Before supper.”

  Major Fitzwilliam gave a slight bow, eyes gleaming. “To which I hope you’ll allow me to escort you.”

  Eleanor had been witness to this conversation, but the major had included her in his address in the way of co-conspirator so she wouldn’t feel left out. Now she looked around and caught sight of Judith Broadmore and Harriet Price deep in conversation, and she noticed them look her way more than once.

  She frowned. As Lydia went to dance with the major, Eleanor was left alone, and she took a seat on the sidelines, searching for a glimpse of Lord Worthing. Where was he? He had specifically requested this dance.

  On the other side of the room, Judith was now in conversation with another woman, whose eyes widened, her hand at her mouth. Eleanor hated to think who might be the object of their gossip and shoved down a feeling of apprehension she was sure was misplaced.

  “I wanted to come sooner, but I was detained. Please accept my apology, Miss Daventry. It could not be helped.” Lord Worthing’s face was haloed by the light of the chandelier, and the creases in his jaw were set in shadowed relief. “Though to leave you alone is unpardonable.”

  The relief she felt on his arrival nearly took Eleanor’s breath away. She had not seen him approach. “You are forgiven, my lord.”

  He helped her to stand and placed her hand on his arm. “A pardon granted so rapidly? We’ve come a long way,” he quizzed. “We have missed the waltz, but I see it’s nearly supper. I’ve come to hold you to your promise. Shall we go in?”

  Throngs of people were already making their way toward the dining room, where large tables were set up with chattering groups around each one. Eleanor was too nervous for speech, but the noisy bustle of conversation swirling around them made words superfluous. Lord Worthing led them to a table with two empty seats.

  “I don’t know where the others are, but let them find their own way,” he said, giving Eleanor a private smile. “May I leave you here for a few moments while I search out some refreshments?”

  She nodded. Lord Worthing went to the sideboard and returned, balancing a plate with sandwiches and a couple slices of ham, as well as two glasses of capillaire syrup and water. “I think Mrs. Skeffington is trying to rival Almack’s in her choice of banquet,” he murmured in Eleanor’s ear, giving her a tingle of delight. Despite the crowd, she felt as if there were only the two of them.

  “Oh-ho! You’ve saved no seats for us, have you?” Major Fitzwilliam teased, stopping with Lydia on his arm. “And have you given any thought for your sisters?”

  “How trying it is to be burdened with sisters,” Lord Worthing bantered, his eyes on Eleanor. To the major, he said, “They’re well taken care of. Anna’s with Harris and Phoebe’s with Sir Drake. They’re friends, so I can count on the men to toe the line. See? They’re seated over there.”

  Lydia touched Eleanor’s shoulder. “I believe we will leave you to your supper,” she said, giving her a squeeze.

  Eleanor watched them go as Lord Worthing took a sip of his drink. He set it down and focused on her. “Your first Season is coming to a close, Miss Daventry. Did it play out as you had envisioned it?”

  “Nearly,” she said. “I hadn’t expected to be solicited to dance quite as much, or to make so many friends. It was more delightful than I could have imagined.” She placed her hand on the tablecloth, unable to take even one bite of her supper.

  Lord Worthing seemed to take in her words. “I cannot say this Season turned out at all as I had expected.”

  “Did it not?” Eleanor asked, her voice faint. What did he mean? Did he regret their connection?

  “No, I—” He stopped short, then with a change in subject she was not prepared for, asked, “Have you at last guessed at the meaning of my arrangement?”

  The bouquet had sat on the small table in her bedroom since he had given it and was blooming still. He had found straw-like grass to secure the bundle when he gathered the flowers, and she left it exactly as he had given it. It looked like a black-eyed Susan, only inverted. The black on the outside, the yellow in the middle.

  “I have not been able to guess, my lord.”

  Lord Worthing leaned in and murmured, “The black and purple tulips are the stormy sky. The storms that hit when your life twists in a way you do not expect. The yellow in the middle is the bright ray of sun. The hope amidst the storm.”

  He paused until she met his gaze. “You, Miss Daventry, are the sun.”

  The last thing Stratford had planned on doing tonight was to declare himself in public—having witnessed Carlton’s rejected suit and humiliation. However, when he saw the joy his words had produced in Eleanor, infusing her eyes with a happy light, he could not help himself. “Miss Daventry—”

  Stratford was interrupted by the lady of the house, who came and tapped him on the shoulder, asking if she might have a word with him. Mrs. Skeffington looked at Miss Daventry with hard eyes, adding, “Alone.”

  With an apologetic glance at Miss Daventry, he followed Mrs. Skeffington out of the dining room, and they wound their way along the edge of the ballroom until they reached the corridor leading to the private wing. There she stopped and turned to face him.

  “Lord Worthing, I feel compelled to inform you that you have been mistaken in the reading of Miss Daventry’s character.” Mrs. Skeffington was laboring under some strong emotion, and she forced calm into her words. “Miss Daventry’s mother is a well-known lady of easy virtue on the Continent.”

  Stratford lifted his brows, anger rising. “I know her mother had the most unusual marriage. She ran away with a French count before she had put off her blacks. But she is married. And all this happened when Miss Daventry was but seven years old. Her mother has not returned to England since.”

  “I have it on good authority that there is a taint on that family, and she is not worthy to be received by society. At least not by any household that wishes to retain its reputation.” Mrs. Skeffington peered into the rapidly filling ballroom and fanned herself.

  Annoyed, Stratford prot
ested. “What does any of this have to do with Miss Daventry? Her father was a gentleman, and she was good enough for my uncle to have taken her guardianship upon himself. Good enough for Lady Ingram to have sponsored her—”

  “I’m afraid that’s not all,” Mrs. Skeffington continued. “I’ve spoken to one of her schoolmates, and Miss Daventry was seen climbing into her window after midnight on the very night the Latin teacher mysteriously fled his post. She had displayed quite an aptitude for the language and had been taking private lessons. When Miss Price questioned her about where she’d been, she refused to answer. Miss Daventry,” Mrs. Skeffington concluded in awful triumph, “was having a liaison.”

  The room spun. Stratford’s gaze remained fixed on Mrs. Skeffington as his mind went through the implications. If Miss Daventry was being accused of this by the host of tonight’s ball, her reputation was in imminent danger. He must do something. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Skeffington was not finished.

  “Sir Delacroix told me everything. If Miss Daventry’s mother is of such easy virtue, it is no surprise that her daughter—” She would have gone on, but Stratford cut her off.

  “Sir Delacroix is here?”

  “Yes, he arrived not long ago—” Mrs. Skeffington was not destined to finish her thought because Stratford left abruptly, depriving her the satisfaction of the earl’s outrage.

  “Well!” she huffed from behind him.

  Eleanor, alone, began to feel ill-at-ease. More than one pair of eyes looked her way, and she saw women whispering behind their fans, staring above them at her with various expressions of horror and glee. She began to feel hot and looked around for her friends but saw none of them. Lydia was nowhere in sight. Phoebe had her back to her. Eleanor took one hesitant step toward Phoebe, but the sight of Anna staring at her with a strange expression made her stop.

  The whispers and giggles grew louder as Eleanor forced herself to walk around the edge of the ballroom. Even the men leered at her in the most uncomfortable way. The stairwell leading to the exit was only a few steps farther.

  Mrs. Skeffington met her at the bottom step and in a loud voice announced, “Miss Daventry, you are no longer welcome in my house. I request that you leave immediately.”

  Eleanor gulped, and managed, “But why? I didn’t—” She looked around and saw only unfriendly faces. Lydia had turned by now, her expression a mix of shock and dismay. Phoebe was staring at her in horror, and Lord Worthing was nowhere to be found.

  Mrs. Skeffington blocked her view of the crowd and any source of support she might receive. “Please leave,” was the implacable reply.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Eleanor held her expression in a mask until she had given the voucher for her coat and rushed through the front door. Only then did the tears fall, and she turned her face aside to avoid looking at the merry group making its way up the steps. She was vaguely aware of the pungent odors produced by a London street in June, and she walked a half-block before realizing she had nowhere to go. Even Lydia had been stunned, and Lydia’s mother—oh, Lady Ingram had looked thunderous. Lord Worthing … Hot tears poured down her cheeks when she thought about the shock and disgust he must feel when he’d heard everything. It was surely Harriet’s false tale that had led to her condemnation.

  Eleanor went blindly for another block before slowing her pace and forcing herself to focus on her next move. It would be impossible to impose upon the Ingrams any longer. That much was sure. She considered the small amount left in her possession. There would be no time to request money from her aunt or to draw a draft on her bank. She would need to leave Lady Ingram’s house immediately and with only the bare necessities, if possible before they returned from the party.

  It would be a simple matter of packing a small portmanteau with only a change of dress, take a room in a hotel … but I have no maid! They will never receive me … There was no chance to think over this quandary further when Eleanor heard a voice calling her, a man stepping out of the shadows of a closed carriage. It was Sir Delacroix.

  She drew back with a feeling of revulsion. “Sir Delacroix, I’m sorry, I cannot … I’m unable to stay and speak with you just now. I must reach Lady Ingram’s house without delay.”

  “Ma’am, you are unattended. I cannot allow you—my honor as a gentleman will not permit me to let you continue without seeing you safely escorted.”

  Eleanor paused but was borne away by his insistence. “Miss Daventry, the Ingram house is some ways from here, and it would not do to walk there alone.” When he saw she still hesitated, he added, “You need not fear I will press my advantage. I quite see I was mistaken in the reading of your character.”

  The sight of two gentlemen, heavily intoxicated, leering after a woman of questionable morals decided the affair. She allowed Sir Delacroix to assist her into the carriage. Once inside, she shrank to the edge of the seat, hoping he would take the other side and keep a proper distance. To her relief, he did.

  “Shall we not open the windows?” she asked. “So that we are not quite private in the carriage?”

  “And allow it to be seen you are driving alone with a gentleman?” Sir Delacroix shook his head. “Je ne peux pas le permettre. It would threaten your reputation. I’ve instructed the driver to bring the carriage around the corner of Lady Ingram’s house so you can alight without being seen.”

  “That is kind of you … I hadn’t thought clearly …” Eleanor reached into her reticule for a handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes, hands trembling from suppressed emotion.

  “I’m sorry you suffered under the eyes of the ton. They can be cruel.” There was bitterness in Sir Delacroix’s voice, and Eleanor looked at him in surprise.

  “Had you been there, then? How did you know what transpired?”

  Sir Delacroix looked momentarily nonplussed. “I heard only the rumblings before I left. I was already on my way out.”

  “So did you know to find me here? Were you waiting for me?” Suspicion knotted her forehead, and Eleanor had difficulty drawing a breath.

  “How could I possibly know which direction you would turn? I left because I had a rendezvous to keep, mademoiselle.” His eyes narrowed, and he stared at a spot above the squabs of the carriage. “My interests lay in another direction.”

  Eleanor bit her lip, wondering to what poor creature he was referring. “Am I taking you out of your way, sir?”

  “Only the slightest détour. It’s nothing to speak of.” With that, silence reigned.

  Eleanor worried at one of the lower buttons on her spencer. Now she was well and truly in a fix. She would not find a husband, and although she had renounced the idea before her London Season, she had begun to hope and now felt its absence acutely. You are the sun …

  Lord Worthing’s face, from when he spoke those words, hovered in her vision, and Eleanor drew a sharp breath from pain so acute it stole her senses. There would be no stern husband to cajole, no children tugging at her skirts, no hearth to sit before and embroider as she presided over a merry family. A blissful fantasy she had only recently dared dream was dashed, and its loss was more painful than if she’d never hoped at all.

  There would be no comfortable income from the property she inherited. She would likely have to serve as a school teacher—if even that position were not to be denied her—and an occupation that had once seemed a natural choice for one who refused to settle for anything less than love or independence now appeared stark. The property would revert back to the earl, or his descendent, on her eventual death. Eleanor shook her head bitterly at these reflections, though she was of too prosaic a disposition to consider throwing herself into the Thames. Perhaps if she were lucky, a virulent strain of influenza might carry her away.

  The carriage rumbled over cobblestones, which made their way to a smoother path. The noises from the streets ceased to penetrate to where Eleanor sat, and she darted forward to slide open the shade of the carriage window. Her efforts were blocked by the gloved hand grasping
hers, which Sir Delacroix shot out from his otherwise lazy posture. “I told you it would not be seemly to be spied in a carriage alone with a man.”

  Eleanor’s voice held the barest tremor. “Surely we would have reached Lady Ingram’s by now. I did not know it to be so far.”

  “We have reached it, ma chérie, and we’ve left it behind on our way to Dover. I have other plans, which will not entail your needing to collect your belongings.” His hand still gripping hers, Sir Delacroix opened the window shade closest to his side and peered out.

  Eleanor forced the fear from her voice and spoke calmly. “The other rendezvous … your other interest …”

  “… n’est pas venue.” Grief was replaced by terror as his chilling words settled into her marrow. “The gentleman in Paris, who holds my future in his hands, requested I bring a pretty, young Englishwoman when I come. Fate smiled upon me when she placed you in my path. My lady friend did not come, but I find in her absence, you’ll do.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Stratford, witnessing the scene of Eleanor’s departure on the heels of what he had just heard, pushed through the crowd to reach her. The hostess’s voice rang out in sharp accents, Miss Daventry, you are no longer welcome in my house, and he saw Eleanor’s face, pale but dignified, as she turned toward the cloak room.

  The music had stopped, and silence filled the room only for a minute before the crowd burst into speech with gasps and muffled laughter. Skirts bustled from one group to another to exchange their speculation over the event, and Stratford saw Lydia, frozen next to Lady Ingram, who wore a forbidding expression.

  He could not get to the door. The crowd was thick, everyone delighted with the scene, straining so as not to miss anything and closing gaps so they could be the first to comment on what had happened. Stratford shoved through to his left where a group of gentlemen stood, and one grabbed his arm.