Not Proper Enough (A Reforming the Scoundrels Romance)

by Carolyn Jewel

  “Of course not.”

  Just when Fox believed he might actually convince her to return with him, Lane and his usual companions came around the corner from the direction of their box. The men slowed when they recognized him, and Fox did not think he mistook the malicious gleam in Lane’s eye.

  Several of the men leaned in to whisper to one another. They slowly walked by, pretending they’d not noticed him. Someone in the middle of the group said I’d fetch a button from that bosom.

  Fox’s anger boiled over. He whirled toward the men, and if not for Eugenia grabbing his arm, he would have launched himself at Lane and his cronies. “Don’t. Please. You’ll only make it worse.”

  Lane stopped walking. “My dear Fox.”

  “You haven’t leave to call me that.”

  Lane’s gaze moved between him and Eugenia. “What fascinating company you keep.” He made Eugenia an elaborate bow. “Always a delight to see you. Indeed, as others have been so moved to poetry, so am I in your presence. I daresay I’m a better poet than any Scotsman. Hark.” He glanced upward, pointing a finger toward the heavens. “She shames the sun, fired o’er with beauty, No man alive resists his duty, to die so sweetly for her eyes, we are gluttons—”

  One of the men behind him finished the line sotto voce. “For lost buttons.”

  Fox clenched a fist. Jesus. What a debacle.

  Eugenia smiled. “Why, thank you, Mr. Lane. What delightful verses. Your poetical talent is unbounded.” Her fingers tightened on his arm, but she spoke in a pleasant tone that robbed Lane of the delight of seeing his barbs strike home. “You ought to call on us at Spring Street so that we may hear more of your remarkable verses.”

  Dinwitty bowed again. “Ma’am. Thank you.”

  Fox speared Lane with a glare that made the man blanch. He wanted to thrash someone, by God. Dinwitty Lane would do as well as anyone.

  “I do hope you continue to enjoy the performance.” She curtseyed to him. “Good night, sir.” While Lane and his friends moved on, she adjusted her gloves.

  Fox counted to ten before he spoke in order to be sure he could address her calmly. “You invited him to call?”

  “I prefer to keep my enemies close.” Her enemies, naturally, included him, and he saw quite clearly she intended that missile for him, too.

  “Damn you,” he said in a low voice.

  She pressed her mouth tightly closed. “Go away.”

  “As if I’d leave you open to another improper advance. Or untoward remarks by lobster-brained fools.” He clapped a hand on the back of his neck, but too late now. The acerbic words were spoken. “Ginny.” He drew a breath. “Ginny, my dear heart. There are times you try me beyond my capacity to behave.” He inclined his head. “No excuse, I know. My apologies.”

  She meant to object, he knew it, but all she did was press her lips together and stare at the place where his coat was missing a button. The fabric had torn. “Thank you,” she said in a voice so soft he barely heard. “For convincing that man to let me alone.”

  “You are welcome.” He watched her expression shut down. “Ginny,” he said. “My love.” Her eyes lifted to his, shocked. Well. He didn’t care. He truly didn’t. “You cannot wander the halls by yourself.”

  “I am aware.”

  He forced himself to relax enough that he did not speak more curtly than was wise. “Allow me to escort you back to Camber’s box.”

  “So everyone may wonder what you found while you had your hand down my gown?”

  He stiffened. “No such thing happened. Everyone in the box knows it. Camber, Miss Rendell, Lord and Lady Monson. Everyone who was there knows. Including you.”

  “What does it matter when Mr. Lane spouts poetry to the contrary?”

  “No one takes Lane seriously.”

  “Yes they do. You know they do. Who do you think they’ll believe?” He could tell she was fighting tears. He, in return, fought the urge to take her in his arms. She’d never allow it, for one thing. “You know nothing of the power of rumor.” Her eyes were a common enough blue, but the fact was he’d always thought they were pretty. Striking in their shape and intensity. She’d always had a way of looking at a man as if she saw through all his pretenses.

  “I do, Ginny.” This was his doing, her fear of gossip. He’d give anything if that weren’t the case. “I promise you, I do.”

  “If I’d known you’d be here, I would have declined Camber’s offer of tickets.”

  “You wouldn’t have.”

  “I only wanted Hester to be seen in his box.” Her lower lip trembled. “She’s a wonderful girl, and if there was even one man with half a brain in his head in this awful town she’d be engaged to be married already. But no one sees that about her. She’s amusing and generous and kind and intelligent and there’s not a better person alive than Hester.”

  “I daresay my father is aware of that.”

  “As if that makes any difference. He’s not a suitor, Fenris. It’s the men your age who won’t see.”

  “I think you’re mistaken.”

  “And now that business with the button. I’ve only made everything worse.” She looked away, a hand pressed to her cheek. “I want to go home. Please take me home, Fox.”

  He touched her arm. “Come now, what will people say if you don’t return?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Will you deprive that plant-mad girl of the opportunity to discuss botany with my father? Never.” He adopted a jovial expression. “Confess it, tonight you were hoping—”

  Her chin lifted. “Dreading.”

  “—I would arrive and save you from listening to their interminable conversation about budding and fertilizer and the dangers of overwatering.”

  Her eyes flashed. Disagreeing with him agreed with her. “Your father has been perfectly delightful tonight. I think it’s charming the way he humors Hester.”

  “Humors her?” He threw a hand into the air, and though he knew better than to let his emotions get the better of him, that’s what happened. “You willfully misunderstand, Ginny.”

  She gave him an icy stare. “I certainly do not.”

  “He’s enamored of her, for God’s sake. He’s bloody well making a fool of himself over a girl who dreams of root systems. Are you blind?”

  “No, I am not. And no, he isn’t.” She inched away from him. “Enamored of her, I mean. Or making a fool of himself. That’s nonsense. He’s your father. He’s the Duke of Camber.”

  “For pity’s sake, woman.”

  She drew herself up with an astonishing primness. “She’s the daughter he’s always wanted.”

  “Good God. You can’t be serious.”

  “I think the attention he pays her is sweet. There’s no romance, Fenris. That’s absurd. He doesn’t see her that way.”

  “Every man alive thinks about the women he meets in a carnal way.”

  “He’s old enough to be her father.”

  “I assure you, Camber has thought it about Miss Rendell.”

  She crossed her arms underneath her bosom, still with her chin lifted. “Have you?”

  “Of course.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “On a purely theoretical level, of course, but I assure you I have had such thoughts.”

  Her cheeks turned pink. “Even if I grant you that, she does not think it. As far as I can tell she does not think about any man that way. That’s the problem. She simply refuses to think of any man as someone she might marry.” She gave him a look of part speculation and part exasperation. “Though she did once remark that she finds you handsome.”

  “Don’t throw her in my way.” He shook his head. He’d not stand for that. Not from her. “Don’t think it. Don’t dream of it. It won’t work.”

  “She’d do very well for you.”

  “I don’t require any assistance, thank you, in finding a wife.”

  The corridor continued to slowly empty of people. Not a crush anymore. Only a crowd. Her mouth firme
d. “You can avoid my deadly aim with Hester simply by failing to appear in our path.” She tugged on her gloves. “How odd that such a tactic would not occur to you. It’s not so hard to avoid matchmaking mamas, after all. You’ve been doing it successfully for years.”

  “I fully intend to be married.”

  Her eyes flashed again. “Here. Since you won’t allow someone to introduce you to a lovely, sweet, intelligent, and worthy girl you don’t in any way deserve.” She drew off the medallion she wore and pressed it into his hand, closing his fingers over it. “You need this more than I do.”

  He opened his fingers and stared at the carved face of Cupid on this side. He turned it over. A bow and arrow. How precious. “You’re right. Quite right. I am in sore need of such magic as this is said to possess.”

  “I am happy to be of assistance, my lord.”

  Danger lurked in the treacle of her reply, and he decided to meet that head-on. He gave her a bow that reeked of irony. “Thank you. You are too, too kind.”

  “I hope it works for you better than it has for me.”

  While she watched, he discarded the ribbon and attached the medallion to his watch chain to hang beside the fob he already wore. “There.”

  “You’ll be married before the New Year. Congratulations.”

  “I don’t see why not.” He patted the medallion and grinned at her. “I expect now I’ll be trampled by hordes of suitable candidates for my heart.”

  “Your barren heart.”

  He tapped the left side of his chest. “I’ll miss the echo when I’ve found my heart’s desire.”

  Her mouth quivered, and she glanced away. “Stop it.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Don’t amuse me. It spoils my mood.” When she looked back, her attention skipped to the lapel of his coat.

  Fox touched the place where his button ought to have been. “Are you happy? I have several engagements tonight, and now I must rearrange everything in order to return home and change. There. Does that sufficiently darken your mood?”

  Her splendid bosom heaved, just the once, alas. Her expression softened and became, dare he think it, contrite. “Yes. Very much, sir. I am sorry for the loss of your button.”

  “I should hope so.” He tugged on his coat. “It’s ruined.”

  “It was my fault.”

  “Does it hurt much to admit your fault?”

  “Yes. It does. Awful man.” She held out a hand. “Give it to me.”

  “My coat? No. Why?”

  “Everyone who sees you will think the button is still down my bodice or believe it’s true how you retrieved it.” She opened her reticule and took out a tortoiseshell etui. “I’ll sew the thing back on myself. God forbid you should be even a minute late to your engagement with incomparably pretty ballet girls.”

  “Ballet girls?” His heart fell, since not for a moment did he suppose her use of that particular description was anything but deliberate.

  She closed her fingers around the box and met his gaze. “I know what a serious matter your social calendar is when there are ballet girls involved.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’ve been married. I know perfectly well what men do with women.” She flushed, because, yes, as she’d amply proved with him and appeared now to be recalling, she did know a thing or two.

  He let out a breath. “Ginny. I do not have a mistress. Not Lady Tyghe and not an Italian ballet dancer, either.”

  “Not even an incomparable one?”

  “Not presently.”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “But you did once.”

  “I did.” He sighed. “She was extremely beautiful, I don’t deny that. I suppose she still is, but beauty is not enough to continue in a relationship. Not for me, at any rate.” He cocked his head. “Why so curious?”

  “I’m not.” Her cheeks pinked up again. “It’s just that everyone talks about her as if she’s some sort of prize, and you were the winner.”

  He touched the underside of her chin. “What do you want to know about us?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Her name is Addolorata.”

  She firmed her mouth in an obvious attempt to stop herself from smiling. “Did you call her Addy?”

  If she was amused, so be it. He knew an opportunity when one presented itself. “I called her darling.”

  “Darling.” She looked around, but there was no one near enough to overhear. The corridor was all but empty. “I shall never be able to hear that word again without thinking of you and Addolorata.”

  “Indeed? I shan’t be able to use that word without thinking of you.”

  Her mouth twitched, and he was struck by what he could only call lust. “Don’t be wicked.”

  “Why not?”

  She met his eyes, and for a heartbeat, he had no breath. “Because it’s not proper.”

  “What would be proper enough for you?”

  She sent him a killing look.

  What wouldn’t he give to die in her arms again? “Come now, you must admit that is a legitimate worry on my part. Both in general and in the specific. I ought to know what I am to call you.”

  “What about ‘my lady’?”

  He feigned astonishment. “Do you mean to tell me that when I am in the throes of passion with you, you would prefer I call out, ‘my lady’? You should have told me that.”

  “Throes of passion.” Her eyebrows drew together. She held up a hand. She was laughing, and the joyous sound made his heart swell. “You really can’t call me darling. I’m sorry, but I’m likely to assume you mean your incomparable Addolorata. No, you’ll have to cry out, ‘my love’ or perhaps ‘goddess.’”

  “Goddess?”

  “Yes.” She smiled, and that nearly killed him, too. “You’ll think so, I promise you.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” He turned so they faced each other. She was still smiling. “I’ll call you Ginny.”

  “No one calls me that.”

  “All the better.” He wanted her so badly, he ached. “I won’t worry that I’ve reminded you of some other lover.”

  “Enough of this, Fenris.” She looked around again. “You ought to behave.”

  “I don’t see why. You like me best when I don’t.”

  She wriggled her fingers at him. “The button.”

  “As you command.” He reached into his pocket for it. “You carry needle and thread, do you?”

  Her expression suggested she did not think much of his intellect. “Half the women in London carry needle and thread. A lady never knows when she might find herself, or another, in need of a repair. Mind you, the thread won’t be a perfect match, but it will do so that you may continue your evening uninterrupted without resorting to blaming me for your imperfection.” She pointed to a bench on the opposite side of the corridor.

  “We ought to go to one of the saloons. We’ll be more comfortable there.” He didn’t give her a chance to object. He simply took her arm and started walking. “I’ll buy you some refreshment while you atone for the error of your ways.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  HE WAS ALONE WITH EUGENIA, IF NOT LITERALLY, then at least in possession of her undivided attention, and that was progress on a scale he hadn’t dreamed of making with her in a public place. They did not speak while he escorted her to one of the smaller public rooms on the second floor. A few patrons walked the corridors, and as they passed one of the larger saloons, he saw that a good many more people of quality remained ensconced there rather than in the auditorium.

  Eugenia kept her hand on his arm, and he, so daring of him, placed his hand over hers while they walked. Their encounter with that fool in the corridor and with Dinwitty Lane had, he felt, changed yet again the tenor of their relations. He reminded himself that where she was concerned, nothing was assured. But he still felt as if he had a claim on her that he had not had before.

  Her opera gown was white silk with an overdress of blue that
was cut away and swept back to just above the level of her knees. In the back, the blue material flowed into a modest train, though she was still required to lift it, from time to time. She hadn’t Miss Rendell’s bounty, but her bosom was well curved. Without her medallion, she lacked jewelry around her throat, and that, oddly enough, only emphasized her bosom. She’d never been one to wear jewels; even tonight, at an event at which a woman often wore her best pieces, she wore only a pair of hair combs. It would be, he reflected, his pleasure to buy her jewels. One day, God willing, that would be appropriate.

  He saw her to a seat in one of the smaller saloons, at a plush bench with a table drawn near, then ordered a coffee for himself and a chocolate for her.

  He rejoined her, sitting beside her on the bench. Close, but not too close. He wanted to take her somewhere private, an inn, a hotel, his own home on Upper Brook Street, the Turkish room at Bouverie, if she could be convinced of that, and then prove the spark between them could be fanned into fire.

  While they waited for one of the footmen to bring their refreshments, she took out her tortoiseshell etui and deftly threaded a needle with dark thread. He had the rare luxury of watching her without having to hide that he was doing so. Though he’d been attracted to her from the day he first saw her, maturity and experience of life had only improved her looks. He’d been such a bloody damned fool about her.

  “This won’t take long.” She tied a knot in the end of the thread. A footman brought the coffee and the chocolate, which she eyed when the servant placed it on their table. She waited until the man, having pocketed the coin Fox gave him, departed.

  “Is something amiss?” He crossed one leg over the other and stretched his arm along the back of their seat. Her gown molded her bosom, and he was viciously aware of her size and shape. God, what he would do if they were alone now, and she was naked.

  She sniffed. “I only drink chocolate in the morning.”

  “You can make an exception.” Must he always take the wrong tack with her? Because, of course, his high-handed reply brought a familiar stiffness to her demeanor. He wondered if he did such things because he enjoyed maneuvering himself into a position of dominance over her. He did like winning. He expected to win, and he worked hard to make sure he did so more often than not. With her, perhaps he did enjoy the way she refused to give over to him. A worthy opponent made victory the sweeter.