How to Ruin Your Reputation in 10 Days (Ladies of Passion)

by Harmony Williams

  At least, he had been before he’d stopped answering my letters. I didn’t know if I could forgive him for that so quickly.

  I rooted my glove-clad palm on his arm. If I lifted my hand any higher, I might yank my arm from the socket during the course of the dance. We’d been more closely matched in height as children. I struggled to fill a silence filled with awareness.

  “How did you get invited to this venue?”

  He canted his head in a shrug. “Jonathan is a baronet now.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “The question stands.” Baronets were only a small step above country squires in the eyes of le bon ton.

  His expressive eyebrows knit in a scowl, matched by the pout of his mouth. “Jeremy married the daughter of an earl last year, I’ll have you know.”

  “I don’t care if your entire brood married foreign princesses. Do you have any idea how hard it is for the beau monde to cultivate the relationships needed to gain entrance into these events?” After all, it was the reason Papa was so adamant that I marry well. I couldn’t inherit his title, and so would adopt the social status of my husband. If I married.

  He shrugged. He seemed neither impressed nor concerned. “My mother and sister must be persuasive. They chased me all the way to London, after all.”

  I bit into my bottom lip to keep from giggling. Too bad they hadn’t accompanied him. I could use some help keeping him in line.

  “Juliana is a marchioness now. Or she will be until her son grows old enough to inherit. She’s putting me up at her townhouse for the time being.”

  Ah. That explained it. “She married a marquess?” That seemed a lofty jump for the daughter of a baronet. “Why haven’t I seen her in Town?”

  “Her husband was much older. I suppose he didn’t care much for High Society. They lived at his country estate, where she’s stayed since he died. You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “About marriage?” My head spun from trying to keep track of the conversation and executing the dance at the same time. Pebbles littered the clearing, making the footing uneven.

  “No one’s caught my fancy.” Or Papa’s, either.

  “So you still have your head stuck in a book.”

  He couldn’t possibly deduce that from the tone of my voice. He was right, though, not that I intended to tell him.

  When he leaned forward, his breath tickled a curl by my ear. A shiver broke out over my skin. He was close enough to kiss. I’d never fought the urge to kiss a man before.

  “Even so, I’m surprised some man hasn’t tried to woo you with gifts of Urtica dioica.”

  A laugh escaped my lips before I clamped them shut. What would I do without his humor? Well, my letters had been dull, indeed, since he’d stopped writing. “I should hope not. That’s a stinging nettle.”

  “It is?”

  He recoiled. The movement uprooted my footing; I pitched forward before he caught and released me. The fleeting touch of his body echoed through mine like a phantom. To his credit, he quickly recovered. I hurried to plant my feet solidly on the ground. We resumed the dance.

  “I thought it was a flower,” he said. Was he not as affected by our nearness as I was? “You tried to make me pick some for you once.”

  I bit my lower lip to contain a laugh. When I had myself under control, I countered, “If you recall, earlier that same day you dropped a frog down my dress.”

  He smirked as though savoring the memory. “Lucky for me, you’re bad at describing the leaves.” His eyes glinted in the weak strains of lamplight with less-than-honorable intentions. “I might have had to retaliate.”

  His smile filled my chest with a warmth I’d rather not analyze. I dropped my gaze to his lapels. The silence grew heavy and laden with tension. Julian broke it first, with a low cough to clear his throat.

  “So, your seeming standards for a prospective husband are all your father’s doing.”

  And just like that we’d returned to the gossip’s favorite topic of late: my lack of a husband. I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze once more. The dim light obscured the expression in his eyes. “Not all,” I said. “I am discerning enough to choose a suitable match, if I decide I want one.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “So you don’t wish to be married?”

  “I never said that.” Truthfully, I didn’t. That girlish fantasy reared its head again, but I tamped it down. Thankfully, he didn’t press the subject further.

  Silence settled over us as Julian led me across the cobblestone ringing the gushing fountain, this time a companionable lull. Despite the awareness of every miniscule shift of his body, I found myself relaxing. As promised, he avoided stepping on my toes. The music wove between us, reseeding the majesty of the night he’d withered earlier with a sarcastic quip. If only I could stay out here, out of sight of prying eyes and maddening bouts of matchmaking. I’d managed to find a dance partner on my own, hadn’t I?

  “Your verdict, Francine,” Julian said, attracting my attention once more. This close, away from the light of the lamp, I couldn’t decipher his expression.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Am I an admirable dancer?”

  Heat stained my cheeks. “Oh. Yes. Quite talented. I’ll admit to some surprise. What use could you have for dancing out in the country?”

  “None, I assure you,” he said. So he didn’t share my love of dancing. Not surprising.

  “Then why take the time to learn properly?”

  He shook his head, his mouth puckering with chagrin. “I didn’t have much of a choice. My sister had a lack of dance partners to practice with.”

  Picturing a younger Julian being bossed into dancing with his sister made me chuckle. “Your brothers opted to give you the honor, did they?”

  “Unfortunately. I assure you, she doesn’t lack for dance partners now, but she still bullies me into dancing with her now and again.”

  I bit my lip to hide a smile.

  The heel of my slipper dug into the crevice between the cobblestone and the grass. I gasped as my ankle twisted. Hot stabs of pain incised my foot and calf. I clutched Julian as I fell forward. The sharp pain receded as he bore my weight, leaving a sting and the warm heat of his body against mine.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Gingerly, I tested my ankle. A twinge convinced me to shift to the other foot. At least I supported my own weight. The pain already ebbed.

  “Nothing lasting,” I said. “I’ll be careful where I step.”

  We resumed the stance and continued the dance. On my next step, my ankle gave out. I hissed in agony as I teetered.

  Julian gathered me against his chest. His arms tightened around my waist, holding me upright. I tilted my face up to meet his, his eyes were dark, unreadable. His mouth looked soft. For a moment, I melted against his frame, glad for his support.

  You don’t need it. You can support yourself. It was what I had done for months, without his correspondence. I’d started dozens of letters detailing the seeds of excitement that bloomed in my life, but I’d sent none of them. Eventually, I’d stopped turning to him—to a pen and paper—every time I wanted to share my joys, sorrows, or annoyances. I’d stood fine all on my own, and I could now, too.

  Although I felt oddly bereft as I pulled away, I tried not to show it. I cringed as I tried to step on my injured foot. My ankle screamed in agony. I stifled my gasp against his jacket. It smelled musky. I mustered a dash of wit to cover the pain. “On second thought, perhaps sitting would be better.”

  The scratchy fibers of his jacket scraped my cheek as I canted my head to meet his gaze. His eyes had darkened. So black the pupils threatened to swallow me like they had his brown irises. Was he staring at my mouth? I licked my lips. Dimly, I registered the end of the music. A light patter of sounds emanated from the direction of the manor. Applause?

  The patter ceased and a woman’s huff rent the air. “Francine, I should have known I’d find you out in the weeds. Come back—oh, my!”

  My ey
es closed in mortification. How had she found me?

  “Rose.”

  Julian glanced down at me sharply. “Beg pardon?”

  I shoved him away. “Leave. Leave now.”

  “But—”

  “If you’re still my friend, Julian, you’ll leave. I can handle this on my own.”

  With difficulty, I turned. All my weight rested on my right foot. My left toe barely brushed the ground, simply for balance. For a moment, his light brush along my shoulder raised gooseflesh, then it dropped away, leaving only the echo and memory of his touch.

  Rose stared over my shoulder, presumably as Julian left. A surreptitious glance of my own proved that much. I thanked my good luck he’d listened to me at all. I limped toward Rose, drawing the gorgeous blonde’s attention.

  One delicate gloved hand flew to her lips. “Goodness, Francine. Are you hurt?”

  She trundled forward, shouldering beneath my left arm to offer her support. Because she stood so tall, I felt a little lopsided. Together, we hobbled toward the bench, where I gratefully sat. I bent to run my fingers over my ankle. Was it swollen? Not a good sign.

  “I twisted my ankle,” I said.

  Rose stood. “Wait here. I’ll fetch your father to help you to the carriage.” She paused, glancing from the line of trees to me. “Who was that? Francine, are you…” Her eyes lit up. “Are you…meeting with a man?”

  Illicitly. I understood her meaning well enough.

  I grimaced. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  The blonde licked her lips. “You better. This is my proudest moment.”

  No, she wouldn’t let me forget this.

  “How long have you—?”

  “He’s a childhood friend, Rose. It’s nothing.”

  “Oh.” She seemed almost disappointed. You’d think she wanted me to put myself in a more compromising position.

  Most young women learned from their mothers never to be alone with a man. Rose had taught me to test out the waters but never get caught, not that I’d ever taken her teachings to heart.

  “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. I promise.”

  Rose’s eyes glittered with determination. “Hyde Park. Tomorrow morning. Our usual meeting place.”

  I nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Three

  Midnight struck as Papa carried me to our carriage. Servants directed us around the side of the manor to save me the embarrassment of traipsing through the ballroom with a twisted ankle. He asked no questions—for now. The weight of his disapproval suffocated me. Had Mother already shared news of my embrace with Julian? When Julian had returned to the garden, I’d assumed he was successful in delaying the news.

  Mother wagged her finger beneath my nose as she stepped into the carriage. “I told you to return to the ballroom in five minutes. How am I to accomplish my motherly duty if you refuse to be seen?”

  Ah. The mystery of Mother’s uncharacteristic behavior was solved. I wondered where she sprouted the harebrained notion I wanted her to accomplish any kind of motherly duty at all. Probably in a book. I’d have to find and read it in order to dissuade her of the notion.

  She fanned herself with a hand as the coach door closed, cloistering the three of us in its unbearable heat. Hopefully once the carriage moved, the open windows would provide some measure of relief. Sensing my meandering thoughts, Mother tapped me on the hand, effectively reclaiming my attention.

  “Lady Cheswick’s nephew wanted to meet you, I’ll have you know.”

  “We’ve met, Mother. Three times.” Apparently I wilted from memory more than I thought. That had to be some sort of record. Although the Cheswick nephew, Sir Scandent, as I liked to call him for his perpetual energy in climbing the social ladder, was a tad bacon brained.

  Mother ignored the remark.

  “Although, if you’re in love with that young man, perhaps you don’t care to meet Lady Cheswick’s nephew.”

  Papa jerked upright. “Love?”

  “Not in love,” I said. I swallowed, trying to lower the panicked pitch of my voice. “Mother saw me reminiscing with a friend. Nothing more.”

  “Reminiscing,” Mother echoed with a snort.

  I stared at her. I shouldn’t be surprised by the unladylike behavior, but I had hoped she would believe me. In many ways we were the most similar of any parent and child.

  Mother twisted in the seat to address Papa. “That was the young man I spoke to you about.”

  My heart sank. Papa already knew. Only the dimness of the carriage saved me from noticing his livid expression sooner, no doubt. Would he force me to marry Julian? He wasn’t my first choice—not that I’d made a list—but he wasn’t the worst option, either. Sir Scandent, for example, would be worse.

  Mother continued, “He’s near Francine’s age. I’d say only two or three years older.”

  “Seven months,” I muttered under my breath, not that anyone listened.

  Papa proved as much by asking, “Oh? Who is he again?”

  “I believe you know him. Do you recall the Beckwiths whose property adjoins ours in Leicestershire?”

  “The baronet,” Papa spat in disdain. Though at this point, if I showed an interest in a baronet, I suspected he would welcome the man into the family with open arms.

  Oblivious to Papa’s displeasure, Mother beamed. I couldn’t make out her expression in the darkness of the carriage, but I heard it in her voice.

  “Exactly. The youngest son is recently come to London. I believe he and Francine used to be fast friends.”

  If pushing me in ponds and switching around my plant specimens counted as friendship.

  “The youngest son? Not in line for a title. No.”

  I withered at the vehemence in Papa’s voice. Hopefully, he didn’t notice. No doubt Mother did sitting beside me. She patted my knee, unmoved by the outburst.

  He never yelled at her for collecting plant leaves in her room.

  “You mentioned only the other day that the candidate need not be an heir, so long as he is connected to a good family.”

  “A good family meaning someone with the clout to open doors, not a baronet. Absolutely not.” His tone was flat and final. Papa’s nostrils flared. His eyes glinted from the light from the passing street lamps streaming through the open carriage window.

  Judging by Mother’s calm tone, she didn’t notice Papa’s irritability. I didn’t push him when he used that voice.

  “He told me all about his farm out in Leicestershire. He has a head for business,” she said. “A steady income, to be sure. Perhaps we ought to consider suitors of a lower status.”

  “Bess, we’ve already discussed this.”

  I winced. It never boded well when Papa used Mother’s name. I craned my neck to peer out the window, praying we approached our townhouse.

  Unafraid as ever in the face of Papa’s wrath, Mother said, “This young man may be Francine’s only chance.”

  Good God, I hope not.

  The carriage slowed, stopping further conversation. Murmuring a prayer of thanks, I thrust open the carriage door before the vehicle fully pulled to a stop. The moment my foot touched the cobbled drive, agony ricocheted up my leg. Stray pebbles scraped my palms as I collapsed. The footman, Henry, didn’t leap from his post fast enough to catch me.

  “Francine!” Papa barked as he stepped down. “Have a care.”

  He directed Henry to scoop me up and carry me inside. Now that we no longer lingered on another man’s property, Papa delegated the task to someone else.

  “Thank you,” I whispered to the sturdy carriage man half again my age. He hefted me in his arms easily. His muscles bulged, reminding me, uncomfortably, of Julian.

  “Settle her in my study,” Papa commanded.

  I wanted to plead to retreat to my bedchamber instead and abort the looming lecture. I pressed my lips together.

  Henry carried me up the steps and into the townhouse proper. Before he reached the first door along the corridor,
my plump lady’s maid barreled down the steps. Gossip traveled like a lightning strike among the servants.

  “Miss Francine, what happened?” Pauline asked, wringing her hands. Only a scant year older than me, even she stood taller. Papa had acquired her with good recommendations the month before my fifteenth birthday. We’d been fast friends ever since.

  Henry cleared his throat. He tried, unsuccessfully, to step around her. She blocked his path to Papa’s study. “Not now, Pauline. The baron wants to speak with the lady in his study.”

  Her nose scrunched in sympathy. Sometimes I wished for those thickly lashed, sloe-dark eyes.

  As she pressed herself against the corridor wall, I whispered, “I’ll tell you later.”

  Henry opened the door to Papa’s study one-handed. Cool air from the empty interior washed over me. Papa kept the drapes drawn during hot summer days to keep the cool air in. Aside from the cellar, his study was usually the coolest room in the house.

  Not that I would enjoy it today.

  Pauline trotted after Henry as he carried me into the room. “Should I fix you a cup of tea for when you’re done?”

  I sighed at the tempting offer. “Tea would be lovely. Thank you.”

  Meeting my gaze, she shot me a tense smile and backed out of the room. Henry did the same after lighting a single candle. The dim light flickered off the bare walls of the study. Paneled in the same dark wood as Papa’s looming desk, the empty walls stared down at me. The heavy drapes over the lone window were also brown. A somber color, but the one he claimed best warded away the heat. Not a single book decorated the study, so I never discovered why he referred to it as such. When not at the club, he retreated here to this manly domain.

  I’d just as soon not infringe upon it.

  Papa entered the room with Mother. She planted herself beside him at his desk.

  “Not a word, Bess,” he said quietly, as though he hoped I wouldn’t hear. “We’ve already discussed this. More than once.”

  He straightened, crossing to stand directly in front of me. This close, he loomed over me. The wan light intensified the harsh shadows of his face, with its groomed, unfashionable beard.