After a moment, Bryson added, “I intend to make an announcement before the night ends. Hopefully, he will have loped away before then.”
Beau chuckled. “What announcement? Playing the shipbuilder extraordinaire so soon? Just because you’ve been invited, doesn’t mean you have an audience. No one discusses business at these things, Bryse.” “Not an announcement to the room,” he grumbled, “to you. To Falcondale and his wife. Lady Banning and Elisabeth.”
“Announcement? About what?”
“It’s a . . . proposal.” He cleared his throat.
Beau choked on a mouthful of champagne. “Proposal for what?”
“Clever. Very clever. Not for what. To whom. Marriage. To Elisabeth. It’s why I wanted you here.”
“Well, it’s not why I came!” Beau wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“And I thought it was because I’d asked nicely.”
“I came”—Beau was shaking his head—“because a certain lonely diplomat’s wife suggested she’d save a dance or two—or more—for me. My God, Bryse. All this bloody marriage talk again? You’ve only known this girl for a month.”
“I have wanted to offer for her since the first night we met.”
“Oh, right. How could I forget: ‘When you know, you know.’ There’s a term for this phenomenon, you know.”
Bryson sighed. “Hmmm, and what is that?”
“Love.” Beau laughed. “I never thought it would apply to you, but why not? Even the mightiest sometimes fall.”
“Stop, before you injure yourself. God save me from your dramatics.”
“You’re besotted. Smitten. Shot by cupid’s arrow. Naturally, a wedding would be next.”
“The wedding will unite two esteemed families, so you may cease your romantic drivel.”
“Oh, it’s drivel now, is it?” asked Beau. “Well, I’m not the one racing to the altar with a girl I’ve only just met.”
“Yes, but not because you lack romance. You’re not headed to the altar at any speed because you detest the idea of monogamy. So be it. I do not have the same luxury. As viscount, it is expected that I should marry. It’s the proper thing to do.”
“I’m not suggesting that you avoid marriage, Bryse—in fact, I like Elisabeth very much. Congratulations on your . . . how do they say it? Love match.” Beau took a long sip. “It’s sweet, really. And to think, not six months ago, all you loved was money and title and your great bloody house.”
“I cannot expect you to understand,” Bryson said on a sigh. He waited a beat and then added, “Elisabeth and I are fond of each other. And I desire her. But it would be reckless and silly to base a marriage on anything quite so fanciful or fleeting as love.” Bryson thought for a moment longer. “It would be irresponsible.”
“God save us from that,” Beau mumbled.
Bryson narrowed is eyes. “Elisabeth’s manners and breeding, her chastity and modesty make her exactly the bride for whom I searched—or would have searched, if I hadn’t met her on that first night.”
“Ah yes, here we go with the manners and breeding and chastity and modesty,” Beau recited. “Is she to be your wife, Bryse, or your nun?”
Bryson looked away. “Make no mistake. If I did not marry her, I would not be able to resist her.”
“Aha! And so the truth comes out.” Beau lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Pity you cannot find some manner of discreet interlude that might preclude immediate shackling. Something to hold you over for six months . . . the summer, perhaps. I suppose you’d never considered some time alone with her in the carriage on a moonlit night? Or another ‘interview’ in your library? An idle tryst to smooth out the edges, rather than bolt to the altar on your way to the bed.”
“I will not dishonor Elisabeth,” Bryson said harshly. “She is chaste and unsullied and wholly pure. It would be an insult to . . . have my way with her in a bloody carriage seat. She is a lady. She deserves the sanctity of marriage and a proper bed—at the very least.” His expression blazed. His brother had taken the joke too far, as usual.
Beau whistled again, shaking his head. “So you say. But I urge you not to disparage a nicely sprung carriage seat until you’ve tried it.”
“Beau,” Bryson growled warningly.
“After you’re married, of course! When that sanctified marriage bed of yours grows tiresome.”
“I’m beginning to wonder why I asked you to come.”
“That’s another thing! Marry her if you must, Bryse, but why offer for her tonight? Why here?”
Bryson nodded. This was fair. “I had planned to approach her at home. Next week, perhaps. But I’ve already spoken to her aunt. I have the jewelry in my pocket. I thought perhaps tonight would add a little bit of romantic flourish. Borrow a page from your book.”
“Don’t pin this on me! I’ll never propose marriage—not here or on the bloody moon. This is your choice, Bryson, and I, for one, am shocked. What does your society rule book say about this sort of song and dance? You’ve just said that love was ‘reckless’ and ‘fleeting.’ What about spectacle? Surely there’s at least a chapter on discretion, subtlety, good bloody taste.”
“I do as I please.” Bryson sighed. “And now it pleases me to do this. I wish to be very clear. To Elisabeth and to her aunt.” He turned, studying his brother. “Don’t you see? With this ball, we’ve come full circle. We’ve not been included before tonight. Did you see where we were seated at dinner?”
“Yes,” grumbled Beau, “nowhere near the diplomat’s wife.” He shook his head. “Count the accolades if you must, Bryson; that was always your dream. I’ve done nothing but hold you back. Congratulations. You’re soundly revered. Now you may attend a society party every bloody night of the week. But why cause a stir at your very first one? If you propose tonight, what will be your next trick?”
“It’s not a trick, and the proposal isn’t meant to put on a show. It’s a gesture. I will demonstrate”—he lowered his voice and looked away—“that I am worthy of her.” A pause. “This ball proves it. I am accepted everywhere she may wish to go.”
“You were always worthy of her, and from what I know of Elisabeth, she doesn’t even enjoy balls for all that.”
“It’s a symbol,” he said through gritted teeth. “I cannot expect you to understand.”
“No, you cannot. Exclusion doesn’t trouble me. In fact, I prefer it. Far less bother. You cannot find this evening jacket comfortable, Bryson, you cannot.” He tugged at his stiff collar.
“There are more important things in life than comfort.”
“Obviously, as you’re racing to the altar at breakneck speed.”
“You think my life with Elisabeth will lack comfort?”
“No, no, I think your life with Elisabeth will far exceed comfort. I think it will be an exercise in constant compromise—and good for you both for finding each other. Pity you don’t love her, but far be it for me to assume. The less I know about love, the better.”
Bryson took a long drink, watching Elisabeth and her aunt return from the dining room with drinks and saucers of cake. “Before this conversation devolves any further, I would like to gather up everyone and get on with it. She and her aunt will not stay much longer. The dancing has preoccupied most other guests. I should like to do it without an audience.”
“Have you considered what a small, dare I say nonexistent audience you would have had in the privacy of her parlor?”
Bryson shook his head. “Her aunt is here. You are here. My friends are here. I won’t make a spectacle. Just a small announcement before we all go. A bit of flourish. Something special for all of us to remember.”
“Afraid she’ll turn you down if you go it alone?”
Bryson finished his port. “Perhaps a touch,” he said, smiling grimly. His brother shook his head, wisely making no further comment, and Bryson tapped the lapel pocket that held the ring.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It took considerable effort to convene Falcondale and his wi
fe, Elisabeth, and Lady Banning in the arched alcove at the back of the ballroom. Bryson had scouted this dim, secluded corner because it was far enough from the musicians to be heard over the instruments, and far enough from the food and drink to hold little interest to other guests. A few couples, inappropriately secluded in the shadows, hurried away when he led the group to the chosen spot.
“Forgive me for tearing you from the party,” Rainsleigh began when they gathered around him. “I beg just a moment of your time to . . . celebrate.”
“You’ve sold another boat?” guessed Falcondale.
“No. Something more important than the boats.” He stole a look at Elisabeth. She was watching him cautiously, an uncertain smile on her face. He was more nervous than he expected, and he bore on. “I asked you here to celebrate a betrothal.”
Lady Banning let out a muffled shout but then quickly clamped a hand over her mouth.
“A what?” Elisabeth laughed. She looked between Bryson and her aunt and back again.
He swallowed and forced himself to follow through. “Lady Elisabeth Hamilton-Baythes,” he said, dropping to one knee. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” With shaking hand, he held out a ring. Topaz and diamonds glinted on a thin band of gold. He looked up.
She stared back with an expression that fell somewhere between surprise and stone-cold shock. Her eyes were wild and large, her mouth halfway open. She raised her hands but then froze in mid-air, as if she was about to burst into applause.
Rainsleigh watched her, feeling the timpani boom of his pulse in his neck. Beneath his cravat, sweat beaded and rolled down his back. He willed her to say something while everyone watched, while he held his very breath.
She bore on in frozen silence, her eyes fixed on the ring. She seemed incapable of looking him in the eye.
But then her aunt finished the shout she had begun, and Piety joined her with a near-yelp. Lady Banning launched herself at Elisabeth, and her enthusiasm propelled her. Elisabeth blinked—once, twice—and her hands fell to her sides. He could see her taking very quick, shallow breaths. Lady Banning rained down tearful kisses, shaking her back to life. She hustled Elisabeth against him, and he was forced to his feet to catch her. She allowed it, falling against him, and she hid her face against his chest.
He had the fleeting thought, Oh God, what have I done? She is abashed. Or overwhelmed. Or opposed.
The Countess of Banning and Lady Falcondale embraced and cried and exclaimed, while Beau and Falcondale did their best to awkwardly contain them. Other guests drew closer, curious of the commotion. Women leaned to each other, whispering. Necks craned, eyes squinted into their corner of the ballroom. A handful of the couples on the dance floor stopped waltzing altogether to stare in their direction. He caught sight of his cousin Kenneth staggering from the drinks table, as if to join them.
God, no—that’s all this situation bloody needs.
He sought out his brother’s gaze and jerked his head toward Kenneth. Beau nodded back and left the group, striding to intercept.
Meanwhile, Falcondale’s wife shared the happy news with one nearby woman and then another. Details of the betrothal spread from group to group in two directions. Curious onlookers drifted closer, staring, remarking. Judging? Perhaps. He couldn’t be sure. Mostly, he saw open curiosity, fascination. They bore witness to colorful gossip in the making.
At least the baroness’s venue provided an esteemed backdrop. And the countess’s undeniable enthusiasm lent aplomb. She veritably bounced up and down as she discussed the happy news with a growing circle of her matronly friends. Elisabeth was already a subject of interest because it was so rare to see her out. And now this.
Rainsleigh pivoted reflexively, blocking her from the scrutiny. She went along, still uncharacteristically quiet, her pliant body warm against him. He was painfully aware that she had yet to utter one crucial—and crucially absent—word.
“Elisabeth?” he said in a low voice, speaking to the top of her head.
She looked up. She smiled. Not a beaming smile, not the smile he expected, but not a dismissive or regretful smile either. Slowly now, deliberately, she unfolded her arm and reached out.
The ring. She wanted it.
He slid it on her finger in a rush. His hand shook. It had felt more substantial and easier to hold in the jeweler’s shop.
“A topaz,” he whispered. “Unpretentiousness. For you.”
“And the diamonds?” she whispered back.
“The highest quality. For me.”
She nodded, staring with a dazed expression at the twinkling ring on her finger.
Before he could stop himself, Bryson said, “May I take this to mean you have . . . accepted the offer?”
Her head shot up. She looked surprised. She bit her bottom lip and smiled again, blinking back tears. She nodded, and he could finally breathe again.
“But Bryson?” she asked. “I would speak to you alone, please? Tonight. Right away. Is there some place we may go to have a conversation in private?” Her voice quavered.
This unexpected request dimmed the glow just a little, but he ignored it. “Of course,” he said. “Let me just inquire—”
“My aunt will know,” she said and reached for the countess.
Moments later, Lady Banning led them to a wide corridor at the opposite corner of the ballroom. Elisabeth burrowed into him as he escorted her on his arm, but she said nothing, staring resolutely at her aunt’s back.
“There is a map room along this hall,” Lady Banning explained, leading them down the corridor. “Ah, yes, here it is. The baroness’s sons are hobbyists, and she has relegated their cartography to a former parlor.”
They were just about to disappear into the room when Rainsleigh heard his brother call his name. He looked back to see Beau trotting down the hall in their direction. Rainsleigh signaled him: Not now.
Beau shook his head—two slow, heavy shakes—and kept coming. Rainsleigh stopped, alarmed by his dark look.
Elisabeth slipped from his arm. “Bryson?”
“I’ll be right in,” he assured her, keeping one eye on his brother. “Please go along. I must have a word with my brother.”
Elisabeth looked uncertain, eyeing Beau as he jogged to them.
“It won’t take a second,” Bryson assured her carefully. “Look. Your aunt is already inside. Wait with her for me?”
Elisabeth consented, disappearing after her aunt, and Bryson strode to meet his brother halfway. “What is it?” he snapped.
“It’s Kenneth.”
Rainsleigh shrugged. His brother would only interrupt him if something had gone horribly wrong with their cousin. “A drunken scene?”
Beau shook his head. “No. Not that. I hustled him outside and down the street easily enough. It’s merely . . . it’s what he was saying as we went. He was blathering on. No one of consequence heard, but it worried me. I had to tell you.”
“Blathering about what? What did he say?”
Beau glanced at the map room behind Bryson and then back. “He was going on about Elisabeth, of all people.”
“What about Elisabeth?”
“He happened to be beside her at the buffet, and in his inebriated state, he apparently tripped and fell very nearly at her feet.”
Rainsleigh gritted his teeth. “Did he touch her?”
“No, no, it was nothing like that. He was on the floor, and she stepped out of his way. But apparently there was some floundering moment where he looked up at her—stared at her, I assume—and he . . . ” Beau faltered.
“Say it, Beau. Kenneth fell and what happened? Did he speak to her?”
“No, not that I’m aware. As far as I know, she went on her way, but Kenneth claims to have passed the remainder of the night watching the two of you.”
“Watching us?” Rainsleigh repeated, incredulous. It made his skin crawl, but he failed to see the impact. “And?”
Beau nodded and exhaled uncomfortably. “And—look, I know it�
�s madness, but Kenneth has become convinced that Elisabeth looks like someone he’s . . . encountered before.”
“Elisabeth encountered Kenneth?” Rainsleigh wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of this, but something about the look on Beau’s face stopped him. Instead he said, “Elisabeth and Kenneth hardly travel in the same circles. In fact, Elisabeth is rarely seen out. Encountered where?”
Beau gave a bitter laugh. “That’s the ridiculous bit, and I why I came for you.” He paused again, eyeing Bryson as if he did not trust his reaction. He took a deep breath. “It was something about a night of whoring—years ago. You and he and Father . . . ”
Rainsleigh seized at the mention of their father, and he struggled to hear the rest of what Beau had to say.
“It was nonsense, obviously,” Beau went on. “Why would Elisabeth be in a brothel? He said it was fifteen years ago; she would have been little more than a girl. I’ve issued a very strident warning to him—cease all conversation of his misguided ‘recollection,’ whatever it may be, and I think he understood.”
Rainsleigh himself was scrambling to understand. “What about Elisabeth and a night of whoring?” He worked to keep his voice calm while anxiety knifed his gut and twisted. “Tell me again. Everything. Everything he said. He claimed someone who looked like Elisabeth was seen in a brothel with Father?”
Beau sighed, shaking his head. “It was something about a night when you were at Cambridge. On a lark, Father, along with Kenneth and Uncle Bernard, took a carriage from Rossmore Court to London so that Father might sample the pleasures of some luminary whore, a great nubile beauty. Apparently Father fancied young women—one of the many predilections to which I would rather not be privy, but Kenneth thought it was a laugh.”
“Yes, yes, but what about Elisabeth?”
“Among the whores who may or may not have been this acclaimed ladybird, Kenneth claims he saw Elisabeth—or the young Elisabeth of years ago. As I’ve said, she would have been little more than a girl at the time. So—”
“Rather swift memory,” Bryson said, “to recall a look-alike from years ago.”
A Proper Scandal Page 17
