Lady Be Bad

by Megan Frampton

  So perhaps he was a tree in disguise, what with all the leaves and greenery comparisons she was making. Or she was just panicked at seeing him, the male who’d so discomfited and intrigued her all at once.

  Who was currently regarding her with a look that managed to combine insolent awareness with a haughty disdain.

  As though he was judging her for how she had reacted that afternoon and was disappointed, somehow, in her reaction.

  He was the brother of her presumed betrothed. And he was speaking to her. She gave herself a mental shake and focused on keeping her expression as neutral as possible. This, at least, she was an expert in; if you couldn’t see anything around you, it was crucial that you keep your expression from showing anything untoward, in the event that there was something you should be horrified or delighted at that you couldn’t see.

  “Since we have just met, I will cut my brother and ask you to dance before he gets the chance.” He glanced over at Bennett, who shrugged as though it didn’t matter, which made her angry, even though he was correct. It didn’t matter; none of it mattered except that their parents had dictated the rest of their lives.

  Their average lives of averageness. Even though she knew she was overreacting, which was not an average reaction.

  She’d laugh if she weren’t so mortified.

  “Do you have the next dance free, my lady?” He was regarding her, one brow raised—her father would applaud his skills—with a look that practically dared her to decline. Or accept, she wasn’t sure which.

  Why didn’t she know what he wanted? More importantly, why did she care?

  “Thank you, that would be delightful,” she said, keeping her gaze on his face.

  His mouth curled up on one side into an appreciative—she hoped—smirk, and she felt the impact of that smile shudder throughout her entire body. As though she’d passed a test she didn’t know she was taking.

  “Lady Eleanor.” It was Lord Carson speaking. Yes, of course. He was the brother who—at least to her knowledge—didn’t spend time in bookshops buying reprehensible material. They’d only had time to spend a few minutes in conversation, but it was enough for her to know he was not the person who engaged in such extreme behavior.

  Unlike his brother.

  This Lord Alexander was altogether too much, both literally and in personality. There was no possibility that the knowing, smirking tree wasn’t completely nefarious. She would have to maintain her distance, no matter how alluring and compelling he appeared.

  “Yes, my lord?” She blinked to clear her thoughts of the troublesome brother.

  “I would claim the dance after my brother’s, if that would be acceptable.”

  She forced herself to smile, wishing Lord Alexander didn’t know how she’d reacted seeing that picture, wishing she hadn’t reacted that way seeing the picture herself, wishing her enthusiasm for mythology hadn’t led her to that bookshop in the first place.

  Wishing, while she was wishing, that Della hadn’t run off. That she wasn’t the eldest daughter, the one who had to do her duty to the family so the four unscandalous duke’s daughters could have lives suitable to their position.

  “That would be lovely, my lord,” she said, lowering her gaze to the floor. She couldn’t quite see the floor, but at least it was clear of any dangerously overwhelming sights.

  Until she did something stupid like fall onto it, accidentally looking at some very inappropriate pictures when she did.

  Had she been begrudging her average life? Making a list, even, of what she wished she could do?

  What if Lord Alexander told his brother what she’d seen? What if he found her distinctly not average in a scandalous way, and decided not to go through with the family’s plans?

  Oh dear. She hadn’t even mentioned seeing shocking pictures as one of the scandalous things she could do when in conversation with Cotswold, and yet she’d gone and done it.

  Perhaps she was secretly scandalous, secretly even to herself? Did she even need a list?

  “This is my dance, my lady,” that dangerous sibling said, holding his arm out for her to grasp. She took it, steeling herself not to react. Not to look up at him, at all of his tree-ness, to gaze into those dark green eyes to discover just what he thought of her.

  Alex couldn’t keep from looking at her, hoping—and yet not hoping—to see a glimpse of the woman who’d so intrigued him that afternoon. This pale, vaguely feminine person whom he wasn’t sure he could pick out in a crowd was someone entirely different, and it gave him an odd feeling to know he had seen another version of her. A version that Bennett didn’t appear to have seen. Or want to have seen, for that matter.

  Her arm was looped in his walking onto the dance floor. The top of her head only came up to his shoulder, although that wasn’t unusual. It was difficult to find any woman he could look in the eye.

  Except for when they were lying down, that is. Perhaps that was why he so often wanted to achieve that situation?

  And then he wanted to laugh at the ludicrousness of that thought. As though sexual relations were only a conduit to looking into another person’s eyes.

  He glanced down at her as they made their way into the set. Thank goodness there was not much opportunity for conversation. He didn’t want to have to ask her anything, find out more about her that meant either that she didn’t deserve Bennett or that she was actually intriguing enough so he’d envy his brother.

  Neither possibility was good.

  “The Countess of Estabrook is renowned for her taste in music,” the lady said. In nearly as bland a tone of voice as her appearance warranted.

  She was pleasant-looking enough. Her eyes were large and a pretty color, but their expression was . . . vague. Not snapping with life as her voice had been. He smothered a chuckle as he thought about what she might say if he asked if she could explain more of the stories behind some of the other pictures. Bacchus and Ariadne’s picture, for example, had quite intrigued him. The lady mimicking Ariadne’s position would have to be extraordinarily flexible.

  They bowed to one another in the first movement of the dance. He wondered if she was extraordinarily flexible. And then wondered why he wondered.

  “It was certainly unexpected to meet you again,” he said, then cursed his blunt speaking. He hadn’t meant to say anything about it, to reference their first encounter at all. And here he was, practically the first thing he’d said to her was about it.

  “It was,” she replied in a suitably demure tone of voice, one that irritated him, even though he didn’t know why.

  “Were you looking for that same book yourself?” he asked, knowing he was being shocking, but somehow—as usual—not particularly caring.

  The dance separated them before she could reply. And when they did return to one another she was that cherry-red color again. Would she blend into the chaise longue if she were to lie down on it?

  And why was he even considering her lying down at all?

  “I was not,” she said in a terse tone. He felt his interest getting piqued all over again at her obvious irritation. Well, as obvious as an unmarried lady at a public social event could be. Which just meant she did not smile as she spoke.

  “I purchased the book,” he continued. What was he doing? Why couldn’t he stop?

  “Did you.”

  Her tone left no opening for further conversation.

  And yet—“I did.” And wasn’t that the most ridiculous response he could make?

  “I was hoping to forget this afternoon, my lord,” she said, her eyes lit with the same challenging stare she’d had when they first met. As though she dared him to continue. He was delighted—and horrified—to recognize the woman he’d first met.

  “Whereas I find it is impossible to forget, my lady,” he replied, deliberately lowering his tone.

  They finished the dance in silence, her glaring at him—subtly, of course, since it wouldn’t do to cause any kind of notice—and him wondering just what the hell he was doin
g.

  Likely what she was asking as well, only without the cursing bits. She was a lady, after all.

  “Thank you for the dance, Lord Alexander,” she said, dipping into a perfect curtsey.

  “Permit me to escort you to my brother,” Alex said, not allowing himself to say anything more.

  “I can find my own way back, thank you,” she replied, raising her chin to look him in the eyes. She still had that vague expression on her face, but now her voice was sharp, as it was in the shop. Damn it. He didn’t want to discover she was more than she appeared, but yet he did. He wanted to know more about her, and not just so he could be assured Bennett would have a suitable wife.

  This was going to be his own labor of Hercules, and far less pleasant than the one he’d seen the fellow do in that picture this afternoon.

  Lady Eleanor’s Good List for Being Bad:

  Dare to be rude.

  Chapter 3

  “Ah, there you are,” Lord Carson said as Eleanor made her way back to where he stood. She smiled as she walked toward him, relieved at how her breath stayed the same, her heart didn’t race, and she wasn’t all flustered by his mere presence. She wasn’t likely to have indelicate thoughts regarding him, not with how pleasant and kind and altogether . . . well, average he was.

  It was a good match, her mother assured her. Her father didn’t bother assuring her of anything; he just assumed she’d do what he said.

  And she would.

  That was the problem.

  Unless she wouldn’t? But she couldn’t even think something like that. Could she? And what did it mean that she was posing questions to herself for which she had no answer?

  “This is our dance, I believe,” Lord Carson was saying. He drew nearer, and she was able to make out his features. Pleasant. Handsome, even. She could see the resemblance between the brothers now that she’d met the other one. Both had hair in the brownish-gold family, both had strong features and firm noses. But this brother didn’t have the height, nor the commanding presence. His eyes were hazel, not green. It was as though someone had made a draft of Lord Alexander before making the real thing.

  She wished she hadn’t seen the final version before having to accept the draft.

  The music struck up as they walked onto the dance floor, and Lord Carson turned to her with a smile. “A waltz! Perfect.” He held his arms out and she stepped into them, positioning her hand just so on his shoulder, holding his hand with her other one. He nodded, and they began to dance, Eleanor allowing the music—it was excellent, the countess did have good taste in musicians—to flow through her, allowing her mind to drift off and forget everything for just a moment; her duty, her sisters, the details of that picture. How it had felt to land so squarely on top of another human.

  “I am so pleased you and Alexander got to meet,” Lord Carson said, interrupting her non-thoughts about anything. Forcing her back to the present.

  “Yes. He is—” What could she possibly say? Remarkably compelling? Incredibly naughty? Overwhelmingly gorgeous?

  Apparently fond of looking at inappropriate pictures?

  “Nice,” she said at last.

  Lord Carson uttered what sounded like a snort. The most emotion she’d heard him display thus far. That did not bode well for an interesting future together. “He must have been trying to charm you. I don’t think anyone has said Alexander was nice since he was about six years old. Not that he isn’t the best of brothers, or anything,” he continued hastily. “Just that he has a reputation for”—and then he paused, and Eleanor felt as though she were leaning over a precipice, waiting for him to finish his sentence—“blunt speaking.”

  “Ah,” Eleanor replied. Blunt speaking. That would explain his very direct words at the bookshop. And while they were dancing. I purchased the book. He would probably laugh at the thought of a list. “Well, we didn’t actually converse that much.” She felt something spark within her, nearly holding her breath as she felt the words emerge from her mouth. Practically daring him to respond in some intriguing way. “Perhaps later on he will inform me how dumb-witted I am, or that my gown is in an unattractive shade unbecoming to my complexion.” And that was the most herself she’d ever allowed herself to be. At least with a respectable gentleman. Certain person’s brothers not included.

  Between not being able to wear her spectacles and not being able to say anything, it felt as though she were just a mere shadow of herself in public.

  Lord Carson smiled in response, squeezing her hand. She wished she thought he was anything more than pleasant. It would make what she had to do much more tolerable.

  Although—was it possible there was more to Lord Carson as well? What would they all do if they were allowed or even encouraged to be who they truly were?

  There had been a moment, when their families had first introduced them to one another, where Lord Carson seemed more than average. They’d all met for tea, and he had discussed his favorite horse, and she had gotten the feeling that he cherished his rides because they allowed him to escape. Only when she had tried to ask more questions, he’d retreated into average replies, leaving her disappointed.

  “I am certain Alex will appreciate you as I do,” Lord Carson said at last. Eleanor swallowed. This was the closest he had come to saying aloud what their families had agreed upon. Did he appreciate her? She couldn’t tell.

  But did it matter? And why wasn’t she delighted to be moving one step closer to married respectability? Fulfilling her destiny as the Duke of Marymount’s eldest daughter?

  Why did she want more?

  And why did more look suspiciously like a very handsome tree?

  “You have to tell us everything.”

  Eleanor opened one eye to find her sisters Olivia and Pearl perched on her bed. It was Olivia’s voice she’d heard; Pearl was usually the quiet accompaniment to her twin’s mischief. Their younger sister Ida must have been off burying her nose in yet another book.

  She debated whether or not to open the other eye, but knew her sisters wouldn’t stop until they did know everything. Neither of them had made their official debut into society, nor would they until Eleanor was safely betrothed, which made her having to accept Lord Carson more than just something her parents wanted; she had two sisters who were desperate for company other than their parents and Ida.

  Not that she could blame them; their mother was The! Most! Excitable! Lady! and her conversation was mostly filled with exclamations of wonder. Their father was more likely to grunt than to say anything, and Ida was prone to looking down her nose at everyone who wasn’t actively engaged in scholarly pursuit.

  In short, their parents were silly or non-verbal and their sister was a pedant.

  She opened her other eye.

  She wasn’t going to tell them everything, but she could share some of it. She’d just leave out the viewing illicit pictures while resting her body on a male person. “It was lovely. I wore the gown that was delivered yesterday—”

  “Allow me to guess which one that was,” Olivia interrupted. “The white one or the off-white one?” She wrinkled her nose. “When I am allowed to go to parties, I will never wear white.” She accompanied her words with a sniff.

  Pearl nodded her head in agreement. “Never,” she echoed.

  Eleanor chuckled. “Well, yes, it was the off-white gown. ‘Pale blush’ the dressmaker called it.”

  Olivia waved her hand in dismissal. “Forget all that. Tell us about who you saw. Was Lord Carson there?”

  Both girls sighed dreamily. Lord Carson had visited their father one afternoon—the afternoon Eleanor’s fate had been sealed—and Olivia and Pearl had spied on him from the upstairs hallway. They, at least, thought he looked far better than average.

  “He was.” A pause as both girls looked at her expectantly. “We danced together, a waltz.” More sighing. “And I met his brother,” she continued, hearing how her voice got more strained. Please don’t ask me what he’s like.

  “What’s h
e like?” Olivia said, shifting on the bed so she was directly in front of Eleanor.

  “Um . . .”

  “You don’t like him,” Pearl said in a knowing tone. “If you liked him, you’d say that right away. Because you are so polite, you always are, but you don’t like to lie.” It was the longest Pearl had spoken without being interrupted by Olivia in nearly a month.

  “Tell us what he’s like,” Olivia said in a pleading tone, edging even closer to Eleanor.

  He’s—what could she say? He resembles a tree, only more handsome? Her sisters would think her insane. For goodness’ sake, she would think herself insane. He is a direct, some might say, rude person? Only then they’d want to know what he’d said, and she couldn’t tell them about Hercules and Dejanire.

  She could barely think of them herself without blushing.

  “He’s nice,” she said, repeating what she’d said to Lord Carson. “He asked me to dance,” and let me fall on him, even though he seemed quite grouchy afterward, “and he is taller than his brother.”

  “That’s all?” Olivia said.

  “That is all,” Eleanor replied, lying through her teeth.

  “Oh,” Olivia said, sounding disappointed.

  “Oh,” Pearl echoed.

  “Yes. Oh.” Eleanor made a shooing motion. “Now get out of here and let me get up and get clothed. The sooner I am presentable, the sooner I can go get myself engaged, and then the sooner you two can have your moment in not-white clothing.” Both girls leapt off the bed at those words, making Eleanor acutely aware of their eagerness to see her married off. As though she didn’t know that already.

  It seemed everyone but she was hoping for it.

  And what did her wishes matter anyway? They didn’t.

  But if they did, she’d wish she could just run away.

  “Flowers have arrived for you, my lady,” Cotswold said, bustling into Eleanor’s bedroom with a cup of a tea and a smirk.