Lady Be Bad

by Megan Frampton

  “Mmph.” Eleanor glanced up from her book. She was rereading the story of Hercules and Dejanire, just to refresh her memory of the tale, of course.

  “From Lord Carson, naturally.” Cotswold was an enthusiastic supporter of Lord Carson’s suit. For one thing, she and the duke’s valet did not get along, and Cotswold would just as soon leave the duke’s household with Eleanor. And for another, Eleanor’s younger sisters always had an opinion about what Eleanor was wearing, and Cotswold took any criticism as a personal insult.

  “Yes, thank you.” Eleanor closed the book, marking her place with a spare ribbon Cotswold had provided. She ran her palm over the cover, as always relishing the feel of the leather and the faint imprint where the title was stamped.

  “More myths?” Cotswold said, glancing over at the book. “Those gods and goddesses are a saucy lot.”

  If only you knew, Eleanor thought to herself. The things they got up to in private.

  “What would you do if you were a goddess, Cotswold?”

  Her maid, who had been pulling Eleanor’s covers up the bed, stilled her motion. Her expression drew together, as though she were considering it.

  “I suppose I would find the most handsome man in the world and make him my . . . my . . .” She waved her hand to indicate the word she shouldn’t be saying.

  “Cotswold!” Eleanor exclaimed, delightedly. “That sounds scandalous!”

  “Wouldn’t it be what you did?”

  Eleanor shrugged. “I was thinking more along the lines of being able to have and read all the books I wanted to.”

  Cotswold returned to her task. “Choosing a book over a handsome man.” She shook her head, mock ruefully. “And here you were wanting to do something scandalous.”

  The honest part was, it would be scandalous.

  If it were possible to not be a duke’s daughter and be someone else, she would choose to work in a bookshop. Not one that sold the material it seemed Lord Alexander wanted to purchase; one with fairy tales and mythological books and any kind of literature where it was just as likely a dragon would drag you off somewhere as a viscount.

  “I just might,” Eleanor said in a defiant tone, making her maid snort.

  Ida turned her nose up at Eleanor’s reading material, but it allowed Eleanor to escape who she was, so she didn’t pay attention to her sister’s derision. Plus Ida’s derision didn’t just stop at Eleanor’s choice of reading material; it seemed her sister had an opinion, usually a derisive one, on everything.

  “What do you wish to wear today?” Cotswold asked, walking to the wardrobe.

  Eleanor smiled. “As though you’ll pay attention to what I suggest,” she replied. She waved her hand. “It’s all variations on the same gown, isn’t it?” Olivia and Pearl had been dismissive, but nonetheless correct. The only clothing she was allowed to wear as an unmarried lady was made in white or off-white shades.

  It probably wasn’t the best reason to wish to get married, but wanting to infuse some color into her wardrobe was a good incentive to say “yes.”

  “Lord Carson is certain to call this afternoon,” Cotswold continued. “Just to make sure you received the flowers. Roses, a mix of white and red. Lady Ida would be able to tell you what that means.”

  Eleanor snorted. “I highly doubt Lord Carson has imbued his gift with a secret meaning, no matter what might be read into it. He is far too busy with handling things for his family,” and courting me, “to worry about if the flowers he gives are sending the right message.”

  Cotswold folded her arms over her chest and sniffed. Her usual way of indicating without actually saying it that she thought Eleanor was being far too practical. Like when she would choose books over handsome men. Not that she had been given the choice, not in real life.

  But, Eleanor wished she could retort to her argumentative maid, she had to be practical since she wasn’t allowed to be impractical. Not in her real life, no matter how much she and Cotswold might talk about scandalous things Eleanor could do. Because she couldn’t. That’s why she escaped through stories. Not that the stories offered much encouragement for choice; usually the lady in the stories had to make some sort of horrible choice between a dragon and the loss of an entire village. She’d take the viscount, if that was her option.

  “You’ll wear this one, then,” Cotswold said, taking one of the many white gowns from the wardrobe. Eleanor nodded to indicate her agreement, then glanced out the window as Cotswold bustled around the room, laying everything out in preparation for the day.

  Lord Carson had danced with her last night and sent her flowers today. He would be paying a call on her this afternoon, and might even propose.

  It was what she had expected. And yet—and yet something inside her was chafing against all the expectations.

  Now she wished there’d be a delay in the form of a dragon or something. Anything to potentially alter the course of her life.

  “Of course I’ll accompany you,” Alex said. Bennett was uncharacteristically fussing, his hands moving from his cravat to his waistcoat to his hair, repeating as he paced in their father’s study.

  Their father wasn’t present, of course; he spent most of his time with his mistress, although the ruse was that he was off attending to business.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to get married,” Bennett continued, pausing in his pacing to gaze at Alex accusingly. As though Alex had repeated his question of the day before. “It is just that a wife deserves a husband who can give her proper attention.” He shrugged, his expression partially guilty, but also seeming annoyed at the marital interruption. “I cannot provide her with that. Not at this time. Likely not ever.”

  “Does she understand that?” Alex spoke more sharply than he meant to. The combination, perhaps, of having met the lady in question and found her more than the sum of her warm, soft parts.

  Bennett shook his head. “I don’t know. We haven’t spoken enough for me to ascertain. I assume so. It is the way things are normally done.”

  That wouldn’t be enough for Alex, when his time came. If it came at all—he was the second son of a financially struggling family whose normal pursuits were confined to women and erotic literature. But would likely not accommodate a wife, since he did not see the point of entering the state unless he absolutely had to. Such as falling in love or some other improbable situation.

  Thankfully, he saw no reason to ever have to give up his pursuits, since neither was expensive. His last big expenditure was a specially built carriage, one that could accommodate his height, and he had paid for that out of a bequest left to him by a distant aunt.

  “Father said you are to propose today,” Alex said, wincing as he realized how baldly he’d put it. Our father is commanding you to change the rest of your life because of his whims.

  Thankfully, Bennett was too accustomed to Alex’s bluntness to take offense. “Yes, today. And so we are off, and I am grateful you will be with me.” He placed his hand on Alex’s shoulder, gripping it hard. “I know you wish you could do more, but you do well, brother. Thank you.”

  Alex had long ago made his peace with the fact that there were times Bennett could make him feel like the lowest kind of worm, just by complimenting him. It didn’t make him feel any better when it happened, but at least he knew to expect it.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, reaching to cover his brother’s hand with his.

  Lady Eleanor’s Good List for Being Bad:

  Purchase and be able to read all the books you’ve ever wanted.

  Chapter 4

  “Viscount Carson and his brother, Lord Alexander, to see you, Your Grace.”

  Eleanor’s mother jerked upright as though someone had yanked on her hair. “Oh! Do send them in, Joffrey.” Their butler, knowing his ladyship’s pattern, paused at the door, waiting for the lady to continue speaking.

  She did not disappoint. “And ask Cook to send up those tiny little biscuits, and make a fresh pot of tea, and do find His Grace and see i
f he might stop in, and you girls need to leave, the gentlemen won’t want to be visiting with children, not when they have my Eleanor to speak with.” And at this the duchess beamed approvingly at Eleanor, who had earned more of her mother’s love when it was known the Viscount Carson wished to make her his wife.

  Olivia pouted. “I don’t want to leave. I want to watch Lord Carson”—and here the twins sighed in unison—“ask Eleanor to marry him.”

  Eleanor glanced toward her sisters. “It is not as though you would be allowed to stay even if you were out in society. These things do not usually have an audience.”

  Olivia scowled, while Pearl just looked downcast.

  “Come on, you two,” Ida said, closing her book. Eleanor had forgotten she was even in the room, she had been so quiet. She rose, her expression revealing she was at the edge of her tolerance for her flighty sisters.

  Eleanor dearly hoped Ida would soften eventually, but for the moment, she was glad for her sister’s stern insistence. It made removing Olivia and Pearl much easier.

  The girls had just barely left when the door opened again, allowing Viscount Carson and Lord Alexander to step inside.

  There was something to be said for Lord Alexander’s height; even vision-impaired, Eleanor could distinguish between the two men, making it easier for her to look in Lord Carson’s direction and offer a smile. She was not interested in staring at Lord Alexander.

  She was not. But the atmosphere of the room changed when he entered; her skin felt tingly, and she felt like opening her mouth and making some sort of comment that might reveal who she was. Not who she was supposed to be.

  She wished she could actually do something, not just be something: The duke’s eldest daughter. A marriageable woman. A lady who did what she was supposed to.

  What if she could make a difference? Perhaps she could through marriage? In which case maybe she wouldn’t have to dread this moment after all.

  Even though her skin tingled and she was keenly aware of the tall gentleman at her about-to-be betrothed’s side.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Lord Carson said, walking across the room to greet Eleanor’s mother. “And Lady Eleanor,” he said, turning to her. Now she could see him better. He looked not quite as he usually did; he was turning his neck as though his cravat was tied too snugly, and his hair appeared to be more windswept than usual. Perhaps it was a new style in gentlemen’s hair.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” Eleanor’s mother replied. “It is afternoon, isn’t it? And a lovely one. I was just saying to my dear daughter”—and then she nodded toward Eleanor, as though Lord Carson couldn’t possibly tell on his own which daughter she was referring to, given that there was only one daughter in the room—“that today is a lovely day.”

  “Quite,” Lord Carson replied. “May I introduce my brother, Lord Alexander? He’s just arrived in town.”

  The handsome tree stepped forward to take the duchess’s hand. “Delighted to meet you, Your Grace. I had the pleasure of meeting your dear daughter just yesterday,” and Eleanor didn’t need her spectacles to catch the look of amusement he sent her way, “and may I say she greatly resembles you.”

  Eleanor felt a frown start to crease her features, but reined herself in before it could reveal itself on her face. Was that a compliment? On the surface, it was, but there was a thread of mockery in Lord Alexander’s voice that made her wonder.

  Her mother, however, did not appear to notice the thread. “What a delightful person you are, Lord Alexander. I wonder that we have not met before. Eleanor, don’t you think Lord Alexander is delightful?”

  Wonderfully sly and altogether far too mischievous, she wanted to say. But she was a lady, and what was more, a duke’s daughter, and what was more than that was that she wasn’t allowed to reveal anything of herself, as though that would give everyone a dislike of her. She smiled as she recalled her conversation with Cotswold, where they’d dreamt up scandals. If only she could share her love of puns, at the very least.

  “Absolutely delightful,” she replied, suddenly aware that everyone in the room was waiting for her reply. And not her latest witticism.

  She felt, rather than saw, Lord Alexander’s reaction, an odd shiver running through her as it happened. Just yesterday around this time she’d been on top of him, looking at a picture that had seared into her consciousness.

  The door opened to admit her father, who entered with his habitual cacophony of noises—grunts, inarticulate mutterings, and very loud breathing.

  “My lord, look who has arrived,” her mother began, “it is Viscount Carson and his brother, Lord Alexander,” she continued, since she couldn’t leave her husband in suspense about who was standing directly in front of him. “And I haven’t yet asked them to sit. I am so sorry—please do sit, gentlemen. Viscount, go sit next to my dear Eleanor, and Lord Alexander, you can sit wherever you like.”

  The gentlemen sat, Lord Alexander taking the place next to Eleanor’s mother, while Lord Carson settled beside Eleanor.

  “Thank you for the flowers, my lord,” Eleanor said.

  “You are welcome,” Lord Carson said. “I know ladies generally like flowers, or so my father’s gardener tells me.”

  “Do you like flowers, Lady Eleanor?”

  It was him speaking. Lord Blunt. Asking her opinion on something, of all things.

  It was unexpected.

  And everyone was waiting for her answer. Or so it seemed.

  “I do, thank you.” Why did his simple question make her want to shout, or scream, or say something in Italian?

  A language that she’d learned that seemed to hold all the emotion she wasn’t allowed to have. So she loved it all the more.

  “They are . . . bellisimi fiori,” she said, feeling daring as she spoke.

  “Speak so that everyone can understand, Eleanor,” her mother said reprovingly.

  “Of course, Mother,” Eleanor replied, lowering her eyes so nobody would see the spark of defiance she knew was there.

  “Well, Lady Eleanor,” Lord Carson began. Eleanor lifted her gaze to his face. He glanced in her father’s direction and continued. “I wonder if you would grant me the honor of a private interview?”

  Eleanor swallowed. Here it was. The moment she’d known would happen since her father had informed her of his discussion with Lord Carson’s father, the Marquis of Wheatley. Two old men deciding the fates of their two oldest children.

  “Of course she would,” the duchess replied. Apparently Eleanor was not allowed to speak for herself in any language.

  “Yes, thank you, my lord.” Eleanor rose, and the viscount did as well.

  “Go into your father’s study,” Eleanor’s mother commanded. “We will remain here. Joffrey is bringing biscuits and fresh tea.” She looked around, nodding and smiling, as she always did at the prospect of fresh tea. Or fresh sons-in-law, provided they were respectable.

  Eleanor offered a curtsey, then stepped to the door, feeling the viscount at her back as she headed to her doom.

  “Please be seated, Lady Eleanor,” Lord Carson said as he closed the door behind them.

  She glanced at it, the whole room suddenly feeling as though it were enclosing her. Encasing her like a stifling cloak.

  And then wished she could laugh at her own ridiculousness. But she couldn’t laugh. Not only because he was beginning to speak, but because this wasn’t just a cloak she could remove at will.

  She sat and kept her gaze somewhere near his face, so he’d know she was paying attention. From here, his features were blurred pleasantly together. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, being married to him.

  “Lady Eleanor,” he began, “you are a lovely person with whom it has been my pleasure to become acquainted with these past few weeks.”

  Well, that was an adequate start, she supposed.

  “And it is our parents’ fondest wish to see us united in marriage,” he continued.

  It’s not. My parents’ fondest wish is to remove t
he taint of scandal from Della’s elopement. Your parents’ fondest wish is to gain control of my dowry.

  “And so I would ask you if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife?” As he spoke, she saw him glance over her shoulder, looking at the clock that stood in the corner. As though he had another appointment after this one. The one where he decided her fate.

  Unless she decided it for herself. The emotion she’d felt on recognizing Lord Alexander in that ballroom rushed over her, the unfamiliar feelings of want and dissatisfaction and wishing she could just be herself, just do something that wasn’t related to who she was—she wanted to stand up and demand that Lord Carson, that anyone, see her as Eleanor, the pun-loving, adventurous woman who adored Italian.

  Not a female to be bartered from one family to another.

  I can say yes, she thought to herself. I can try to find myself within this marriage. He seems perfectly pleasant. He is perfectly pleasant. Yes, it would be average, but it wouldn’t be miserable.

  But she didn’t know. What if he was secretly wonderful? But then again, what if he was secretly horrible?

  What if he didn’t matter, what if it was her who had to figure it all out? Figure out who she was before she said yes to becoming who they would be? Her ridiculous list taunted her with all of its unattainability.

  “I—” she began, not sure what she was going to say. Images of that book, the feel of her body on his, the way he spoke making her feel trembly and wondrous and confused, all at the same time. “I cannot. I need more time,” she said in as firm a voice as she could manage.

  “More time?” he echoed, sounding bewildered. “But our parents—”

  “Yes, I understand,” she replied, sounding more sure of herself. “I haven’t said no, you understand”—though even she could see he didn’t understand—“just that I need more time. To get to know you”—to get to know myself—“and to enjoy the rest of my time in London.”

  “Oh.”