The Birthday Scandal

by Leigh Michaels

  She thought wryly that she might turn the new ball gown into pincushions and sell them.

  It wasn’t like her to be at loose ends. She had always been able to entertain herself—but at Chiswick and in London there had never been a shortage of things to do.

  When she had first arrived in the village of Barton Bristow, Emily had been in such pain that nothing else mattered. All she wanted was quiet and peace and the opportunity to heal in a place where no one asked uncomfortable questions or expected her to pick herself up and go straight back into the marriage mart to catch another husband.

  But now…she must have healed more than she had realized, for after only a few days of being in company, Barton Bristow looked just plain dull. And there hadn’t even been parties as yet—only family gatherings and rides and long talks with her sister. Add in the promise of dancing and dining and flirting, and how could Emily possibly go back with a smile to activities like judging the flowers at the village show?

  Not that Barton Bristow was a bad place—but the idea of going back to her cottage, to settle down there forever, dragged at her spirits.

  There were alternatives, of course. From the safe distance of Barton Bristow, Emily had doubted that the door her father seemed determined to push her through—into marriage—was still open to her. Yet she was an earl’s daughter, and to get her off his hands, Chiswick might even increase the dowry that Philip Rivington had been promised. Surely somewhere there was a man who would be tempted, despite the scandal of her previous betrothal.

  Never forget how that proposition turned out for Isabel.

  No, Emily would not marry to suit her father, and she would not marry in desperation, simply to have a different sort of life. After the debacle of Philip Rivington, she could scarcely trust her own judgment—and even though Rivington had initially been her father’s choice, Emily had agreed to the match.

  Not even the blessing of a child or two could compensate for the misery which would come of putting herself in the hands of a husband who saw her only as a source of wealth. Rather than take the chance, she would prefer to spend her life alone, relying only on herself.

  But being independent was not nearly as inviting as it had been a year ago. With Mrs. Dalrymple going off to marry the squire, Emily would not even have a hired companion to keep her company. Instead, she would go through her life in solitary state—at the breakfast table, in the parlor after dinner, in her bed each night.

  If she were a man she would take a lover, and no one would think twice. Why couldn’t she do the same? Because an unmarried woman was not allowed to have a lover.

  But why was that? Indulging in a love affair would make her unfit for marriage, of course, which was no doubt why the behavior was forbidden. But that restriction didn’t apply to Emily. Since she had already chosen not to marry, what possible obstacle remained?

  The fact that a woman preferred to avoid matrimony didn’t mean she had no longings, no curiosity about what men and women did together. Once, just after their betrothal, Philip Rivington had kissed her. Emily had felt mostly apprehension, for she had never been kissed before—and the way he had poked his tongue into her mouth had frightened her. And yet, there had been something else—a little curl of anticipation, of looking forward to the time when her husband would show her what men and women did together, and why so many of them seemed to like it.

  She turned the idea over in her mind, examining it for flaws. Taking a lover would allow her to satisfy not only her curiosity but her physical needs. When she tired of her lover, she could do as the gentlemen did and move on. And there was a bonus—if her father were again to press some worthy suitor on her, she could inform him that she was no longer a suitable bride.

  While it was easy enough to make a convincing argument, she knew that finding the right man would not be nearly so straightforward. Barton Bristow was small—the only gentleman in the village was the squire. Even if he had not been her companion’s new husband, the large, square, and florid Sir Cedric Reynolds was hardly suitable for the role Emily had in mind.

  No other man in the village came close to fitting the bill. The fishmonger’s boy was closest to the right age—his title reflected his occupational status rather than his birth date. During the summer, as she walked past the smithy where the blacksmith had shed his tunic to shoe a horse, Emily had noticed that he displayed a commanding set of muscles. But she could not see herself taking either of them into her bed.

  Perhaps it would be better if the man she chose was not one she would meet on a regular basis. Even a woman of no experience could recognize that it might be awkward to encounter one’s former lover at the village market or the flower show or on the walking path. Especially after one had told him the affair was over.

  It was apparent this new plan of hers would require some thought.

  Though the duke ordered out his carriage to take them to Mallowan for Lady Fletcher’s dinner party, the vehicle was not large enough to carry all six passengers in comfort. Lucien suggested slyly that Gavin drive his curricle and offered to make the sacrifice of riding with him in the open air rather than in the greater luxury of the carriage. “sacrifice?” Gavin grinned. “I suppose you’d also force yourself to drive.”

  The two of them had a grand time, taking turns with the reins, catching up with the carriage and passing it, then dropping behind once more, all the way to Mallowan. By the time they arrived, the early evening sunlight cast long blue shadows across the fields, and Lucien wanted nothing more than to turn around and drive straight back to the castle.

  “You’re a good sort after all, Gavin,” he announced as they made the sweeping turn into the estate and tooled smartly up the long avenue of lime trees leading to the square, blocky manor house.

  Gavin’s eyebrow quirked. “After all?”

  “You must see that life would have been easier for us—Isabel and Emily and me—if you had been completely impossible. As it is, Uncle Josiah seems quite taken with you.”

  “And here I thought the way he lambasted me meant he was anything but!”

  “You call that lambasting? You’ve obviously never been on Chiswick’s bad side. We had hopes, you know. All three of us are suffering a serious lack of resources—well, you obviously noticed that our father’s not quick to hand out the funds, and Uncle Josiah had led us to believe…” An innate sense of justice made Lucien start over. “No, that’s not fair. He didn’t promise anything, I suppose. Still, it came as a bit of a shock to the ladies when Uncle Josiah only plunged to the tune of new ball gowns and not a nice sum of hard cash.”

  Gavin said slowly, “Is that why Lady Emily has been so perturbed all day?”

  “Was she? I didn’t notice, so I daresay she wasn’t any shorter-tempered than usual.”

  “I should describe her as distracted. Having something weighty on her mind.”

  “No doubt it was the weight of the purse she was hoping to get—and didn’t.” Lucien sighed. “About that other matter, Cousin—are you absolutely certain you can’t see your way to sweeping Miss Chloe off her feet?”

  “I’ve already rescued you from a long ride in a closed carriage. That’s the extent of my knight-errantry for one day.”

  “It’s not just for my sake, you know. You’d win the everlasting gratitude of my sisters, too, if you broke up that match. Isabel says Chloe is too complaisant to stand up to someone like our father.”

  “And what do you think?”

  Lucien snorted. “Complaisant isn’t the word I’d have chosen. You should have heard the way she dressed me down yesterday, when all I’d said was…” He caught Gavin eying him. “I might as well tell you the truth, since it’s pretty clear you’re not of a mind to help us out. Chloe Fletcher is a termagant, and if our father ends up married to her, the match will be everything he deserves.”

  “You won’t attempt to seduce her yourself?”

  “And end up caught in parson’s mousetrap with that shrew if anything went wrong? Har
dly.”

  “You think it would be all right for me to take that chance, but not for you.”

  “You’re older,” Lucien said reasonably. “Much more ready to settle down. Besides, everyone thinks she’d make a good bride for you.”

  “I’m not that much older than you. I’m also not in such a hurry as you’d like to think, and when the time comes, I plan to do my own choosing.”

  “I imagine Uncle Josiah will have something to say about that.”

  “We’ll see. Besides, you’re the one who said the scheme needn’t go so far as actual seduction, so you can carry out the plan yourself. You must only cause her to be so unhappy with the prospect of the earl that she makes a misstep and shows him the sharp side of her tongue. That must be easy enough—I doubt he’s felt it necessary to woo her with sweet words. You can do that much without compromising yourself.”

  Lucien was not convinced, for the plan was seriously flawed. Gavin’s lack of experience with the females of the ton—and their mothers—was showing. Someone should take the fellow in hand before he set foot in London, just to keep him safe from himself. Without some serious guidance, Athstone would have acquired a marchioness—or rather, some woman would have acquired him—before he recognized what was happening.

  But Gavin’s marital arrangements were a matter for another discussion; Lucien would be well advised to keep his attention on their current quandary instead. The trouble was that every other plan that had been brought forward to separate the Earl of Chiswick from his intended bride seemed just as seriously flawed as the one Gavin had proposed, as well as difficult to put into operation. At least this scheme was feasible.

  Very well—he’d give it a try. He would sympathize, taking Chloe’s side in any difference of opinion. He would encourage her to openly share her doubts and fears, and agree with them. Hell, he’d toadeat her if it would accomplish the purpose—if only she didn’t set him on fire or push him into the nearest fountain the moment he showed his face.

  At least this new resolution meant he could face the evening with something less than complete dread. He even summoned up a smile as they were ushered into the Fletchers’ drawing room.

  Before Lucien could put his plan into effect, however, Chloe Fletcher rose from her seat next to her mother and made a severe, correct little curtsey to the group as she greeted each one by name. “I am pleased to see you again, Lord Hartford.” She had left him to the last, and her voice was colorless. Her eyes met his without a hint of the fervor she had shown on the previous day.

  Her mother beamed approval.

  Lucien was alarmed. He didn’t know how her parents could have learned about her little temper spasm in the garden—had a trusted servant listened on the other side of the hedge when she ripped up at him?—but it seemed she had been sternly rebuked. What had they done to her? Beaten her? Locked her in her room until she yielded? Limited her to bread and water?

  While Lucien was absorbed in observing Chloe, Sir George Fletcher had greeted the rest of the party, but finally he advanced on Lucien, beaming. “Hartford—so sorry to miss you yesterday when you called. But you’ll forgive me for being from home, yes? As they say, we’ll all be part of the family soon, so—”

  Lady Fletcher went rigid. “Sir George!” she hissed.

  The big bluff red-faced man seemed to wilt, and Lucien wondered if Chloe’s father, too, would find himself on a bread-and-water regimen for displeasing Lady Fletcher.

  He was still wondering when the Fletchers’ butler announced dinner. As the couples paired off in order of rank, he found himself offering his arm to Chloe to escort her into the dining room. He supposed he should have expected to end up with her, for the room was full of titles more exalted than his. Come to think of it, the only men who were lower in rank than Lucien were Emily’s Mr. Lancaster and their host. And Chloe, as the mere daughter of a baronet, was barely more significant than her mother’s companion—who ended up seated on Lucien’s other side.

  If this dinner had been last night, Lucien reflected, he’d have been annoyed at finding himself stuck with Chloe throughout the evening. But this was the perfect opportunity to put his new plan—well, Gavin’s plan—into effect. Their respective unimportance placed them near the center of the table, as far as they could possibly be from Lady Fletcher and Sir George, and from Chiswick, who was seated next to their hostess. With no possibility of being overheard by their respective parents, Lucien would have a couple of hours to plant subtle suggestions about how utterly impossible it would be for Chloe to live in amity with the Earl of Chiswick and how—title or not—she should fee from his offer of marriage.

  Subtle, he reminded himself. The trouble was, now that the opportunity presented itself, he couldn’t think of a thing to say that might convince her.

  “If you plan to treat me to another lecture about why I am not ft to be a countess, Lord Hartford, I beg you will spare yourself the effort,” she said quietly as she lifted her spoon to sample the first course.

  Lucien turned to stare at her. “Because you’re determined to wear a coronet and nothing will change your mind?”

  Her eyes sparkled—with defiance, he thought. So they hadn’t crushed her spirit after all. Then he realized the gleam was caused by candlelight refecting against—tears? Was Chloe Fletcher crying?

  “Here, now,” he said hastily. “None of that.”

  She was staring at her spoon as if she’d never seen one before, and she had caught her lower lip between her teeth—quite hard, too, he suspected. He wanted to jab her to make her stop. He leaned forward, so his body would block Lady Fletcher’s view of her daughter.

  “It wasn’t my intention to scold you, anyway,” he said. “Just to make you understand how miserable you’d be if you married him.”

  Chloe’s eyes widened, making her triangular face look even more feline. She was looking at him so intently that Lucien knew exactly how a mouse felt in the moment before the cat pounced.

  He hurried on. “What I mean is, being a countess isn’t all sunshine and daisies—not when the earl is Chiswick.”

  She blinked, finally. “That is why you oppose the match? Your concern for me?”

  He nodded, but honesty forced him to go on. “It’s not the only argument, of course. Stands to reason it couldn’t be, for I barely know you.”

  “What are your other grounds?”

  “My father would look a doddering old fool. And— well… I’d just as soon not have a raft of younger brothers and sisters toddling around.”

  “Brothers and sisters who would eventually need to be established with professions and dowries, of course. I am grateful for your honesty, Lord Hartford. Perhaps…”

  The footmen began serving the next course and Lady Fletcher’s companion, seated on his other side, claimed Lucien’s attention. Chloe turned to Mr. Lancaster, leaving Lucien wondering exactly what she had started to tell him. He found himself answering the companion almost at random as he tried to eavesdrop on Chloe instead.

  By the time the conversation turned again, Chloe had herself well in hand once more, with no evidence of tears. In fact, she looked quite cheerful.

  Lucien was startled; he hadn’t thought Lancaster the sort of man a young female would find so amusing. In fact, Lancaster had been no surprise at all—he appeared to be exactly the type of dull stick that Lucien would have expected their father to try to match up with Emily after the debacle of Philip Rivington, just because he was such a contrast.

  Lucien would have sworn the man couldn’t hold an original notion in his head. Yet Chloe seemed to have enjoyed their conversation—and a moment later, he heard Emily’s light laugh as Lancaster shifted his attention once more to her. What the devil was the man’s attraction? If Emily was flirting with him…

  Chloe frowned a little, as if she found the mere sight of Lucien sobering. “It occurs to me, Lord Hartford, that you are my best opportunity.” Her tone was brisk but low.

  Lucien felt as if he’d been
stabbed in the back with an icicle. No, a whole row of them—for the chill arched the length of his spine. When a young woman spoke of a gentleman as an opportunity, there was only one thing she could mean. He could hear bells—wedding bells—ringing in his ears. “Uh…” His voice didn’t seem to work right. “If you have in mind to substitute me for my father…”

  “Oh, don’t be such a clodpole. I’m not interested in you—for yourself at least. But I do require assistance, and in that regard you might be useful.”

  Lucien cut a bite from his slice of beef, just to have something else to look at, and let irony creep into his voice. “What exactly do you want me to help you with, Miss Fletcher?”

  “It is hardly something I can discuss in detail here.” She shot a meaningful look past him at the companion and on toward her mother. “I ride early every morning. It is the only time when I am entirely free to come and go—so long as I stay on my father’s land. Meet me as though by accident, tomorrow morning at eight, in the linden grove that marks the boundary between Mallowan and Weybridge. You know where it is?”

  “Of course,” he said coolly. “But—”

  She gave a little shake of her head, as though bemoaning his lack of understanding. “If you feel in need of a chaperone, I’ll ask a groom to accompany me. But I would prefer not to, so we may speak alone.”

  All the sympathy he’d felt for her vanished under a wave of aggravation. First she’d insulted him—since his salad days, Lucien had been considered a handy man to have around in a squabble, so her observation that he might be useful struck him as faint praise indeed. Then for her to imply that a man like Lucien Arden needed protection from a slip of a girl like her—!

  “Do stop sputtering, Lord Hartford. You’ll be perfectly safe from my wiles.” Chloe sipped her wine and added, so softly that Lucien wasn’t certain he’d heard her correctly, “Just as long as you do what I want.”