Yes, he was looking forward to their rendezvous in the morning—even though he had yet to decide what he would tell Chloe about Captain Hopkins and his reaction to her letter.
When Emily finally fitted into the drawing ro5om, Isabel was just starting to pour tea—which probably meant that the Fletcher party had settled in for the long term. Emily made her curtsey to Lady Fletcher and Chloe, tossed a quick smile and a greeting to Mr. Lancaster, and surveyed the room. A mere glance at the tea tray showed just half a dozen cups and saucers set up neatly in a row—enough for the people currently presently in the room, with only one extra.
So Isabel was not anticipating that the gentlemen of the castle would turn out in force. Emily wondered which of them her sister did expect to join the group. She supposed Isabel might still be hoping that Gavin would make an effort to cement his interests with Chloe—though Emily thought it rather a bad bet.
Isabel handed a steaming cup to Lady Fletcher. “I expect our father will be down shortly. I believe he intended to visit with Uncle Josiah.”
“The dear earl,” Lady Fletcher said fondly. “Such a lovely man.”
Emily swallowed hard in an effort to keep herself from choking.
“And the dear duke, too. We are so fond of him, Sir George and I. Chloe, of course, has always regarded him almost as a grandfather.”
Chloe seemed not to notice what her mother had said—or else she had heard but merely had a better command of herself than Emily would have expected. She seemed to be studying the stitching in her gloves, except when she sneaked glances at the tall clock in the corner. Emily could sympathize, for it seemed impossible to her that no more than five minutes had passed since she’d come into the room. It felt like an age.
Lady Fletcher sipped. “Do tell me, my dear Lady Isabel—is Weybridge up to the exertions of a garden party, and the ball? It seems so odd that he would spend his strength to host such a party if he is as ill as it is reported.”
“If the choices are to lie helpless and dull in bed,” Emily said, “trying to husband one’s vital force merely to extend the time one can lie helpless and dull in bed, or to spend one’s strength in a last glorious event, I believe I know which I would choose.”
“You are so full of the vital force, Lady Emily, that it is difficult to see you doing anything else but living life to the fullest,” Lancaster chimed in.
With great effort, Emily resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Too bad Gavin wasn’t present to hear that. She wondered what his reaction would be—and whether he’d be able to hide it. He probably wouldn’t try. She suspected his eyes would glint and that little half smile would toy with the corner of his mouth. And she might even get a peek at the dimple that occasionally came out of hiding in his left cheek. Such an unexpected thing that dimple was, in such a masculine man—but all the more charming in her mind for being so improbable. And he’d have some unanswerable rejoinder to put Lancaster in his place.
Unless, of course, Gavin no longer cared what she did.
Emily caught herself up short. This arrangement of theirs had never been more than physical. No matter what she did, it would be none of his business—especially now that their affaire had come to such a sensible end.
With an effort, she pulled her mind back to the drawing room and to Lancaster, just as he said, “Surely now that you are away from your exile, Lady Emily, you have reconsidered the choice to bury yourself in a village.”
She frowned. “Barton Bristow is hardly exile, Mr. Lancaster.”
He gave her a small, pitying smile. “I understand the reason for retreating from the world for a while, of course. Such an action made you a mysterious figure to the ton—even a tragic one.”
She paused with her teacup halfway to her mouth. “You think that was my aim?”
“But you must not expect that society will remember indefinitely, Lady Emily. Past a certain point, you will no longer be considered inscrutable—merely eccentric.” His voice dropped. “You may even be seen as odd.”
“Such a pity that would be,” Emily said crisply.
“Indeed it would. The duke’s ball is the perfect opportunity to make clear that you wish to rejoin your world, by asking the guests to extend the hand of forgiveness.”
“You’re suggesting I should ask for forgiveness?” Emily could feel heat rising in her face. How dare he suggest that she should beg to be once more part of society? She hadn’t been the one who created the scandal!
“You did turn your back on your friends,” Lancaster reminded quietly.
Emily’s hand was shaking, and her teacup rattled in the saucer. She set it down carefully.
Before she could gather her thoughts and blast him, a footman wheeled the Duke of Weybridge’s chair into the drawing room, and the force of habit brought her to her feet to make her curtsey.
The interruption couldn’t have been timed better. There would be no convincing Mr. Lancaster that he sounded like a fool, so it was better to leave him entirely alone.
What had she been thinking, anyway, to start flirting with him again? Gavin wasn’t present to watch—and what was the point in flirting if there was no audience?
For a moment the thought didn’t even register, and when it did, Emily was puzzled for a moment. Why had the mere thought of flirting with one man brought another—very different—man to her mind?
You only did it because Gavin made it clear he doesn’t want you.
But that was nonsense, for Gavin hadn’t done anything of the sort. He’d just been sensible—pointing out the fact that even a very large castle was no guarantee of privacy when it was full of family members. Emily was relieved to know that he wasn’t going to press her for more than she was willing to do.
Really she was.
Belatedly, she turned her attention to the gushing welcome Lady Fletcher was dishing up for the duke. “Your Grace, you are looking so well!” she exclaimed. “I was fearful, after the reports—but indeed, you have seldom looked better.”
Emily caught Isabel’s gaze. Her sister seemed to feel the same raw astonishment Emily did. Which was foolish of both of them, since the one thing that had been clear about Lady Fletcher from the start was that she had no native tact. To tell a dying duke that he looked quite well was wishful thinking of the highest order.
Emily hadn’t seen the Duke of Weybridge since breakfast, and then he had looked pale and drawn…or had he? She had been so caught up in her own ticklish conscience, half expecting someone to guess that she had spent a good part of the night in Gavin’s bed, that she hadn’t looked closely at Uncle Josiah.
He did look better. He seemed rested, and there was more color in his face and a bit of a sparkle in his eyes.
He must be excited by the upcoming celebration. Such a boost might not last, for it was probably not an actual improvement in his condition. But even if that was the case, seeing him lively again—if only for a short while—was enough to lift her spirits. She caught his eye and smiled.
“I had doubts of your wisdom in holding a party,” Lady Fletcher confided. “Even a small party—much less two separate ones.”
The duke frowned. “Small? Compared to some that have been held here in the past, it could be called small, but this is hardly to be an intimate gathering. The rest of the houseguests should start arriving at any time now, I believe. I hope you and Sir George intend to take part in all the festivities.”
“That might be difficult,” Lady Fletcher murmured.
“Not at all. You must bring everything you need for the ball when you come for the garden party—so there is no need to go all the way back to Mallowan in between. Of course, you’ll stay overnight after the ball as well. No sense in driving home in the dark.”
Joy. We’ll have Lady Fletcher with us full-time.
Chloe suddenly sat up straighter. For the first time since Emily had entered the room, the girl looked almost excited.
Emily glanced toward the entrance hall, half expecting to see the Earl
of Chiswick—for surely only the sight of her betrothed could cause such a contrast in a young woman’s demeanor. But it was only the gentlemen returning from wherever they’d gotten to all afternoon—Gavin, and Maxwell, and Lucien. Their boots clattered on the marble floor of the hall, and one of them laughed. That must be Maxwell, she thought, though she did not remember ever hearing him laugh before—but had it been either Lucien or Gavin, she would have recognized the sound.
She realized abruptly that at the first sound from the hall she, too, had sat up even straighter than her mother had always demanded. No doubt you look just as foolish as Chloe does.
Deliberately she composed her face and settled ever so slightly back in her chair, and told herself that the mere fact Gavin Waring had finally returned to the castle was no reason for her to feel excited.
Chapter 11
Lucien hoped that they had lingered long enough in the village over their ale for Lady Fletcher to finish her call and depart for home. Failing that, he thought perhaps they could slip in a side door and avoid being drawn into the socializing.
But on the ride from the village to the castle, they encountered two carriages full of the duke’s guests, and ordinary courtesy demanded that they all proceed together. In the castle courtyard, the footmen helped the guests to climb down. The first one to alight—an elderly lady with a nose so prominent Lucien thought it must precede her into a room—fixed a beady gaze on him and announced, “You’re Chiswick’s cub, aren’t you? I’ve a couple of young ladies here who want to make your acquaintance.”
Behind her, two giggling girls not long out of the schoolroom climbed down from the chaise. Lucien was so unnerved that he almost forgot about Lady Fletcher.
Maxwell tossed a sympathetic smile in Lucien’s direction. “Lady Stone, what a delight it is to see you again—and to meet your young friends. I’m sure they will also like to become acquainted with Lord Athstone, if I might be allowed to present him?”
Lady Stone’s gaze grew even beadier as her gaze came to rest on Gavin. “Weybridge’s heir?”
Under other circumstances, Lucien might have been amused by the smoldering look that Gavin gave Maxwell—but as it was, all Lucien felt was relief. With a duke’s heir present, no young woman was going to look at a mere viscount—even if he would someday be an earl.
“Indeed,” Lady Stone said, and there was a world of meaning in the single word.
Lucien let out a careful breath, feeling that he’d barely dodged a bullet.
Maxwell seemed to have read his mind, however, for he murmured wickedly to Lucien, “Of course, there are two of them. Plenty to go around.”
“Getting acquainted can wait,” Lady Stone declared, “while a glass of port to cut the travel dust cannot. Give me your arm, Maxwell. If I can burst in on the duke in all my dirt, you damned well can escort me.”
Lucien looked around wildly, hoping that someone from the second carriage might rescue him, but at last surrendered to the inevitable and offered his arm to the nearest young lady. He was pleased to see, however, that she was so busy goggling at Gavin, just ahead of them with the other young lady, that she almost missed the step at the entrance. For a moment she hung heavily on his arm, and then she caught herself, cast a look up at him through her lashes, and murmured something about him being her hero.
“No trouble, miss,” Lucien said shortly and hurried her on into the castle.
Once in the drawing room, his gaze was drawn almost instantly to Chloe, who was sitting off to the side, bolt upright. As he came into view, her eyebrows raised a fraction, and there was a question in her eyes. He glanced around, but everyone seemed to be paying attention only to the very assertive Lady Stone—the woman was good for something after all—so he gave Chloe the smallest of nods.
She seemed to sag in relief, closing her eyes for an instant. Then she sat up straight again, looked directly at Lucien, and smiled.
She had never smiled at him before—at least not a real smile, one that wasn’t simply a polite gesture. A stab in the heart couldn’t have surprised him more. She looked almost gay, relaxed, at ease—as though she was truly enjoying herself. As though she was happy to see him.
It wasn’t really Lucien who had put that glorious sparkle in her eyes and sent the warmth into her face, of course, but the news that her message had been delivered. Still, being on the receiving end of that look made Lucien’s breath stick tight in his chest. He hadn’t realized before that she was more than conventionally pretty, in the unremarkable way that many of the young women of the ton were. But the fact was that with joy and liveliness in her face, Chloe was absolutely beautiful.
He wondered if his father had ever seen her like this. If he had, no wonder Chiswick had been stunned enough to begin negotiations to marry her. The earl might be old, but he was still male—and when a woman smiled at him in that way, a man was bound to get ideas.
At least most men would.
Hell, Lucien admitted, even he had gone a bit out of focus for a minute there. And if someone as non-marriage-minded as Lucien could be confused by Chloe’s melting look and sultry smile, it would be no wonder if an old codger like Chiswick started to believe that in her company he might relive the glorious days of youth.
Chloe gave a discreet pat to the cushion beside her. Lucien shook his head a fraction. He understood she was eager for details, but surely she had more sense than to think a conversation between them could go unnoticed—especially if he strode straight across the room to sit by her.
Chloe bit her lip and her gaze slid to the young woman beside him.
“I am Miss Carew, by the way,” the young woman announced. “Lady Stone is a friend of my uncle. You may know him—Colonel Huffington? My sister and I are visiting my uncle, so Lady Stone invited us to come along when the duke’s invitation arrived. I am so excited to be a guest at a real castle; you have no idea!”
Lucien was barely listening. He was still watching Chloe from the corner of his eye. And he was wondering whether she was as certain as she seemed that Captain Hopkins would follow instructions. On a whim, he tugged Miss Carew over toward Chloe. “You must meet Miss Fletcher.” Belatedly, he realized he had sounded as though he were issuing an order, not making a suggestion—but the girl seemed accustomed to that tone of voice, since her uncle was a military man. She made a pretty curtsey to Chloe.
Chloe stood to return it, but she didn’t invite Miss Carew to sit down. A moment later, under the cover of a burst of laughter that drew Miss Carew’s attention to a group across the room, Chloe murmured, “All went well?”
Lucien couldn’t quite bring himself to agree, so he temporized. “Your letter has been delivered.”
Was the relief that flickered in her eyes mixed with something else? Before he could identify the emotion, it had passed and she was smiling again. “Then everything will proceed as I have planned. I thank you, Lord Hartford—I am greatly in your debt.”
Up close, Lucien realized, the effect of her smile was even stronger. He felt queasy—but he wasn’t certain whether that was the result of her smile or of her words.
She was betting on her soldier to carry out her wishes, and she had tossed all of her chips into this wager. Lucien couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to Chloe if Captain Hopkins didn’t come through in exactly the way she expected he would.
Gavin hadn’t exactly ignored what Lucien had been telling him for days now—that as the heir of one of England’s wealthiest dukes, he would be sought after and courted not for himself but for his potential title. But he hadn’t expected the chase to start here in the castle—a place where, much to his surprise, he had already begun to feel safe and at home.
And he hadn’t expected to have so little time before the pursuit grew determined. But the fact was—at least as far as the Carew sisters were concerned—he might as well have a target painted on his chest.
Even as the Carews took turns attempting to enchant him, he found some comfort in noting that Lucien
, too, had to fend them off. All through tea, and again as the group gathered in the drawing room before dinner, Gavin’s attention was divided between being politely discouraging to the ladies and frankly enjoying watching Lucien.
But even Maxwell hadn’t entirely escaped feminine attention, Gavin realized. A particularly lovely young matron whose carriage had arrived not long after Lady Stone’s—Lady Murdoch was her name—had been flirting with Maxwell from the instant she’d entered the drawing room. With every passing minute, she grew more animated. Her laugh trilled higher, and her fingertips brushed more closely across Maxwell’s sleeve.
And with every passing minute, Isabel seemed to freeze just a bit more solid. Gavin wondered if she realized how obviously her irritation was showing.
What was it Emily had told him? Maxwell had been rumored to have a mistress before he married. Nothing unusual about that, of course. But from the look of things, Maxwell’s mistress was anything but in the past.
After dinner, Isabel rose from the hostess’s chair to lead the ladies out of the dining room, leaving the gentlemen to their port and cigars, and it was all Gavin could do not to heave a sigh of relief.
Lucien moved down the table to sit beside him, sharing a rueful grin. “At least we have a few minutes of peace from the muslin company, and I intend to enjoy every instant. Are you going to pour that port or only stare at it, Gavin?”
Gavin filled his own glass and handed the decanter on. “Are all the ladies of the ton quite so determined?”
“Some of them are more so. Or their mothers are, which is even worse. Now you understand why I avoid London parties at all costs. I just never expected Uncle Josiah to play me false like this, bringing the hounds right into the house.”
“I suppose it’s good practice,” Gavin said. “Dealing with them a few at a time.”
“I’d rather not deal with them. I’m locking my bedroom door tonight, and I advise you to do the same.”
The Birthday Scandal Page 18
