She was gone, far out of his reach, and Lucien would never see her again. Now that it was too late, he was entirely clear about what he should have done. He should have thrown himself at her feet and told her he adored her. She might have laughed at him; she might even have felt pity for him. But he should have offered her the choice. Now he would never have the chance.
He flung himself down on the farthest bench from the castle, the one where just this morning he had stashed her valise. At least he knew she had been right here—kneeling beside this bench to retrieve her belongings.
His heel hit something hard, and he bent double to check the dark hollow under the bench. Just as his hand touched a leather-wrapped handle, he heard a rustle from the path—a step on the gravel.
“Captain Hopkins?” Chloe said softly. “Is that you?”
Lucien stood in the shadowed folly—and a well-named bit of architecture that was, he thought irritably—holding Chloe’s valise and feeling like a prize fool. She had told him she must return to her room, to leave her bed looking occupied. Maybe she had even stopped to change into something more suitable for traveling, for she wouldn’t want to trail across England in a ball dress.
And all the time he’d spent practically wailing about his lost love…What a nodcock he was!
“No,” he said. “It’s just me.”
“Lucien?” Her steps pattered quickly up the stairs to the folly. “What are you doing here?”
There was something odd about her voice. Disappointment, no doubt. “You intend to elope with the man, but even to his face you call him Captain Hopkins?”
“My mother still calls my father Sir George.”
“Well, you call me Lucien.”
“That’s different. We’re like partners. Why are you here, anyway?” She pulled her dark cloak more closely around her throat and settled onto the bench.
Stop stalling and just tell her. But now that the moment was upon him, the words stuck in Lucien’s throat. A roundabout route would be better. He could hint at his feelings, testing how she reacted, before he exposed his heart entirely.
He sat down next to her. “Because even if your soldier comes, it would be a mistake for you to run off with him.”
A stray moonbeam struck her face, highlighting the tight lines between her brows. “What do you mean, even if he comes? Why do you think he won’t? What did he say to you? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Calmly, now. He—uh—he didn’t actually say anything.”
“Then—”
“I mean, he didn’t utter more than a few words—none of them to the point. And he looked unhappy, as though he was annoyed at the entire idea of eloping.”
“You’re saying you only have a feeling to go on?”
Lucien loosed a deep breath. He had known she’d be hard to convince. “Wait and see. He’s not coming, Chloe.”
“He has to come. I’ve gone too far now to back out.”
“No, you haven’t. We can walk back to the castle right now. You can return to the ball. All you have to do is tell your mother that a few minutes of rest cured your headache, and—”
“And I’d be right back in the mess I was in before—betrothed to your father.”
“I guess I’d forgotten that part,” Lucien admitted.
The silence drew out for a bit. “If there’s some other way, Lucien, I wish you would help me find it.”
“Sir George doesn’t seem such a bad sort. Surely if you told him you’re so miserable you thought of running away with a penniless soldier—”
“He’d lock me in my room and move up the wedding date. He hates Captain Hopkins—even mentioning his name would make my father lose all reason.”
Lucien paced the three steps across the folly’s stone floor and back. “All right. What if you were to run away with someone else?”
“You mean tell my father I’m unhappy enough to elope with—who?”
“Don’t tell your father anything. We go back to the castle right now, and we enjoy the rest of the ball.” Lucien was planning as he spoke. “Then tomorrow morning, we go for a ride—separately, of course, but we can meet up in the village and…”
Chloe’s voice sounded oddly choked. “If you’re suggesting that we run away together—you and I—Lucien, you can’t mean it.”
The plan—such as it was—did sound foolish. “Look, Chloe, I know you love Captain Hopkins. But I swear he’s not what you think he is, and you’d be miserable with him. And poor as well—don’t forget poor.”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t think I do. Love him, I mean. I liked him well enough, and last winter I thought I’d like to marry him. But it’s not as if I’ve missed him since. Still, I’m committed, now. And if he comes tonight…”
“He’s not coming.”
“I just…” She sounded distracted. “It’s not as though I have a great many choices.”
You can choose me.
Just as Lucien opened his mouth to assure her that he did indeed mean it—that all she had to do was say the word and he would run away with her to the ends of the earth—the scratch of gravel on the path below brought his head up.
“It’s the captain,” she whispered. She sounded terrified.
Lucien put his hand gently over her mouth.
A large shadow—no, two shadows—loomed up in the door of the folly, and the Earl of Chiswick said calmly, “I hear you went looking for a card game, Hartford. I don’t suppose you’d like to deal us in—Sir George and me?”
Chapter 16
No matter who she was dancing with, Emily couldn’t seem to escape from Gavin’s cool scrutiny. How typical it was of the man to act like a dog in the manger! Apparently he didn’t want her himself, or he wouldn’t have delegated his valet to pass along messages—but he didn’t seem to think she should so much as speak to any other man.
Even his lovemaking now looked entirely different to Emily. He’d been happy enough to fulfill her fantasies—up to a point. But he’d made certain she couldn’t possibly limit his options by presenting him with any nasty consequences. The heir of the Duke of Weybridge wasn’t about to tie himself down with a scandal-plagued wife and an unwelcome baby, so he’d passed off his failure to take her virginity as a noble act of self-sacrifice.
You’re not being fair, a little voice whispered in the back of her mind. Whatever the reason he’d sent Benson to talk to her, Gavin wasn’t avoiding her now. And he’d been protecting her by not risking a pregnancy…
He was, however, devoting a lot of attention to the Carew sisters. Why had she told him they were heiresses, anyway?
Next time she’d choose her lover more carefully. She would find someone she could enjoy without risk. And in the meantime, she was going to revel in dancing.
Young Baron Draycott presented himself as her partner for the next dance, but just as they were forming the set, Mr. Lancaster came quietly up beside her and said, “If I might have a word, Lady Emily.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a dance left on my card, sir.”
“My loss; I should have acted earlier. But in fact…” He dropped his voice further. “This is a private matter, and a very sensitive one. It concerns Miss Fletcher.”
“Chloe?” Emily tipped her head to one side and surveyed him for a moment before turning to Draycott. “My lord, I am afraid we must miss our dance,” she said. The baron nodded, and Emily let Lancaster draw her behind a pillar. “Well? What is going on?”
“You may know that she told her mother of a headache and left the ball?”
“What of it? A shame, but—”
“I have reason to believe there was no headache. And I gather she has stolen away to one of the quiet rooms in the new wing of the castle.” He cleared his throat and whispered, “With your brother.”
Denial was on the tip of Emily’s tongue—how utterly silly it was to think that Lucien would sneak away with Chloe, of all people—until she remembered the way he had stared at the girl, and ho
w he had stumbled through a dance as though he had something much more important on his mind. Perhaps he still thought he could talk sense into her.
Lancaster nodded. “I see you understand exactly what I mean.”
“Chloe left the ball quite a long time ago.”
“That’s why I thought it best, for the sake of Miss Fletcher’s reputation, to come to you rather than to her mother, or to Chiswick.”
Emily shivered at the idea of her father finding Lucien and Chloe together—no matter how innocent the circumstances.
“If you are the one to find them,” Lancaster went on, “the incident can still be kept quiet. But if anyone else were to stumble across their assignation…”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll go and make a discreet search.”
His brow wrinkled. “Do you think it wise to go alone? With two of us, the search would go faster.”
Emily hesitated, then peeked around the pillar at the dancers. No one seemed to have missed her. “We can go out this way and through a back corridor to the new wing.”
“Lead the way,” Lancaster said.
She quickly checked each room along the corridor, with little hope of finding the wayward couple; this area was too close to the crowd to be truly private. In the new wing of the castle, she methodically worked her way from room to room down one side of the central hall while Lancaster took the other. Just as she was beginning to fear that Lucien might have completely lost his mind and taken Chloe upstairs for a more private chat, Lancaster beckoned to her from outside the door of the smoking room.
Emily turned the knob as quietly as she could. With any luck, she’d be inside with the door closed before there was any outcry.
The room was dim, and she paused just inside the door to let her eyes adjust as well as to listen for telltale noises. But the room felt empty.
Lancaster had followed her in. Puzzled, Emily said, “What made you think they were here?”
“I didn’t,” he said quietly. “But now you’re here.”
She took a quick step toward the door, but he was on guard, and he stretched an arm around her and dragged her against him. Unable to keep her footing, she hung off balance, pressed against him so intimately that she was afraid to take a breath.
He chuckled and lifted her slightly off her feet. His erection nestled into the hollow between her legs, held away only by the thin gauze of her skirt and the satin of his knee breeches. “But you mustn’t worry, Lady Emily,” he whispered against her ear. “Just as soon as I’m done, I’ll marry you.”
As the two men loomed over them, Chloe screeched in horror.
Lucien said, as much to himself as to her, “It’ll be all right. Everything will be all right.”
She managed to get her voice back. “Oh? And just how is everything going to be all right?”
As Sir George Fletcher alternately sputtered and yelled, Lucien grew ever more certain that Chloe’s headache was more than a convenient fiction, for his own skull was pounding.
The curious thing was that the Earl of Chiswick hadn’t said a word after that flippant greeting. Which was in no way a relief, for—in Lucien’s experience—silence only made Chiswick more deadly.
Or had that strange old gossip Lady Stone been right about this being a love match…at least on the earl’s side? Was it possible Chiswick was truly hurt by the idea that his prospective bride would rather ruin herself by running away than go through with the wedding?
No, Lucien couldn’t believe that—and it didn’t matter much, anyway. If the earl felt such fondness for Chloe, why hadn’t he tried to win her over? Why hadn’t he wooed her, instead of dealing only with her father? Chiswick had lost his opportunity; it was time for someone else to step in.
“I am shocked,” Sir George ranted. “Shocked to find my daughter entirely alone with a man in compromising circumstances—”
Lucien cleared his throat, loudly.
“Young lady, your mother is having hysterics all over the castle at finding you gone.”
Lucien said, “Sir—”
“I don’t suppose the earl here would have you after this, unless I were to serve up your head on a platter. And believe me, miss, when I say I am tempted!”
Lucien raised his voice. “Sir George!”
“The only good thing I can say about your judgment is that at least you had enough sense not to elope with that fortune-hunting soldier I forbade you to ever see or communicate with again!”
Lucien stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled, and Chloe clapped her hands over her ears. Sir George stumbled into a confused silence.
The Earl of Chiswick put one foot up on a bench, leaned his elbow on his knee, and—seeming completely at ease—said, “I prefer not to know where you learned to do that, Hartford. I gather you have something to say?”
“I do.” Lucien deliberately stepped between the two men and Chloe, blocking their path to her. “You can stop browbeating right now, both of you. Chloe is not going to become a countess.”
“Certain of that, are you?” Chiswick murmured.
Sir George brightened. “My lord, do you mean you would still—?”
Lucien cut across him. “She will absolutely not marry you, Father. And let’s not pretend that this scandal doesn’t bother you. If Lady Fletcher is having hysterics in the castle—”
“Only quiet ones.” Chiswick didn’t move, but somehow his posture eased. “However, you suppose correctly, Hartford. Miss Fletcher may consider herself entirely free.”
Chloe plopped down on the bench as though her knees had given way.
Sir George looked downcast for a moment, and then his face hardened again. “free? I don’t think so. After this behavior, my girl, you have to marry someone, and you’ll be lucky if even the stable boy will have you!”
“She doesn’t,” Lucien said calmly. “If you were to say that you have been with her the entire time, Sir George, no one would dare contradict you. But if she wants to marry…” Lucien turned to face Chloe. “It would be my honor to wed her myself.”
Maxwell had signed his name—that bold, black, arrogant slash of a name—across three lines on Isabel’s dance card. He had claimed three dances—the maximum that any gentleman, even a husband, could request of a lady in a single evening.
The first, the country dance which opened the ball, had been unavoidable—but at least in the swirling mass of dancers, changing partners every minute or two, she could pretend not to be dancing with him at all.
But the next he had claimed would be a waltz. Isabel did not know if she could bear to swirl around the floor in his arms, on display for the world. Once—during their courtship—she had enjoyed waltzing with him. But now…
What if Maxwell were to treat the dance as some kind of seduction?—which of course he would. To a man who could turn a thorny plant in a conservatory—or even a plateful of kidneys in a breakfast room full of people—into a lovemaking tool, a waltz would be no challenge whatever.
He would enjoy holding her, watching her, tantalizing her, reminding her of intimacies shared. But for her, the dance would be torment. She could not bear being face-to-face with him for endless minutes, looking into his eyes, unable to breathe a word about the subject uppermost in her mind for fear someone might overhear or the ever-vigilant gossips in the crowd might notice that Lady Maxwell was behaving strangely.
She would have to make an excuse—even if it required pretending to sprain her ankle. But she would not pretend any longer than she must. As soon as the ball was over and they were alone, Isabel would bring this game of his to an end—she would challenge him about Miss Lester and her child.
She wondered how Maxwell would act when he found out she knew. He might deny it all and try to bluff his way through. Or he might argue that what had happened in his past had nothing to do with his wife. Or he might actually be relieved to have it out in the open; since he had already admitted to Elspeth Murdoch that he was responsible, perhaps he felt guilty enough to
tell his wife as well. He might even expect that a confession would be followed automatically by understanding and forgiveness.
If that was the case, Maxwell would soon learn differently—for understanding and forgiveness were hard to find in a heart that felt like a lump of lead.
The silence in the folly was so thick that Lucien could barely breathe. Still, asserting himself to his father felt good. What was it Chloe had told him, long ago? No wonder your father gives you no respect, if you never stand up to him. She might have been right.
Sir George looked suspicious. “I can’t allow the match. Not unless you’re able to show me that you can take care of her.”
“I assure you I can do better than the stable boy could,” Lucien said cheerfully.
“But no better than that soldier fellow. What do you have of your own, anyway? Nothing, I wager, that doesn’t depend on your father’s goodwill.”
Lucien’s sense of well-being vanished with a pop, for Sir George was right. Lucien’s allowance was hardly large enough for him alone; it couldn’t be stretched to support a wife. And he was dependent on his father even for that much. Now that he’d stolen the earl’s bride…
“Damnation,” he said.
“I wondered how long it would take for the drawbacks to strike home,” the earl murmured. “And speaking of home, and your plans to return to Chiswick—where does this leave us?”
Lucien’s head swam. He’d no doubt made a mull of that possibility, too. If he was no longer welcome at Chiswick, if the job of learning to manage the estate was no longer open to him…he had no idea what he would do.
He saw a gleam of anticipation in Chiswick’s eyes. What was it his father expected of him now? Maybe the mess could still be salvaged, if Lucien apologized. Begged. Groveled. Gave up Chloe…
No—never that.
The Birthday Scandal Page 27
