Sin and Sensibility

by Suzanne Enoch

  Zachary only shook his head. “Jesus. Just be careful.”

  “That’s the thing, Zachary,” she returned, “I’m free. I may do whatever I please”—she glanced at Melbourne—“as long as it doesn’t cause a scandal.”

  “And heaven help us all,” Shay muttered.

  “No,” Sebastian put in, as he calmly selected a prime cut of beef from a footman’s tray, “heaven help Eleanor. Because we won’t.”

  It was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon when Valentine dragged himself upright among the tumble of his down pillows and silk sheets. The Griffin clan and their squabble had indeed ruined what he’d hoped would be a private, decadent luncheon yesterday, but because of that he’d run across Lord Whitton and Peter Burnsey and a high-stakes game of faro at White’s. Fifteen hours later and nearly a thousand quid richer, he’d returned home and to bed after sunrise.

  “Matthews!” he bellowed, shedding bedsheets and reaching for a pair of buckskin trousers while clutching at his skull with his free hand to keep it from exploding.

  His bedchamber door opened so quickly that his valet had likely been leaning against it. “Yes, my lord? Shall I have breakfast set out?”

  “No. Get me a clean shirt.”

  The trim valet nodded, diving into the nearest wardrobe. “You should eat something, my lord,” his muffled voice came.

  Valentine scowled. “If you mention food or eating again today, I will have to shoot you,” he grumbled. Entertaining and profitable as the evening had been, Burnsey was one of the few men who could match him drink for drink. The fact that Peter outweighed him by two stone probably helped, but he’d never been one to pass up a challenge.

  “Yes, my lord. But Mrs. Beacon will want to know—”

  “I’ll have luncheon at the Society. Now fetch my pistol.”

  The valet emerged from the wardrobe. “My lord?”

  “You heard me. I warned you, and now I have to shoot you, or everyone will think I’m not a man of my word.”

  “But you’re not, my lord. A man of your word, I mean.”

  “What?” Valentine downed the remains of the stale brandy left at his bedside. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Where’s my damned shirt?”

  “Here you are, my lord.”

  Valentine donned the shirt and sat at his dressing table to shave while Matthews laid out a dark gray jacket and a cream waistcoat, then threw open the heavy, dark curtains.

  “Very nice, Matthews,” he complimented the selection of wardrobe, squinting in the reflected light as he lifted the razor to his chin.

  “Thank you, my lord. And I sharpened your razor last evening.”

  At times Valentine wasn’t sure whether he kept Matthews about because of his supreme unctuousness or because he had half a suspicion the valet was trying to kill him. Readjusting his grip, he slid the razor along his face. “Any news?”

  “Well, Lord and Lady Arthorpe’s housekeeper has rather abruptly been relocated to the estate in Sussex.”

  “Good God. I hope the infant won’t have Arthorpe’s nose.”

  “We all hope so, my lord. And as you usually ask, I made a point of discovering that Lady Arthorpe and the earl are not at this moment on speaking terms.”

  Valentine made a face. “Mary Arthorpe hasn’t bathed since last Christmas, I’d wager. I prefer less aromatic bedmates. Anything else?”

  “Oh, yes. Mr. Peter Burnsey has closed the east wing of Burnsey House and dismissed nearly half his staff.”

  “That explains why the idiot wouldn’t leave the game last night. I probably won his last twenty quid.”

  “He should have known better than to wager against you, my lord.”

  “Yes, he should have.”

  That explained both Burnsey’s exceptionally heavy drinking and his own pounding skull, but not why the usually pragmatic gentleman had decided to wager what amounted to the remainder of his estate in a card game. Valentine shrugged. God help the world if he ever became that desperate. All things considered, if armed robbery failed, a ball through the brain seemed both more decisive and less painful than the path Burnsey had chosen for himself.

  Shrugging off Burnsey’s troubles, Valentine finished his morning—afternoon—ablutions and had Iago saddled. The big bay stallion was used to irregular hours, and he barely batted an ear as they trotted off in the direction of the Society Club.

  He chose a path that took him along Bond Street, nodding at various acquaintances spending the afternoon shopping. A glimpse of bright material caught his attention down one of the narrow, less-populated side streets, and he turned his head to look down the lane. And pulled Iago to a halt.

  “Lady Eleanor?”

  Eleanor froze halfway out of the small dress shop she’d obviously been visiting. With a breath she faced him, then visibly relaxed. “Deverill. Thank goodness.”

  “That’s the first time goodness and I have ever been mentioned in the same breath,” he returned, urging Iago toward her down the narrow street. He glanced at the rear door of the shop from which Lady Eleanor had just emerged, and at the deep, rich burgundy material half hidden beneath her bundled shawl. “Madame Costanza’s?” he murmured, lifting an eyebrow.

  The fine rose blush of her cheeks deepened. “I needed a few new gowns.”

  Valentine nodded, deciding to keep to himself the information that some of London’s finest—and most daring—actresses and high-flyers hired Madame Costanza to make their gowns. From Eleanor’s high color, she already knew that, anyway. “I’m certain they’ll be stunning.”

  Before he could take his leave she approached, clasping the toe of his Hessian boot in one hand. “Don’t say anything, Deverill. I want it to be a surprise.”

  He couldn’t help grinning. “No worries. I’m all for creating a ruckus, but it doesn’t seem quite in your character.”

  The color fled from her cheeks. “It is not in my brothers’ character. I doubt anyone knows my character. Yet.”

  That sounded intriguing. At the same time his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. “I hope I’m there for the unveiling, then.”

  “Do you attend the Beckwith soiree tonight?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you will be.”

  A small, secret smile touched her mouth, the expression lighting her eyes with a breathless, indescribable excitement. Valentine realized he was staring, and shook himself. He’d known Eleanor Griffin since she was five, and she fell into one of two well-defined categories he had for females. She was in the do not touch section, along with nuns and grandmothers and very ugly chits. She was the younger sister of a good friend, and therefore not actually a female as much as she was a…puppy dog.

  Except that puppy dogs didn’t have that sly smile or those fine gray eyes. Valentine cleared his throat. “I’ll see you then.”

  Her smile deepened. “Unless you’re distracted elsewhere, of course.”

  Hm. “I think it’s fair to say I won’t be.”

  Chapter 3

  “My lady, are you certain you wish to wear this…particular gown this evening?”

  Eleanor pretended to ignore both Helen’s carefully worded commentary and the way her maid kept wringing her hands in obvious dismay. Of course she knew what a risk she was taking, but tonight she had a definite purpose. This was a test, both of her resolve and of her brothers’ willingness to abide by their agreement.

  “Yes, I’m certain,” she returned, facing herself in the full-length dressing mirror. Burgundy silk stitched with fine gold thread complemented her dark hair and gray eyes, and while the close-fitting bodice left little room for disguising flaws. The skirt hugged her hips and then flowed into a beaded, glittering swirl of the same-colored material.

  “But your brothers, my lady. Won’t they dis—”

  “Disapprove? I’m sure they will. It’s not a hair shirt or a nun’s habit.” She smiled at her reflection, and was surprised at the excited, seductive female gazing coyly ba
ck at her. “I, however, don’t care what they might think.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, I don’t. All the parts which should be covered, are. Perhaps with a little less material than usual, but there are other perfectly respectable females who dress in a similar style.” Not many, but a few. “Now help me on with my cloak, if you please.”

  “But if you don’t care—”

  “I’m not an idiot, either.”

  The gray cloak, which covered all but the very bottom of her new gown, was only for effect—or so she told herself. Her brothers and the rest of the guests at the Beckwith soiree would all see her at the same moment. It was just a happy coincidence that by the time she unveiled the new creation it would be too late for Melbourne to do anything about her appearance.

  The cloak did its job well, and when she reached the foyer downstairs the only suspicious looks were at her hair, which she’d had Helen pin in a confusion of burgundy ribbons and curling brown hair cascading down to her shoulders.

  Melbourne’s gaze, however, was on her face. “Remember what I said about scandal, Eleanor,” he said as he shrugged into his caped greatcoat.

  “And you remember that scandal and conversation are two different things,” she countered, stepping outside as Stanton pulled open the front door.

  “They can be two different things,” the duke replied, following her out and handing her up into the coach. “Push the boundaries of one too far, and it becomes the other.”

  “I should have started drinking earlier,” Zachary muttered, climbing up behind her. “Be cautious, Nell, will you?”

  She straightened her gloves. “No, Zachary. I’m not doing anything wrong, and I’m not going to be cautious.”

  “Then this will be a short-lived experiment,” Charlemagne put in, “and you can forget that nonsense about finding your own husband.”

  Eleanor hoped with all her heart that Shay was wrong about that. “I wouldn’t wager against me, if I were you,” she declared, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

  Beckwith House was only five blocks away, but she couldn’t recall a coach ride that had ever taken so long. She fairly vibrated with tension, and it didn’t help that the cloak, fastened all the way up to her chin, was stifling in the closed carriage. In addition, Sebastian sat gazing at her for the entire duration of the ride. She’d always half thought he could read minds, but the fact that he didn’t stop the coach and make them turn around proved that suspicion false.

  It wasn’t as though she intended to do anything bad, but she was quite aware of how seriously her eldest brother guarded and protected the Griffin name. She had chosen to walk a very narrow path, with scandal on one side and his constraints on the other. Eleanor only hoped that her road led somewhere other than to a dead end.

  At twenty-four and twenty-eight respectively, Zachary and Charlemagne had certainly had lovers and mistresses, but that was perfectly fine with Society as long as it was done discreetly. The rules for females were much stricter, and the possibility of downfall much greater. But she didn’t want a lover or anything so blatantly wicked. If she didn’t take this chance to explore life, she might as well shrivel up and die.

  At the crowded drive of Beckwith House they disembarked. Traditionally when the Griffins attended an event as a family they entered in ranks, with her on Melbourne’s arm and Shay and Zachary bringing up the rear. Tonight, though, once they’d navigated the last of the trampled mud and horse manure and reached the marble and stone of the front portico, Sebastian released her.

  “After you,” he said, gesturing her to lead the way.

  She nodded, pretending she’d expected the move, and entered the grand house. Since she’d handed over her declaration she’d sensed that Melbourne had been angry with her, not so much because of the paper as because of the idea behind it—that she’d been dissatisfied enough with his patriarchy that she’d staged a rebellion. Well, she’d meant to shake him. Perhaps they would both learn something from the exercise. At the least he might realize that other people had thoughts and feelings that didn’t necessarily equate with his—and that those thoughts wouldn’t necessarily lead to the downfall of their family.

  At the coatroom she hesitated, but they were already in view of at least two dozen guests, several of them notorious gossips. Eleanor took a deep breath and unfastened the button that held her cloak closed. Whatever she’d said on paper, her declaration began now.

  As a footman helped pull the cloak from her shoulders, Zachary at the rear of the group made a choking sound, while the silence from her other two brothers spoke at least as loudly. Ha. Wait until I turn around.

  She turned around. The gaze of all three brothers dropped to her bosom and then slid back to her face again.

  “Holy mother of God,” Shay whispered, his tanned face growing pale.

  She hoped he meant that in a good way. With another breath Eleanor faced the open ballroom doors and started forward. “Shall we?” she asked with a smile, stopping beside the butler just inside the doorway.

  The Beckwith butler didn’t need their invitation to make the announcement of their arrival. Most servants of good households were aware of the Griffin clan. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Duke of Melbourne, Lord Charlemagne Griffin, Lord Zachary Griffin, and Lady Eleanor Griffin.”

  The room stirred as she stepped forward. She could hear her brothers walking behind her, practically feel the hostility they directed toward the room at large as they silently dared anyone to say a word about her choice of wardrobe.

  With the ease of long practice, Eleanor hid a scowl. Though their silent intimidation might make the evening progress more smoothly, it also meant that she was still under their protection—and their watchful eyes. She spun around, feeling the silk material of her gown swirling deliciously about her legs.

  “Stop it,” she muttered.

  “Stop what?” Charlemagne returned in the same tone, his gaze over her shoulder at the crowded room beyond.

  “Trying to intimidate everyone in sight. As long as we’re here, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you.”

  Shay opened his mouth to protest again, but abruptly Melbourne stepped between them. “I think it’s time we began that drinking Zachary mentioned.”

  In a moment Eleanor stood alone inside the ballroom. Remaining there too long would make it obvious that something was afoot with the Griffin clan, so as soon as she spied her friend Lady Barbara Howsen, she made her way toward the refreshment table.

  As she neared, though, her eyes found another acquaintance. He stood beside the doors that led to the Beckwiths’ substantial tropical gardens. Lord Deverill gazed at her, plainly ignoring Lady Franch as the countess overtly flirted at him from the far side of the door.

  For the first time she realized how other females must feel when the green-eyed god gazed at them. The sensation of heat running down her spine as she met that deceptively lazy gaze made her feel…wicked. Thank goodness they were friends, and she’d only caught him by surprise. And thank goodness she knew what a scoundrel he was.

  Shaking herself, she turned toward Barbara at the refreshment table. “Good evening, my love,” she said, kissing the Marquis of Pelton’s second daughter on one cheek. “You look wonderful.”

  Barbara returned the gesture, her expression one of undisguised delight. “I told you to try Madame Costanza,” she whispered. “I’m surprised Melbourne didn’t have an apoplexy when he saw you. How did you talk him into letting you out of your bedchamber?”

  “He didn’t see the gown until you did,” Eleanor returned in a low voice. It wouldn’t do any good for anyone else to overhear where she’d begun shopping for dresses—not with Melbourne’s clause about scandal. “And besides, we made an agreement. I, my dear, may do as I please.”

  “It does appear that way,” Barbara admitted with a chuckle. “And you look absolutely stunning, by the by. I think Wendell DuMer was drooling.”

  Eleanor grinned. “I don’t
think that has anything to do with me, Bar. In fact, I—”

  “Lady Eleanor,” a masculine voice came from behind her.

  She turned around. “Mr. Cobb-Harding,” she said, not having to feign her surprise. “I thought you still in Paris.”

  “I returned a few days ago. The first dance of the evening is about to begin, and I notice you haven’t used your dance card. Will you do me the honor of joining me for the waltz?”

  Not even five minutes into her adventure, and already she’d been asked to dance by someone Melbourne would have rejected. As if it was Stephen Cobb-Harding’s fault that his father was only a baronet, and that his mother’s family, the Cobbs, had had the money—hence the hyphenated surname.

  “I would be delighted,” she answered, taking his outstretched hand.

  The orchestra began the waltz just as they reached the cleared area of floor in the center of the ballroom. Mr. Cobb-Harding slid a hand about her waist and drew them into the dance.

  “I’ve been trying to find a way to do this for a year,” he said, his light blue gaze focused somewhere below her neck.

  Well, she hadn’t worn a low-cut gown by accident. In a way, it was refreshing to be seen as something—someone—other than a member of the almighty Griffins, even if it was only her bosom being noticed. “Then why have you waited until now?”

  Finally his gaze beneath wavy blond hair lifted to her face again. “I’ll give you three guesses, my lady.”

  Three, indeed. “Ah. Well, my brothers and I have recently come to an understanding. And so you and I may dance whenever we wish to do so.”

  He smiled. “That is the best news I’ve heard in weeks.”

  “I don’t know about that, but thank—”

  “I do. And thank you.”

  Hm. She’d always thought of Stephen Cobb-Harding as handsome, and though she’d never experienced it firsthand, she’d heard of his reputation for wit and charm. Apparently wit, relative poverty, and a low social standing among the nobility made him too…dangerous for her. For heaven’s sake, she had a brain. Dancing with a man didn’t mean she intended to marry him. Yes, here she was, seeking out her own husband and her own adventure, but some mild, harmless fun could fit in quite nicely. “You are quite welcome, Mr. Cobb-Harding.”