Sin and Sensibility

by Suzanne Enoch

  “About last night. I…I would appreciate your discretion.”

  A slight smile touched the elderly gentleman’s solemn face. “I am always discreet, Lady Eleanor. Last evening I believe your brothers assumed you left the house without my knowledge. Since you have safely returned, I see no reason to dissuade them of that perception. Will that suffice?”

  “Absolutely. Thank you, Stanton.”

  “I shall inform Lord Deverill that you will join him shortly.”

  She closed the door again, shutting her eyes in relief. Apparently she had at least one ally in the household, anyway.

  “My lady,” Helen said, as she put away the remaining hat pins, “I will be discreet, as well.”

  “Thank you, Hel—”

  “So long as you don’t put yourself in any danger again, my lady. I was scared for you last night, going off like that and then returning hours later all alone. And even if you sack me, I won’t—”

  “I’ll be more careful, from now on. I promise.” She smiled. For heaven’s sake, her actions seemed constantly to threaten Helen’s employment, yet her maid was willing to risk that very thing to make certain she remained safe. “And thank you, Helen.”

  The maid curtsied. “You’re welcome, Lady Eleanor.”

  Downstairs Stanton directed her to the morning room. Helen on her heels, she pushed open the door and entered. She wasn’t going anywhere without a chaperone for a while. At least not until she could close her eyes without seeing a black fox half mask.

  Valentine stood at the far window, a glass of whiskey in his hand as he gazed toward the street. From his brown coat, buckskin breeches, and Hessian boots, he’d ridden to Griffin House. She couldn’t help noticing that for a hardened rake, he had an elegant, conservative taste in wardrobe.

  “Good morning,” she said, dipping a curtsy as he faced her. He could still cost her everything, she reminded herself. Just because he’d been kind last night didn’t mean he wouldn’t tell Melbourne what had happened. Lord Deverill seemed almost to live his life on a whim.

  “It’s still morning, is it?” he replied, sketching a shallow-enough bow that it wouldn’t endanger his drink. “I seem to be beginning an alarming trend of rising early.” His deceptively lazy eyes took in her wardrobe and Helen lurking behind her. “You’re going out.”

  “Yes. Shopping. I thought you’d be in Parliament this morning.”

  “Do you know what bloody time they’ve taken to beginning morning session? Eight o’clock! That’s just ungodly. I’ll sit for the afternoon session.”

  She chuckled, a little more at ease since he hadn’t greeted her with a statement about Stephen Cobb-Harding going to the newspaper with the tale about last evening. His presence did bring up a question, however, and it was one she couldn’t afford to avoid. “Is there something I may do for you, my lord?”

  He sent another glance at Helen. “I came to inquire about how you were feeling, since you weren’t well enough to attend the Hampton Ball last night.”

  Eleanor drew a slow breath. More gallantry, and from a man she hadn’t been sure was possessed of that quality at all. She’d never been taken in by his seductive charm, though in truth he’d never tried to seduce her. Not for the first time, she wished he would.

  Of course after last night, that wasn’t likely to happen. He’d seen another man pawing at her naked bosom, and then had watched her vomit, practically inside his coach. Even so, he’d known just what to say to reassure her, to keep her from hysterics and make her feel safe. And he’d rescued her reputation, the least likely man she could ever imagine doing so.

  “I’m feeling much better,” she answered, meaning it. At the thought of just what he’d done for her, a delicious shiver ran down her spine. “A good night’s sleep does wonders, I’ve found.”

  “I’ll take your word for that.” He grinned. “I’m pleased you’re feeling improved.”

  Gesturing Helen to remain where she was, Eleanor approached Deverill at the window. “May I ask you a question?”

  He nodded, taking a sip of whiskey. “Indulge yourself.”

  “How did you know that was me last night, in that room?”

  Deverill looked down at her. “I didn’t, at first,” he said quietly, green eyes meeting hers and then trailing the length of her form and back again. “I saw a black swan in a crimson gown. You drew my attention.”

  Oh, my. “Did I?”

  “Yes, you did.” His fingers brushed against her skirt as they stood together at the window. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but red is a fine color on you, Eleanor.”

  Her pulse quickened. She could feel it, the rush of heat through her. Deverill was flirting with her—and not as he usually did, with broad comments and self-deprecating observations about his poor character. “It’s unfortunate, then, that I tore that gown into several pieces last night.”

  “I don’t blame you.” His fingers curled, sending her skirt rustling against her legs. “Might I suggest you commission another?”

  “I’ll take your suggestion into consideration,” she returned, though she wasn’t sure she could do it. As she’d removed that gown last night, the memory of the rough, uncaring touch of Stephen Cobb-Harding’s hands on her bare skin had left her feeling ill again.

  Had that been freedom? Was that what it meant to be free? She studied Deverill’s eyes as he gazed down at her. He would know, if anyone could.

  “Last night,” she said in a low voice, remembering Helen’s promise of discretion only as long as her safety wasn’t involved, “I wanted to feel free.”

  “Just for last night?” he murmured back at her, long black lashes half-curtaining his eyes.

  Eleanor’s bodice began to feel too tight. “I wanted an adventure, a little romance with a handsome stranger.”

  His gaze lowered to her mouth. “Does it have to be with a stranger? You might have mentioned your desires to someone with whom you’re a little better acquainted.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?” she breathed, finding that speaking in a normal tone had become impossible.

  “This is your fantasy, Eleanor. Perhaps you should tell me who you have in mind.” Slowly he leaned a little closer.

  For a dozen heartbeats she held absolutely still, hoping he would finish his advance and kiss her. Oh, she wanted to experience a kiss from the Marquis of Deverill. But he didn’t move, and she knew why—and that was the reason she’d sought out a stranger. Decadent, hedonistic as he was, Valentine was still a member of the Griffin circle. “I have in mind someone who doesn’t know the rules the Griffins have set up regarding how and when I am to be approached.”

  The half-raised whiskey glass paused at his mouth. She could almost see him pulling himself back, changing the track of his thoughts, though physically he didn’t move.

  “So you said,” he returned, finishing off the whiskey. “I should be going. I can’t tolerate the House of Lords on an empty stomach.”

  He turned away, but Eleanor grabbed his arm before he could leave. “Last night, was that it?” she whispered. “Was that freedom? Or romance?”

  Deverill stilled, his gaze meeting hers again with startling clarity. “Neither. That was sin. I’m told there’s a difference. All three, however, should be experienced at least once.”

  “Sin?” she repeated.

  “Yes. Though it should have been done consensually, and more pleasurably than what you nearly experienced.” Shrugging out of her grip, he strode for the door.

  “I’ll see you soon, yes?” she called after him.

  He gave her a half grin and a jaunty bow. “I’ll be about.”

  Eleanor listened as his boots padded down the hallway, followed by the opening and closing of the front door. He knew the answers. Even if he wasn’t very forthcoming, he knew the differences between sin and freedom—and how to find both of them. And she suspected that he knew something about romance as well, though he might never have put it into practice. She imagined he would know
, anyway. No one could have so deliciously wicked a glint in his eyes and not know something. In addition, she’d learned one thing about the Marquis of Deverill that she hadn’t known before—she could trust him.

  Obviously avoiding scandal was going to be more difficult than she’d realized. She couldn’t believe that she’d been so naive where Stephen was concerned, but she wouldn’t make that mistake again. These moments she’d wrested from her brothers were too important for that. What she needed was a guide around those barricades, and someone to lead her to a place she wasn’t quite sure yet where or how to find. She needed Valentine Corbett.

  “Valentine, I need you.”

  Valentine leaned back against the side of the coach parked along Bond Street and listened to the plaintive, disembodied voice inside. Or half listened, rather, since the majority of his attention was on the pair of young ladies strolling up the far side of the street toward a milliner’s.

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  “I’m listening, Lydia,” he said, pulling a cigar from his pocket. “Continue.”

  “Do you know what it’s like for me, to have that wrinkled old man in my bed, inside me?”

  “If it’s so offensive to you, my dear, you probably shouldn’t have married him.” He nodded as Miss Malthorpe and Miss Elizabeth Malthorpe and at least three of their younger sisters strolled by. They giggled, and he heard the words “eyes” and “reputation” pass between them.

  “You’re not saying I should have passed up on all that money, are you? That’s not at all like you, Valentine.”

  “Isn’t it? How odd.”

  “I agree. And I do need you.”

  He lit the cigar. “‘Need’ is a very strong word, Lydia. I don’t think you need anything. If you want someone aside from your husband in your bed, I imagine you would have a wide range of choices.”

  Silence radiated from the coach. Even with the curtains pulled shut, he could practically see her sitting there on the crushed velvet cushions, eyes narrowed as she ruminated over what he’d said, examining it from every angle, looking for any opening or opportunity. “You’ve found someone new,” she finally said.

  He snorted. “That’s the conclusion you’ve come to? Do you think that my finding another interest would have anything to do with you and me?”

  “That depends. What, have you reached your quota of lovers so you have to let one of us go before you can bed another one?”

  Valentine sighed, his gaze still on the shop door. “This is becoming tiresome. Make up any reason you like. Find someone else, Lydia. Having fun together is one thing, but I don’t want to be needed, or nagged at. And certainly not by a married woman.”

  Her next comment was a slew of curses aimed at him and more directly, his cock. Thankfully, Eleanor and Lady Barbara left the milliner’s to continue down the street, and he pushed away from the coach to follow them, leaving Lydia swearing in solitude behind him.

  Technically he didn’t have to be there. Shopping was one of the items on Eleanor’s schedule, one of the events Melbourne had considered innocent enough that she didn’t require watching. Valentine was fairly certain her brother was correct.

  That didn’t explain why he’d waited around the corner from Griffin House until she’d left to meet Lady Barbara, or why he’d followed them to Bond Street rather than joining his peers at the House of Lords.

  He had no logical reason at all for being there, actually. Nothing other than a desire—a need, damn it all—to figure Eleanor Griffin out. For Christ’s sake, he’d come within a breath of kissing her in her own morning room. In Melbourne’s morning room.

  It didn’t make any damned sense. He’d hunted dangerous game before, game already owned by another man—though she never seemed to be held too dearly by her captor. Friends, however, were another matter. He didn’t have many, and he didn’t betray them. Ever.

  Melbourne had asked him to keep an eye on Eleanor, to keep her out of trouble and theoretically to report on anything that might be construed as improper. Within one day of that he’d seen her half naked and accompanied her home without a chaperone—either of which might have forced him into a marriage with the girl if anyone reported it—and then he’d promised not to tell anyone what had happened.

  What Cobb-Harding had attempted hadn’t been her fault; of that he was certain. But she had gone to Belmont’s of her own free will, so he should have felt perfectly comfortable with relaying that fact to her brother. His sense of fair play forbade that, or so he could tell himself, but after this morning he had a sneaking suspicion that his decision to keep this little surveillance going had nothing to do with fair, and everything to do with play.

  Taking a long draw of his cigar, Valentine hung back far enough in the afternoon crowd of shoppers that all he could see of Eleanor was the curling ostrich plume atop her hat. Since he’d declared himself elsewhere, it wouldn’t do for her to discover him trailing thirty feet behind her.

  And he wasn’t sure what the exercise was accomplishing, except to increase his level of frustration. Damn it all, if Melbourne hadn’t gone to him and he’d learned about Eleanor’s little rebellion on his own, he would have been first in line for the opportunity to educate her about freedom and sin and passion. Thanks to the duke, however, he’d effectively been gelded. Of course his head knew that, but the rest of him wasn’t paying much attention to logic and loyalty. The rest of him wanted to bed Eleanor Griffin.

  “Deverill? What are you doing here?”

  Valentine stopped as Zachary Griffin emerged from a men’s clothiers. “What do you think I’m doing here? he returned, putting an unfelt edge of annoyance into his voice. “I’m paying off my bloody debt to Melbourne.”

  Zachary immediately dodged into the shadow of the building. With almost comic urgency he sent a piercing gaze about the crowd. “She’s here?”

  Shaking his head, Valentine moved forward again. It wouldn’t do to lose her now. “You have all the subtlety of a cannonball,” he commented. “She’s half a block ahead of us, shopping with Lady Barbara Howsen.”

  “She said she would be,” Zachary admitted, falling into step beside him, “but she seems to be rather more devious than I’d realized. Did Melbourne tell you about her escape to Vauxhall?”

  Damn. “She told me this morning,” he improvised, “when I called to ask after her health.”

  “It’s my health I’m beginning to worry about,” Zachary countered. “There are rules of behavior, after all.”

  “Ah. So I hear. Personally, though, I have to applaud her for catching the lot of you by surprise. Did you just assume she would never grow up and wish to experience what the world has to offer?”

  “I don’t know,” her brother grumbled. “I did think she’d be more reasonable about it.”

  “Women are rarely reasonable, my boy.”

  Zachary walked beside him in silence for a moment. “I suppose we might have been a bit overprotective, but that’s not our fault. When she disappeared in Devon that time…I’ve never seen Sebastian so frantic.”

  Valentine hid a frown. “She disappeared? You mean she’s done this before?” She’d seemed so genuinely lost last night. “Melbourne never said—”

  “He knows about your dislike for family drama,” Zachary cut in. “But it’s not like that. Nell was twelve, and Melbourne was what, twenty-three? Shay and I were somewhere in between. Nell used to do everything we did—swim in the lake, fish, fence”—he chucked, obviously at some memory—“and even ride astride. Anyway, one afternoon she took out Seb’s gelding, a big brute named Atlas. Forty minutes or so later Atlas came back without her.”

  The ladies entered a sweets shop, and Valentine stopped in the alleyway. “What happened?”

  “The grooms and I rode out, but didn’t see her along the riding trail she usually took. So Melbourne turned out the entire estate staff, and forty of us went looking for her. She’d been thrown before, and we’d taught her how to fall, so at first we weren
’t all that worried. I wasn’t, anyway. But then the sun set, and we still hadn’t found her.”

  Valentine realized his breathing and heart rate had accelerated, and he mentally shook himself. It wasn’t like him to become so involved in a story, to the point where he actually worried over the main participant. Especially not when the events had taken place nine years earlier and he knew the outcome. Eleanor was in a candy shop twenty feet away from him, for God’s sake. But he wanted to know what had happened. “And?” he prompted Zachary.

  “We brought out torches and lanterns and kept looking. By then Melbourne was hoarse from calling for her, and I think he was half-convinced that someone had kidnapped her and meant to ransom her for the family fortune. He would have given it to them.”

  “That’s uncharacteristic.”

  With a short grin, Zachary nodded. “You have no idea. We looked for six or seven hours. It was after midnight before Shay fired off his pistol and the rest of us came running. He’d found her four miles away in a pile of leaves, asleep, waiting for daylight to head for home. Her damned arm was broken, but otherwise she was fine.” He chuckled again. “She wanted to know what had taken us so long, and why no one had thought to bring her something to eat.”

  Valentine smiled. “Sounds as though she was the only one of you with any sense.”

  “Perhaps so, but we were more careful with her after that. She was missing for nine hours, Deverill. And I count those among the worst in my life.”

  So he’d definitely done the right thing in not telling them about Belmont’s. He couldn’t imagine it himself, being so frantic to find someone that giving up the rest of one’s life and livelihood for their safety seemed a fair exchange. “Another reason not to have family,” he commented.

  Zachary nodded. “For those nine hours I would have agreed with you. The five minutes after we found her safe, though, I wouldn’t trade those for all the gold in the East India Company’s coffers.”

  Valentine snorted. “And I would be even more wealthy than I am now.”

  “You say that, but wait until you have a family. Everything will change.”