by Diana Lloyd
“Does he know you are unhappy?”
“I’m not sure. I was a complete ninny-hammer today, but it didn’t seem to deter him. He is always as polite and charming as a man can be,” she said, remembering his arms around her as they bobbed in the water. Elsinore threw herself down on her bed, trying to erase his image from her mind. “There has to be something I can do to slow things down so I have time to think and can take control of my own life. Can you think of nothing?” She asked at last.
“Well…” Yvette stopped and pursed her lips.
“Out with it. I need any help I can get.”
“There is perhaps one thing that I did hear, milady—or rather, something that I did not hear.”
“Oh, please make sense, Yvette!”
“It’s your name. Lord Graham has never once, that I’ve noticed, spoken your name.”
“You’re right.” Elsinore sat up quickly, a frown on her face as she thought back. “He’s never called me by my name. Not even formally. Today he called me ‘kitten,’ by our wedding day I might be ‘my little hedgehog.’ How disgusting.”
Yvette shrugged. “How could he not know your name?”
“We were never formally introduced. I wouldn’t know his name if I hadn’t heard Papa use it. Oh my God.” Elsinore’s face flushed with outrage, and her hands clenched into fists. It was her worst nightmare come true; her future husband was content in knowing her only as “Wallingford’s youngest.” He couldn’t even be bothered with looking her up in Debrett’s. “He proposed to me without even knowing my name. That, that, scoundrel,” she stammered out, “that jackanapes, that…”
“Whoreson?” Yvette offered helpfully.
“But that must mean he hasn’t yet signed the settlement papers. Surely my name is on them,” Elsinore said excitedly, a new plan taking shape in her mind. “The hound has just turned into a cur, but there may still be time to teach him a lesson he won’t soon forget.”
“How will you do that?”
“I won’t.” Elsinore jumped up from the bed and grabbed Yvette by the arms. “You will.”
“What? Milady, how…”
“It’s perfect, don’t you see? No one in my family ever calls me by my name. I’m always ‘little sister’ or ‘darling daughter.’ I’ve no calling cards of my own, as I’ve only been allowed to go calling with my mother.”
“But your father is a duke; everyone knows your family.”
“It’s only the oldest sons who ever matter. All anybody remembers is that we are all named from the writings of Shakespeare. When a duke has five daughters, no one cares overmuch whether they know which one is which; it’s the dowries they’re thinking of.”
“So,” Yvette said, appearing to warm to the plan, “how is it that I can help you teach this man some manners?”
“Mother invited him over again tonight so that we might play cards. She is determined that he and I get to know each other better before the wedding—as if three days is enough time to get to know your future husband. I’ll ask her if you might chaperone while we play, and as soon as we are alone, you are to call me Lady…Hippolyta.”
“Who is Lady Hippolyta?”
“She’s Queen of the Amazons and a character in one of Mr. Shakespeare’s plays. I think,” she said, smiling triumphantly, “that it shall be good to be queen.”
“Now you’re the one talking in riddles.”
“Call me Lady Hippolyta as often as you can tonight. If he begins calling me Hippolyta, we’ll know he hasn’t signed any papers yet.” As long as the papers remained unsigned, she had a chance to change her fate. Time was her enemy, but if she used it wisely, she might yet make it her new best friend. She had to keep those papers out of his hands for as long as it took her to figure a way out of this mess without social ruin for either one of them.
“What if he calls you Lady Elsinore?”
“I’m betting he won’t,” she said. “But just in case, I’ll find another way to teach him a lesson. I know—I’ll be unladylike. I’ll cheat and curse and be vulgar. Serve us wine, and I will overindulge.”
“Wine makes you ill, milady.”
“All the better. I’ll cast up right on his boots if I have to,” she said determinedly. “He’ll soon learn that there is no reward for neglecting the courtesy of learning my name. After I’m done, he’ll never forget it again.”
Yvette giggled. “And what shall I do?”
“You”—Elsinore clasped her hand—“will spill wine in his lap while serving. Between the two of us, he’ll be running out of here before midnight begging me to jilt him.”
It took Elsinore the better part of the dinner hour to convince her parents that there was no need for them to curtail their many social obligations just because of her. After much pleading, it was decided that Elsinore would be allowed to entertain Lord Graham under the watchful eyes of her maid, Yvette, two footmen, and her mother’s second cousin, Perpetua, who was hastily pressed into service as chaperone.
It was better than Elsinore could have hoped for. The footmen would be enjoying a game of dice in the back hallway all night, and her mother had apparently not yet realized that Cousin Perpetua was as deaf as a post.
Elsinore frantically raced to the door when the baron’s carriage rolled into view, not trusting anyone else not to blurt out her name. Slipping out the door, she met him halfway up the steps leading to the house, and he offered his arm with a warm smile in greeting.
As she took it, the front door opened above them, casting a golden glow of candlelight over the steps. Elsinore looked up in time to see a dark silhouette appear in the doorway. “Lady Hippolyta,” she heard Yvette call out, “please come back in the house. You’re not properly dressed to go walking.”
Quin turned to her and smiled. “Shall we, Lady Hippolyta?” he asked, as he led her up the stairs.
Elsinore winked at Yvette as they passed her in the hallway. It was their prearranged signal that he’d taken the bait. She flushed with anger as she felt Lord Graham once again cover her hand with his. Imagine, she fumed, proposing to a woman when you don’t even know her name. She’d make him pay for that. Somehow. After a hurried and shouted introduction to her mother’s cousin, Elsinore sent the footmen to the kitchen for refreshments.
“I said,” Lord Graham shouted, “would you care to join us in a game of cards, madam?”
“Of course it looks like rain,” Perpetua shouted back. “It always rains this time of year.” She shook her head and reached into her sewing bag for her needlepoint. “A small glass of wine wouldn’t be out of the question,” she grumbled.
Elsinore stifled a laugh. “My mother’s cousin is a bit hard of hearing. I believe she thinks you’re one of the footmen.”
“That explains much.”
“I’ve sent someone for the wine. That and her needlepoint should keep her content, as long as we stay within her sight.”
“I’m rather surprised your father didn’t post an armed guard.”
“He’s at the top of the stairs.”
“Sharpshooter position. Well done,” he teased. “I’m so glad to see I’ve earned your parents’ trust.”
“We’re both lucky my father was out of the house when we returned from the park.” She walked to the games table and sat down, motioning for him to join her. “Do you play piquet?”
“It’s been a while, but I believe I can muddle my way through a partie.”
Elsinore slid the deck of cards across the table toward him. “Cut for the dealer?” She smiled sweetly as he sized up the deck. She was an accomplished player and silently vowed to give him a trouncing he’d never forget.
Thirty minutes later, Elsinore took another sip from her glass and frowned. His skill at cards matched her own, and they were battling to the very end. This wouldn’t do at all; she wanted to win. One small victory, no matter how inconsequential it might seem to others, would help her reclaim the life that had so recently spiraled out of control.
One ben
efit to being the youngest of six children was learning all the ingenious ways her siblings cheated at cards. Another sip of wine convinced her that winning this game would be an omen that she could control her own destiny if only she tried hard enough. And sometimes, hard enough included slipping a card or two into the folds of your skirt.
“Carte blanche,” she announced.
His eyes dropped to his hand for only a moment. “You’re cheating.”
Elsinore dropped her cards to the table in mock outrage. “Sir, you dare accuse a lady of cheating at cards?”
“Aye, and you’re doing it quite badly. Which one of your sisters taught you how to cheat?”
“All of them,” she said haughtily, lifting her chin in defiance. “And my brother, as well.”
“Then I most definitely will have to ask your brother to play cards, someday. Tell me, is he a betting man?”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“A betting man. Do you gamble, Lord Graham?” The wine made her bold, and she was spoiling for any way to rattle him this evening.
“I never wager more than I can afford to lose.”
“Have you any other vices or deep, dark secrets?” She waited a long time for his response and was surprised to see his expression change from playful to something much more serious.
“None.” She heard the ice in his reply and knew that she’d pushed a bit too far.
“I’m sorry. That was not well done of me,” Elsinore apologized. “It’s just that I don’t really know anything about you other than your shoe size and that you can spot a cheat at cards.” Her parents had told her nothing about him. Even her older sisters had no recollection of ever seeing him in town or in attendance at fashionable events. What sort of a desperate man, she wondered, proposed marriage to a woman when he didn’t even know her name?
His expression recovered nicely at her apology but not completely. “With that in mind, I was just now wondering, if in private, you might agree to call me by my Christian name and perhaps give me leave to use yours as well. We are, after all, very soon to be man and wife and have need of becoming more familiar with one another.”
Elsinore felt her throat tighten. Of course, he would want to use her name once he knew it. Wasn’t that what she’d intended all along? She smiled shyly, knowing he was waiting for her response. She should let him make a fool of himself by using the wrong name, maybe then he would understand how humiliated she was. She felt the tiniest burn of shame with her decision, but quickly doused it with a gulp of wine. “I would like that very much. Are you Quinlan, then?”
His face pinched with a grimace. “Quintilian, actually. But please call me Quin. The only person who calls me by my full name is my dotty old auntie who lives in a smelly cottage with her housekeeper and ten cats.”
“And ferrets!” She laughed out loud in a most unladylike manner before covering her mouth with her hand.
“Don’t,” he murmured, reaching over and gently lowering her hand. “You’ve a beautiful laugh, Hippolyta, and a lovely smile. Dinna fear showing your happiness to me.”
Another flicker of shame fluttered to life somewhere near her heart. Elsinore reached for her glass to quickly drown it, before realizing that Quin was still holding her hand. Suddenly, the grand drawing room felt much too small and much too warm. It had to be the wine.
“Ahem,” Cousin Perpetua cleared her throat loudly.
“I’m sorry, my dear Hippolyta. It was nae my intent to make you uncomfortable.” With that, Quin slowly released her hand. Elsinore cringed inwardly at the sound of the false name from his lips, even as she lamented the loss of the warmth of his strong hand covering her own.
The game continued with silent concentration while Elsinore gulped down another glass of wine. She stole glances of him from behind lowered lashes while pretending to examine her cards. There was something mesmerizing about his hands.
Odd, she thought, that I’ve never before noticed a man’s hands. Her face warmed with the memory of his intimate touch. From the way he held her that afternoon, she knew they could be both strong and gentle.
He’d removed his gloves to play cards and there, peeking out beneath his cuff as he reached for his glass, she could see a few strands of golden brown hair upon his arm. It reminded her of what she’d seen back at the Dardens’ pond when she’d caught the young men swimming. How surprised she’d been to discover that men were so very hairy in the oddest of places. Would he look like them? She fought the urge to reach out and brush those hairs with her bare fingertips.
Snap out of it, Elsinore, she scolded herself, they’re only hands.
“Are you trying to peek at my hand?”
Her cheeks flushed anew with the realization that she’d been caught staring at him. “Your hands? Of course not. That would be silly.” She fanned out her cards and held them in front of her face to hide the blush that bloomed across her cheeks.
“My hand,” he said, waving his cards to draw her attention. “I asked if you were trying to look at my cards.”
“Are you accusing me of cheating again? Some gentleman you are.”
“I’m not a gentleman, I’m a Scot,” he said with a chuckle. “For a moment, it appeared your thoughts were very far away.”
Elsinore recovered her composure as quickly as she could. “I was thinking of an amusing story, that’s all.”
“Do tell.”
Fiddlesticks! He’d called her bluff. She searched her suddenly empty brain for anything that sounded amusing to keep from admitting she’d indeed been remembering where his hands had been rather than studying her cards. “My sister Emilia had no less than six offers her first season,” she blurted out.
“Six? That is impressive.”
She saw that he was smiling again and wondered why she’d never before noticed that he had the whitest teeth she’d ever seen. She took another sip of her wine before continuing. “Guess how she chose Benedict.”
“Perhaps she was blindfolded and agreed to marry whichever one she could catch.”
“No!” She laughed, slapping her hand on the table for emphasis. “She put their names into a hat and drew one out—right in this very room.”
“Never,” Quin replied with mock horror. Elsinore waved to Yvette for more Madeira; she was beginning to feel as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
“Yes, it’s quite true,” she continued. “And now, they are madly in love.”
Quin laughed. “Is poor Benedict aware he was chosen in this manner?”
“No, so you mustn’t breathe a word of it to him.”
“On my honor, I will take it to my grave. Unless, of course, I forget that it was a secret and shout it out while in my cups.”
“You’re very amusing, my lord.” Elsinore laughed aloud again, this time remembering she had no need to cover it up.
“Quin,” he reminded her.
“You are very amusing, Quintilian.” She snickered.
“I have several tenants who would be quick to argue that point with you.” He shook his head and smiled.
Yvette returned with a small tray containing another decanter of the deep red wine. Balancing it precariously on the edge of the table, she proceeded to fill their glasses. The tray shifted, and, as she grabbed for the decanter, Yvette managed to pour every drop into his lap. Quin jumped up from his chair, but the damage was already done, and a bright red stain bloomed across the front of his dove gray breeches.
“Oh, Lord Graham! I am so sorry. Please forgive me.” Yvette grabbed the empty decanter before it fell to the floor.
“Our housekeeper will be furious.” Elsinore stood, took a sip of her wine, and surveyed the damage. “I’m afraid the chair is ruined, and the rug will need cleaning as well,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Would it be too much to request a dry cloth, please?” Quin shook his head, a look of irritation flashed across his face.
“Immediately, milord,” Yvette responded and turned toward the doo
r.
“Yvette,” Elsinore called after her. “Someone on the kitchen staff must have a concoction for removing wine stains. We may yet be able to save Lord Graham’s breeches.”
“I’ll see to it, milady.”
“Mercy! Has he been shot?” Cousin Perpetua exclaimed as she jumped from her chair, clutching her needlepoint to her chest.
“No, dear,” Elsinore answered her, shouting out the words. “It’s just wine.”
“Well, he doesn’t look fine.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Quin. It appears that we are to be vexed by spirits yet again.” Elsinore shook her head and continued to sip her wine, the unfortunate red stain drawing her eyes like a beacon. As she spoke, she addressed the impudent red splotch.
“Apparently it was my turn for a dousing.”
She lifted her gaze to his face, relieved to see his good humor had returned. “We are most unlucky, are we not? It seems a bad sign for our future.”
“Or nothing more than a silly accident. You mustn’t let it trouble you.”
“I am not troubled,” she lied. “I only wonder if you may be reconsidering your offer.” She’d be banished to the country to wait out another season if he did. Returning to town another year older and pushed back a little farther on the shelf. Imagining the life of a spinster was almost a sobering thought. Elsinore swallowed hard and took another gulp of wine.
…
“I assure you—” Quin was cut off by Yvette’s return with a damp square of flannel on a tray. He had much to reconsider in his life, but a hasty, scandal-free return to Scotland wasn’t on the list. He’d been careless and gotten caught but would allow no more tarnish to blacken the family name. His only choice now was honor. He would see this through.
“The cook swears by this remedy, milord.” Yvette took up the towel and reached to press it against the stain.
“I believe I’ll take it from here.” Relieving the servant of the cloth, he turned his back to the women and pressed the remedy against his upper thigh where the stain bloomed the brightest. The red did indeed fade. It was now a dark green. Rubbing the cloth against the stain produced an additional change—whatever chemical reaction was responsible for turning the red to green was now eating away at the flesh underneath the fabric.
