by Regina Scott
If that was all it took to win her regard, he’d cheerfully keep his eyes at mid-level for the rest of his life. Of course, the knight-protector protested such an ungentlemanly thought.
“I’ve said quite enough on the matter,” he told her. “I simply need to hear you tell me that you still want to go through with this plan of yours, no matter the cost.”
She tossed her head. “Nothing you have said has deterred me.”
“Very well,“ he replied, sealing her fate, and his. “We’ll do something reprehensible at Almack’s then. Be ready on Wednesday.”
“Clever boy,” Hector squawked.
*
By Wednesday, Cleo had steeled herself for the worst. The last two days had passed pleasantly enough. Her sisters had not called, but several of her friends had. Marlys Rutherford was conspicuously missing. No doubt her mother prevented her from calling. Cleo’s infamy was obviously spreading, even if it did not serve to upset her sisters. However, none of the girls who called was the least offended about her racing, although they all teased her unmercifully for her short hair. She rather hoped they would be similarly friendly after she finished her crusade.
In addition, she’d spent part of every afternoon alone with Leslie and Hector. Lady Agnes was in transports over the new words Hector had managed to produce (most of them proper, for all Leslie’s threats), and Leslie had been cheerful, even if he refused to tell her his plans. She had even been surprised to find that Major Cutter had singled her out at Lady Monke’s musicale. His manner at intermission had been polite but warm, and she had felt his eyes on her for the rest of the performance (and considerably higher than her chest).
In addition, several other gentlemen sought to further their acquaintance, including Mr. Mortimer Dent, a saffron-haired fellow who was causing quite a stir with his drawings. While Cleo had found his impassioned discussion of the importance of light in composing art interesting, Lady Agnes had rejected him out of hand.
“He wasn’t good enough for Lady Crawford’s niece,” she told Cleo after the gentleman had been shown out. “He followed her about all last Season like a lost puppy. Fancied himself a poet the–wrote awful stuff like odes to hunting dogs. Do not encourage that connection. Electra would eat him for supper.”
She decided not to argue. Mr. Dent had been interesting, but he did not stir her heart. Her focus should be the scandal Leslie intended to enact at Almack’s.
She was already on the floor in a staid country dance with Robbie Newcomer, the older brother of Sarah Newcomer in her class, when she spotted Leslie entering the famed assembly rooms. He had returned to his conservative evening wear, dressing himself in a somber black coat and breeches that were at odds with the misadventure he had proposed having. No sooner had she seen him, however, then the dance demanded her attention, and she lost track of him among the crowd. Robbie had not apparently noticed her lack of concentration, for the tall blond-haired fellow kept up an easy stream of conversation whenever the dance brought them close enough to speak. But as he bowed to her at the end of the set, Leslie stepped to her side.
“Good evening, Newcomer,” he drawled, threading Cleo’s arm possessively through his. “Good of you to keep Miss Renfield company in my absence.”
Cleo raised a brow at his high-handed tone, but Robbie bowed. “Your servant, Lord Hastings. But perhaps you should be warned about leaving a lovely lady like Miss Renfield alone. Too many gentlemen would be sorely tempted to take your place in her affections.”
“Do you malign my constancy, sir?” Cleo teased, rapping him lightly on the arm with her fan.
“Have a care, Newcomer,” Leslie growled with a sincerity that only made Cleo stare at him in surprise. “I should hate to have to call you out for insulting the lady.”
Robbie’s blue eyes twinkled as he laid a hand on the chest of his green velvet coat. “You wound me, sir. I sought only to compliment the fair lady, I assure you.” He bowed again to Cleo. “Your servant, Miss Renfield. Might I hope to call on you later in the week?”
Cleo smiled, offering him her hand. “I look forward to it, sir.”
He gave her fingers a squeeze before nodding to Leslie and moving off to find his next partner. Leslie pulled on her arm, leading her toward the nearest wall.
“So,” he snapped as soon as they were out of hearing of the dancers and those promenading by, “you’ve decided that Newcomer would make a better candidate than Cutter.”
Cleo blinked. “Not at all. Mr. Newcomer is a brother of a school friend. Of course I’ll receive him when he calls.”
He stared across the room to where Robbie was leading a simpering young miss onto the floor. “I suppose he’s a congenial fellow,” he allowed. “Old family, solid fortune I hear, reasonably handsome.”
She couldn’t help but chuckle. “Good teeth too, solid legs. Ought to run the quarter mile in under a minute. Think what I could get for him at Tatt’s.”
Leslie shook his head. “Your point. I was merely trying to list his many qualities. You could do worse in a husband.”
Cleo frowned. “I’m getting very tired of hearing how much worse I could do. I want to do better, sir, different. And I want the opportunity to choose for myself.”
He nodded just as the musicians began the unmistakable strains of a waltz. Leslie took her hand. “Shall we?”
Cleo stared at him. “But Leslie, I haven’t been given permission.”
“No need,” he assured her. “You do know how to dance the waltz, don’t you, Sprout? I should not like to embarrass myself.”
“I practiced any number of times,” Cleo assured him tartly. “So, yes, you makebait, by all means, let us waltz.”
She waited for his grin to appear, but his bow to her was courtly, his expression serious. He led her onto the floor as if to present her at court.
It was one of the more complicated of waltzes, but Cleo was undaunted. Indeed, she felt her stomach flutter with excitement as Leslie put one arm about her waist. He held her lightly, moving effortlessly with her around the floor. If it hadn’t been for his serious expression, she would have thoroughly enjoyed the first few moments.
But as the dance progressed, Leslie’s expression softened. Was it her imagination, or did he hold her just the slightest bit closer so that their bodies brushed? Certainly she was aware how the white silk of her skirt slid past his legs. Her heartbeat quickened. Her gaze met his, and she nearly gasped at the warmth in those dark eyes. The image of hot chocolate was forever replaced by smoldering coals. She wondered that her curls were not singed.
What was even more surprising was the response of her own body. She seemed drawn yet closer to him, aware of the touch of his hand at her waist. She noticed the size and strength of his fingers engulfing her own, the width of his shoulders. She inhaled the smell of him–warm leather and crisp mint. Indeed, Leslie seemed to fill her senses until even the music was a dull hum in the background. She was lost, and she didn’t much care whether she was ever found.
He drew her to a stop and bowed. She could not think why, then realized the dance had ended. She struggled to slow her breath and her racing pulse. Indeed, she actually felt a little faint, she who could spend the day traipsing the countryside. She had never noticed how warm Almack’s could be.
“You are magnificent,” Leslie declared, straightening from his bow. “Now, be strong and follow my lead. We are about to cause a scandal.”
Chapter Eleven
C
leo blinked, then turned to follow Leslie’s gaze to where Lady Agnes was bearing down on them with no less than the undisputed queen of London Society, Lady Jersey, beside her. Lady Jersey’s finely molded head was up, like a horse ready to gallop, and her elegant pistachio green silk gown swirled around her long legs. Cleo gulped in a gasp, pasting what she was sure was a sickly smile on her face. Leslie surreptitiously squeezed her elbow in encouragement.
Lady Agnes had fire in her grey eyes, but it was the redoubtable Lady Jersey who spok
e first. “Miss Renfield,” she intoned, bearing dignified while all the while managing to impart her displeasure. “Your godmother assures me there has been some mistake. Did one of my sister patronesses give you permission to waltz, for I am certain I did not.”
Cleo felt as if the air had suddenly chilled. Around them, gentlemen were staring, and women whispered behind their fans. What had she done? Could she have mistaken Leslie? She glanced quickly at him, but for once his usually open face was hooded. Loyalty insisted that she refuse to make him the villain.
“I understood I had permission, Lady Jersey,” she replied humbly. “I assure you, I am as shocked as you are to find I was mistaken. I am terribly sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”
The utterly spineless grovel would have been enough to assuage Ellie or Annie, but Lady Jersey was obviously made of stronger stuff. Cleo had heard that all the patronesses took their roles as social arbiters quite seriously. Indeed, Lady Jersey herself had once refused admittance to the hero of Waterloo, Lord Wellington, when he arrived seven minutes late and wearing trousers rather than the knee breeches the ladies had dictated as proper attire in their hallowed hall. Now Lady Jersey merely narrowed her eyes.
“I do not condone lying, Miss Renfield, any more than I condone impertinence,” she said in tones that only served to chill Cleo further. “Surely you are aware that you must personally request permission. Lady Agnes cannot intercede for you.”
“Nor did I,” Lady Agnes put in even as Cleo felt herself blanching. “But you are far off the mark if you think my Cleo a liar, Sally. Someone is clearly trying to make trouble for her.”
“Perhaps,” Lady Jersey intoned. “And perhaps you are misled by your devotion to the girl. Haven’t I heard any number of exploits recently? Racing in Hyde Park? Stealing other young ladies’ beaus? You have only to look at her hair to know she has wild tendencies.”
Cleo’s hand rose involuntarily to her curls. More people were gathering. Indeed, she’d never felt so many eyes on her. Some people smirked, exchanging knowing looks as Ellie and Annie were wont to do. Others shook their heads in dismay at her obvious downfall. She had never felt so humiliated in her life.
“The wild tendencies,” Leslie said, loud enough to carry to all those listening, “are mine. I wished to waltz with Miss Renfield. When she very rightly refused me, I led her to believe I had your permission.”
Cleo stared at him as there were hushed gasps on either side. Lady Agnes rolled her eyes. The lady patroness raised a gold-rimmed quizzing glass off her elegant chest and raked him from top to bottom through it. Leslie stood with a negligent grace and a cold expression, as if their petty concerns bored him. Cleo, knowing this must be his plan and that he was doing it for her, felt as if her heart would burst with pride at his performance.
“I am severely disappointed in you, Lord Hastings,” Lady Jersey said, allowing her quizzing glass to drop back in place. “But then, you have consistently been a disappointment, haven’t you? First to Society and then to your dear father. Small wonder your one-time friend Lord Prestwick has chosen not to associate with you.”
Cleo thought she saw Leslie grimace, but the moment passed so quickly, she could not be sure.
Lady Jersey continued as if she had seen nothing. “You are banished from Almack’s, sir, for the rest of the Season. Do not dare approach any of us, or we will give you the cut direct. Come along, Miss Renfield.”
Lady Agnes shook her head at him but turned her back even as Lady Jersey did. All around them, people did the same, contemptuously, coldly, the only sound the soft rustle of the women’s dresses as they moved away. Leslie stood isolated, back straight, head high.
Cleo hesitated. Surely she’d seen a flicker of pain behind those dark eyes. She couldn’t simply leave him like this. She caught his gaze.
“This is what you wanted,” he hissed. “Your family won’t stand for our marriage now; Society means too much to them. Go on.”
People were beginning to whisper again. Lady Jersey did not turn back, but Lady Agnes turned long enough to order Cleo to her side with one imperious wave of her hand. Another moment, and she’d undo everything he was trying to achieve.
“Meet me at the house,” she murmured. “And thank you.”
Although her heart protested, she hurried after her godmother, leaving Leslie to make his way to the door.
Utterly alone.
*
The rest of the evening was mostly a blur to Cleo. After an initial time of awkwardness, in which everyone made sure that Lady Jersey was not, in fact, wroth with her, she was again claimed by various partners to dance. Most of the gentlemen were unrelentingly proper, unendingly kind, and utterly unremarkable. Which was just as well, for she found it difficult to give them her complete attention. Her mind kept reviewing the scene of Leslie’s humiliation.
He had been hurt by Lady Jersey’s censure, for all he had brought it on himself. She could not have been mistaken in what she’d seen. He had removed himself from good Society for her sake. After warning her what might happen if they succeeded in shocking her sisters, he had taken all the burden on himself. She had to find a way to make it up to him.
Only the appearance of Major Cutter lifted her spirits. He showed up at her side late in the evening, very politely requested her hand for a line dance, and complimented her on her looks. She could not deny that he was in rather good looks himself, with his uniform nearly as crisp and bright as the medals hung on his broad chest. He made the usual conversation as the dance allowed, asking after her sisters, commenting on the weather. When they stood out at the end of the line, however, his conversation grew more familiar.
“I had no idea you were such an accomplished dancer, Miss Renfield,” he began, bringing a blush to her cheeks. “That waltz with Lord Hastings was remarkable. But did I understand correctly that Lady Jersey found fault with it?”
She knew her blush had deepened. She had no idea he had been in the room to see the fated dance, nor that anyone would not know the story Lady Jersey was telling by now. Indeed, the fans had not stopped moving for a full hour as the gossip spread from one group of women to another.
“Lady Jersey found fault with Lord Hastings,“ she explained. “I’m sure it was a dreadful misunderstanding. Lord Hastings is a gentleman.”
“Oh, quite,” the major replied with a nod. She watched in fascination as the candlelight glinted off his golden hair and turned his blue eyes to azure. “A more rousing comrade one could not find. I am pleased to hear you support him, Miss Renfield. It tells me you are a particular friend of his.”
She wanted to be warmed by his praise, but something about the way he said the phrase made her uneasy. It was as if he’d deliberately hit the wrong key in the middle of a moving sonata. Still, his smile was for her alone, and she found it hard not to be in charity with him.
“I have known Lord Hastings since I was a child,” she told him. “Some of my warmest memories are of times we spent together.”
His smile deepened as he took her hand to lead her back into the dance. “May I hope,” he murmured, pressing her fingers, “that I might have the opportunity to give you warm memories of me as well?”
Was he actually intent on courting her? He was a cavalry officer. Surely he’d understand her love for horses, her desire to live in a country setting. Was it possible he might accept her for who she was?
“Certainly, sir,” she all but stammered. “I would be more than delighted to further our acquaintance. Please feel free to call any time.”
His smile had been triumphant as they went through the motions of the dance, and he had returned her to Lady Agnes with a sweeping bow and the promise to see her soon. She was afraid to hope he might keep that promise.
On the other hand, she did not have to guess about her godmother’s feelings. Lady Agnes only waited until they were safely ensconced in her small carriage before letting Cleo know of her disappointment.
“What were you thinking?” she demand
ed. “And do not repeat that Banbury tale of Leslie lying to you.”
“I thought you believed me!” Cleo protested, humiliation rising anew.
“I believe someone lied to you,” Lady Agnes informed her. “But I will not believe my Leslie would do so. What I believe right now is that the two of you are cooking up mischief. I demand to know what.”
“It no longer matters,” Cleo replied, steadfastly turning her face to the window. “Any mischief we might have made is at an end with Leslie banished from all good Society for the Season.”
“A harsh punishment,” Lady Agnes predicted. “The boy is a social animal. He cannot think for himself.”
“That’s not true,” Cleo protested.
“Give me one good example of anything he ever thought of on his own,” Lady Agnes challenged.
Cleo would have been delighted to tell her about Leslie’s brilliant plan tonight, but, of course, she couldn’t. She thought hard. Truthfully, she had led him into most of their escapades. But surely he had done something noteworthy before now.
“He thought of teaching Hector to speak,” she tried.
Lady Agnes snorted. “Only after I brought up the idea. The boy is a follower. Nothing shameful in that, unless one happens to follow the wrong people. That’s why this banishment is bound to be bad for him. I have never liked his tendency to run with the wrong crowd.”
“What are you talking about? Leslie seems quite presentable to me.”
“He would,” Lady Agnes grumbled. “He seems to take great pains to show his better side to you. I doubt whether he has mentioned his more deplorable habits.”
“Perhaps he hasn’t mentioned them because they are a figment of a gossip’s imagination,” Cleo replied tartly.
Lady Agnes barked a laugh. “Loyal, aren’t you, girl? I appreciate that. But Leslie’s not ready for sainthood. He gambles too heavily, even if he has yet to put a dent in his fortunes. He drinks too much, even though he never has a headache in the morning. He races horses and carriages far too recklessly. I thought his father’s death might cure him of that. Does he want the title to go into abeyance? But no, Leslie is only interested in one thing–having fun. If he cannot have it with the haut ton, he will find it elsewhere. Mark my words, his censure by Sally Jersey will only drive him deeper into the arms of depravity.”
