She was on the brink of tears again—what a ninny she was, to regret her sister’s happiness and fret about brainless aristocrats!—but she blinked hard and lifted her chin.
The gentleman—she couldn’t remember his name—smiled as he approached. “Miss Sharp, I shall not waste words,” he said. “I’ve come to beg your pardon for any offense Lord Lovedon has caused.”
“Has he appointed you his second?” she said.
He gave a nervous laugh. “No, no, certainly not.”
“Then why send a proxy?” she said. “Why not make his own apology?”
“He didn’t send me,” the gentleman said. “He’s a bit . . .” He trailed off, frowning, apparently at a loss for the right word.
“A bit of an ass,” she said.
“Bates thinks I’m half-seas over and not to be trusted with delicate diplomatic negotiations, Miss Sharp,” came another, deeper voice, from the doorway.
No doubt whose drawling baritone that was.
Mr. Bates said something under his breath. Curses, Chloe supposed. She was tempted to utter several unladylike words herself. She wasn’t nearly ready for another confrontation.
Though her heart beat so hard she thought she’d faint, she collected what remained of her dignity and made herself regard Lord Lovedon as coolly as he’d regarded her moments ago.
He didn’t stagger into the room. He had too much self-control for that . . . even though they seemed to be upon a ship at sea.
The walls and floor ought not to be moving.
She’d been too furious before to notice but . . . maybe she oughtn’t to have taken that last glass of champagne.
She forced herself to meet his mocking black gaze. “You needn’t be anxious, Lord Lovedon,” she said. “I shan’t create an international incident. I never tattle, and Althea is unforgivably forgiving. To calm her, I told her you were spouting nonsense because you were drunk as well as not very intelligent. By now, I daresay, she’s not only forgiven you but has even made up a reason to think kindly of you. My sister—as Prince Louis had the discernment to recognize—is angelically beautiful not only outwardly but inwardly as well. She’s incapable of thinking unkindly of anybody. She’d make excuses for Satan himself.”
He drew nearer, blocking her view of his friend—and everything else. He loomed over her, all dark wool and blinding white linen and a gloriously embroidered—and now damp—blue silk waistcoat that must have cost as much as her dress.
“Am I to understand that you came and challenged me to a duel and made me quake in my boots—all for nothing?” he said.
“She has forgiven you,” Chloe said. “I am not so saintly. I have not. You haven’t apologized.”
Nor would he, she supposed. Some men would rather be roasted on a spit and fed to wild boars than apologize, especially to a woman.
“It seems I must kill myself,” he said. “It is impossible to continue in this world without Miss Sharp’s approbation.” He put the back of his hand to his forehead. “Farewell, all. I go to a better place.”
“I think not,” she said. “I think it will be rather worse than this one and a good deal hotter.”
“But all my friends will join me there eventually,” he said. “I shall hope in time to see you there as well. You did say you weren’t saintly.”
“In that case,” she said, “I wish you a very long, unceasingly unhappy life.”
She gave him an exaggerated version of the simpering smile so many other women wasted on him, and dipped a little curtsey . . . and then kept sinking.
Lovedon lunged and caught her up in his arms before she toppled.
This wasn’t the simplest feat. He wasn’t as steady on his legs as he’d supposed, and she, with her great ballooning sleeves and billowing skirts, wasn’t easy to capture securely.
Then, once he had her, he wasn’t sure what to do with her. He thought of carrying her home and putting her to bed. He thought that might be fun.
Miss Renfrew hurried in. “Chloe, they’re leav—”
She stopped short.
“Miss Sharp is not well,” Bates said.
“Excess of . . . excitement,” Lovedon said.
“We need to revive her,” Bates said.
“She needs to go to bed . . . and sleep it off,” Lovedon said. She was flushed, and under the miles of silk there seemed to be a splendidly rounded body, invitingly warm. His head dipped a little, and he inhaled a delicious blend of scents: soap and flowers and Woman.
She stirred in his arms. “Put me down.”
“Probably not wise,” he said, “considering you can’t stand up.”
“I need to say goodbye to the happy couple,” she said. Her voice was slurred. “The madly-in-love-with-each-other couple.”
“If you try to walk unaided, you’ll fall on your face,” Lovedon told her.
“If you keep trying to carry me, you’ll fall on your face,” she said. “I’ll lean on Amy. Please put me down and go away. To the devil, preferably.”
She was shapely and highly entertaining and she smelled delectable. Lovedon wanted to take her to a private corner—the house abounded in secret nooks and crannies—and set about winning her over. In her present condition, though, that would be unsporting. In any case, he preferred a woman to be fully conscious when he set about seducing her.
He let her down very carefully, so carefully that he felt every inch of her descent. For one heady moment, her breasts pressed against his chest. When her feet touched the floor, he cautiously released her. She started to turn away, swayed, and grabbed his lapels.
His arm went around her neat little waist.
“Oh, Lord,” she said. “I do believe I’m actually drunk.”
“You can’t be drunk now,” Miss Renfrew said. “It’s time to take leave of the newlyweds.”
“I . . . don’t . . . know,” Miss Sharp said. “I really need . . . to sit . . . lie . . . down.” She slumped against Lovedon. “You smell like starch,” she said. “And something else.”
“Listen to me,” he said. “You can do this, Miss Sharp. If you don’t, your sister will wonder what’s wrong. You don’t want to worry her, I know.”
“You were mean to her.” She looked up at him, green-gold eyes wide and accusing and slightly crossed.
“Yes, I’m a brute,” he said. “Ten minutes. That’s all we’ll need. I’ll give you my arm and Miss Renfrew will support you discreetly on the other side. And Bates will bring up the rear. The crush will be so great that no one will notice we’re propping you up. You’ll wish the couple well and make your curtseys—”
“If I curtsey, I don’t think I’ll be able to get up again. I think I’d like to lie on the floor, please.”
“Ten minutes,” he said. “Pretend to be perfectly well for ten minutes, that’s all. Then we’ll get you safely away. If you’ll do this, you and I shall have our duel.”
She blinked up at him. “I get to shoot you?”
“Yes.”
She smiled, and it was the genuine article this time. Her mouth softened and curved and her face took on the kind of blissful expression a man was accustomed to see—if he was skillful—in more intimate situations. His lower regions, which didn’t understand the concept of proper time and place, became primed for action. And his mood soared so high so swiftly that his head spun, and the room whirled along with it.
The rain continued to beat at the windows, but in his world the sun had broken out, and life had blossomed into riotous colors.
“Very well,” she said. “I accept your terms.”
Getting Miss Sharp through those ten minutes wasn’t the easiest thing Lovedon had ever done, though it might have been the most amusing. He suspected he’d damaged an internal organ, keeping a straight face throughout the proceedings.
But with Bates’s and Miss Renfrew’s help, he got her through the goodbyes. There followed several other interesting maneuvers, including flat-out lying to her parents while Miss Renfrew guarded her in an
antechamber.
The crowd, the heat, fatigue, combined with strong emotion, had proved too much for Miss Sharp, Lovedon told them. To avoid disrupting the family’s remaining commitments for the day, he offered to send her home in his carriage with her friend, Miss Renfrew.
Though initially alarmed, they did not, in fact, have much attention to spare their eldest unwed daughter. He knew they had other engagements this day, including a reception at Windsor, because he was expected to appear at the same events. After only a few mild protests about his lordship’s taking so much trouble, they consented.
That done, Lovedon smuggled the drunken bridesmaid down the steep back staircase in the west wing to the ground floor. With him clasping her arm, she was able to get down the narrow stairs more or less unaided. As soon as they came out under the south front’s arcade, though, the fresh air hit her—or rather she hit it, much in the way one runs abruptly into a wall.
She tottered backward. He caught hold of her, then wrapped one arm about her shoulder. “Now, stay,” he said.
She heaved a great sigh and leaned against him. The top of her head came to his chin. They stood in the shelter of the great arcade, out of sight of anybody happening to look out of the windows. It was a fine opportunity to get up to no good . . . but she wasn’t in proper condition. Not to mention that Bates stood only a few paces away, having a terse whispered dispute with Miss Renfrew.
Lovedon stood stoically with his armful of drunken deliciousness and gazed down the driveway, watching his carriage approach through the rain.
“Don’t forget,” came a slurred voice from the environs of his neck cloth.
He looked down.
She gazed somberly up at him.
“Believe me, I shall not forget this day,” he said.
“Our duel,” she said. “It was good of you to stop me from falling down, but . . .” She stared at him for a long moment.
“Think nothing of it, Miss Sharp,” he said. “It’s hardly the first time I’ve helped a drunken friend home.”
She wagged a gloved finger under his chin. “Ah, but I’m not your friend.”
“That’s what you think,” he said.
“I’ll never be your friend,” she said. “Though I will admit . . .” She bit her lower lip. A tiny crease appeared between her delicately arched eyebrows.
She was thinking, obviously.
He pictured thoughts staggering through her brain, trying to find their way.
The carriage neared, and Bates stepped out under one of the arcade’s arches to signal the coachman where to stop. A footman leapt off the back, opened an umbrella, and hurried toward them.
After seeing Miss Renfrew stowed safely inside, the footman returned. Keeping a firm hold of Miss Sharp, Lovedon steered her toward the vehicle.
Getting her into it wanted ingenuity and quick reflexes. He could only hope that his broad back in combination with the large umbrella and the rain would prevent any onlookers in the house from observing the performance.
When he’d finally got her foot securely on the carriage step, she said, “I’ll admit I might have made a small error of judgment.”
“You made a fatal error,” he said. “You attracted my attention. Now you’ll have the devil of a time getting rid of me.” He gave her a push. Miss Renfrew quickly reached out and pulled her friend, who landed on the seat in a flurry of swishing silk. She laughed. “Oh, you silly man.”
The footman closed the door and Lovedon backed away from the carriage.
A moment later, the vehicle rolled away. He watched it go. As it reached the first curve of the driveway, the window went down and a white-gloved hand appeared and gave a jaunty wave.
Lovedon House
18th June, half-past eleven o’clock
Madam:
I shall expect to meet you at dusk this day at Battersea Fields for the purpose of defending my honor against the charges of being a coward and no gentleman. I shall supply the weapons, and Bates will act as my friend, whether he likes it or not.
A ticket porter has been engaged to loiter in the vicinity of your home. A written reply given into his keeping will make its way both discreetly and speedily to me.
I have the honor to be,
Madam,
Your obedient servant,
Lovedon
Portman Square
18th June, one o’clock
My Lord:
I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your lordship’s letter, which is thoroughly ridiculous. If your lordship thinks I propose to be hanged for killing a peer—and I ought to point out that I am an excellent shot—I recommend your lordship think again. Yesterday, as your lordship is well aware, I was deep in my cups—and it is perfectly beastly of your lordship to remind me of the fact.
I have the honor to be,
My Lord,
Your lordship’s obedient servant,
Chloe Sharp
Lovedon House
18th June, half-past two o’clock
Madam:
I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of one o’clock. Does this mean you retract your words and apologize?
I have the honor to be,
Madam,
Your obedient servant,
Lovedon
Portman Square
18th June, three o’clock
My Lord:
I would rather hang than apologize to you. For anything. Ever.
I have the honor to be,
My Lord,
Your lordship’s obedient servant,
Chloe Sharp
Lovedon House
18th June, half-past three o’clock
Madam:
Your having declined to give the reparation which I consider myself entitled to receive, I now call upon you to give me that satisfaction for your conduct which a gentleman has a right to require, and which a gentleman never refuses to give. I shall expect to see you at Battersea Fields at seven o’clock this evening.
I have the honor to be,
Madam,
Your obedient servant,
Lovedon
P.S. I dare you.
Portman Square
18th June, half-past four o’clock
My Lord:
The satisfaction which your lordship has demanded, it is of course impossible for me to decline.
I have the honor to be,
My Lord,
Your lordship’s obedient servant,
Chloe Sharp
Battersea Fields, half-past seven o’clock
Chloe stood by the cabriolet in which she and Amy had arrived. The setting sun cast a golden glow over the marshy wasteland, and she was pretending to be perfectly calm, enjoying the scenery, while Amy and Mr. Bates carried on their fussing about various dueling rules.
Lord Lovedon stood no great distance away, by his carriage—the one that had taken her home last night.
Her face didn’t go up in flames at the recollection because it didn’t need to. Her face had been burning since this morning, when the ferocious pounding behind her eyes had begun to abate enough to allow her memory to take over the job of tormenting her.
She had remembered, then, every single thing that had happened yesterday afternoon, down to the moment when she’d sent Lord Lovedon a saucy wave from his carriage window.
She’d discovered this morning what it meant to die of embarrassment.
A reasonable man of even minimal sensibility would have realized that she’d suffered enough for her extremely stupid and unladylike behavior.
A man of delicacy and understanding would have the tact to leave her to squirm with shame in the privacy of her home.
But no. He had to rub her face in it.
And now she had this idiot duel to fight, when they both knew that neither of them would do anything but fire into the air.
He probably thought it was amusing.
Everyone said he was whimsical.
Good grief, would Amy and Mr. B
ates never cease bickering?
“They’re making quite a project of this,” came a deep, drawling voice from somewhere above her shoulder.
She gave a start and a mortifying little squeak of surprise.
“Was it absolutely necessary to sneak up on me?” she said.
“I’m over six feet tall in my bare feet,” he said. “I’m wearing boots and a hat—and while I’ll admit my clothes are uniformly dark, as is de rigueur for a duel, I should have thought I was hard to miss, Miss Sharp.”
“I was not paying attention,” she said. “I was . . . thinking.”
“I observed that you were not paying attention to me,” he said. “That’s why I brought myself closer.”
She remembered being swept up in his arms. She remembered the feel of his hand at the back of her waist, keeping her steady. She remembered his arm about her shoulders . . . the warmth and strength of his big body.
The sun was sinking but it seemed to be blazing down on her, on everything, and all the world seemed to be softening and melting.
She didn’t want to melt. She didn’t want to be one of the scores of women waiting for the exclusive attention he was probably incapable of giving.
Still, she remembered what he’d said yesterday and the way he’d charmed her by degrees without her quite realizing. She recalled the series of witty, provoking notes he’d sent this day . . . and how she’d wished he’d come in person to annoy her, so that she could throw something at him—and at the same time she’d laughed, too, at his absurd messages. And she had very greatly enjoyed composing her answers.
“Amy has never acted as a second before, and she spent two hours studying Papa’s copy of The British Code of the Duel,” she said. “It’s her fault we weren’t exactly on time—because she insisted that we couldn’t proceed without a surgeon in attendance. I told her that was silly. If I kill you, no surgeon can do you any good. If I only wound you, naturally I shall leave you to bleed to death.”
“I’m sure that goes without saying,” he said in a stifled voice.
She looked up sharply. His expression was far too innocent.
Royally Ever After Page 2
