Scandal of the Season

by Liana Lefey

  Eleanor watched with bewilderment as Sorin seated himself by Caroline rather than taking the seat beside her as he’d always done in the past. What in heaven’s name is going on? Carefully, she thought back over the evening prior, trying to remember if she’d done anything that might have offended him. But other than forgetting her gloves, nothing came to mind. While they talked, she poured. “Lord Wincanton?” she said, handing him a cup. “Dash of cream and half a spoonful of sugar, is that not how you take yours?”

  “Yes, thank you,” came his absent reply as he reached out and took it from her. She shivered as his fingers briefly brushed against hers. Strange, she’d thought it quite cozy in here a moment ago. Her temper warmed her quickly, however, as he immediately turned his attention back to Caroline, who was talking about the nature sketches she’d been working on over the winter.

  Frustrated by his short answer and lack of attention, Eleanor poured for her cousin and Caroline. The temptation to put lemon in her friend’s cup instead of sugar was strong, but she decided against the juvenile prank. Caroline was not to blame for his odd behavior, after all, even if she was making a complete cake of herself. For the life of her, Eleanor couldn’t understand why Sorin was paying her any mind at all. He intensely disliked women like Caroline—or at least that was what he’d always claimed.

  But if that was so, then why was he acting like this?

  It took every ounce of self-discipline not to look at her. Sorin could feel the strain as every one of his nerves tugged in her direction. Doggedly, he instead kept his eyes fixed on her vapid little friend, refusing to give in.

  He still couldn’t get over how much Eleanor had grown and matured. She’d taken the trouble to change her gown and looked radiant in pale yellow muslin. Like sunlight and daisies. How very like her to remember just how he liked his tea, too.

  “We’ll be staying the whole Season this time,” Charles was saying.

  “And we’ll have young Miss Caroline with us,” added Rowena. “When her parents informed us they would not be making the journey this year, Eleanor insisted we have her come and stay with us.”

  Eleanor smiled sweetly. “London is always so much more fun when shared with a friend.”

  He watched as she reached out to refill her cup from the pot. Though her neckline was perfectly modest and her bosom entirely covered with a fichu, the material pulled tightly across the swells beneath it. The temperature in the room went up a bit. He had to get out of here, and soon. Before Charles invited him to stay another bloody night. Before his traitorous desires and emotions could give themselves away through some stray word or misdeed.

  Eleanor was speaking again to her friend, “I dread to think of some handsome swain wooing you away and depriving me of your company. But though I lose you to your groom, I wish you good fortune in the hunt.”

  “As do I,” said Rowena.

  “Indeed, I wish you the best of luck,” added Charles with a chuckle. “After all, the whole purpose of the thing is for the unwed to find a ring.” Though the rhyme was spoken with humor, the look he directed at Eleanor was pointed.

  “Not all unwed ladies go to London with that singular purpose, Charles,” she replied calmly, taking a sip of her tea. “I certainly shan’t.”

  “Why not?” Sorin blurted before thinking it through.

  “Why should I?” Her tone was light. “Thanks to Papa, I have wealth enough of my own to live comfortably for the rest of my life, provided I manage it well.”

  In for a penny… “You mean not to marry?”

  Her shoulders lifted in an elegant shrug. “Well, I suppose if I should happen to meet someone who makes me completely happy, I might feel inclined toward matrimony.” She sighed. “But I think it highly unlikely that I shall ever find such a person. I may be young, but I’m woefully set in my ways, as my dear cousin will be quick to tell you. Besides which, the company I most enjoy is already right here.”

  “But what of children?” asked Caroline, seemingly as shocked as he was to hear her announcement.

  “Oh, well. I suppose I should like to have children someday,” she replied. “But not at the expense of being bound to someone with whom I cannot truly be happy. No. I would rather remain unencumbered than compromise my joy.” A beatific smile curved her lips. “Besides, what need have I that cannot be fulfilled through such friendships as I already possess?”

  An awkward silence fell, and Sorin barely refrained from snorting aloud into it. What need, indeed? Wicked thoughts on that subject ran amok, and it was all he could do to keep the chief—and highly inappropriate—answer behind his teeth.

  “Surely your heart longs for something deeper and more meaningful?” asked Caroline, oblivious to the barely audible sigh of relief from the men in the room.

  The girl had taken the words right out of his mouth, for which he was grateful—until he noticed she was looking at him rather than at Eleanor, and with far too keen an interest.

  “Not at all,” said Eleanor, smiling. “I’m quite content with my life just as it is, I assure you. All the longings of my heart are met.”

  Such blithe words from one so clearly inexperienced! A hair’s breadth away from bursting into laughter, he sought to cover his amusement by taking a sip of tea. Above the rim of the cup, he watched Rowena level a quelling stare at Charles, who looked near to asphyxiation.

  “And what of you, Lord Wincanton?” asked Caroline, drawing his gaze. “What are your views on the institution of marriage?”

  A mouthful of tea went down the wrong pipe. Fighting the urge to cough, he took another sip and carefully cleared his throat. “Me? Ah, well. I suppose I shall be obliged to marry, naturally. Eventually,” he amended as the girl’s eyes took on a distressingly hungry gleam. He looked at Eleanor and saw her lips quirk just as she ducked her head over her teacup. The little imp was laughing! Well, it took two to waltz. “Unlike some, I have not the option of remaining unencumbered. I have a duty to my family—one with demands that, unfortunately, cannot be fulfilled by mere friendship.”

  Charles’s brows collided, and Sorin realized he’d alluded to a bit more than was appropriate for present company. The conversation needed to move forward and quickly. He glanced at Eleanor, but then immediately swung his gaze toward Caroline, feeling as though he were navigating a battlefield. “I was engaged once. But she was taken from me only weeks before we were to marry.”

  Jane. She’d been killed in a riding accident during a hunt almost ten years ago. The horse, a borrowed mount, had thrown her and then stepped on her, crushing her. As long as he lived, he would never be able to expunge the sight of the life ebbing from her blue eyes. It was his fault she’d died. He’d put her on the accursed beast, dismissing her reluctance and encouraging her to put aside her timidity and be more adventurous, to live more fully.

  Never again.

  “I’ve yet to find her equal,” he continued, shoving his guilt into a dark corner. It amazed him how such an old wound could still feel so raw. “And now, like Ellie, I’m woefully set in my ways. Yes. I’m afraid the lady I marry will have to be eligible for sainthood.”

  Caroline’s hand flew to her bosom, and she leaned a little closer. “How can you say such a thing about yourself when you are the very soul of accommodation and kindness? Any lady would be honored to call you her own.”

  Sorin felt the carved arm of the couch, an immovable barrier, dig into his ribs on the opposite side. She would be in his bloody lap in a moment. “So says a kind-hearted young lady of little experience with ill-tempered old men like myself.”

  “Old?” The redhead’s smile turned coy. “You are not yet forty years of age, sir. My own dear papa was forty and five when he married, and Mama but seventeen.”

  He opened his mouth, but then shut it again. There was no possible response that wouldn’t cause him endless trouble. Opposite, he saw that Eleanor’s shoulders were shaking so now that she was barely able to keep her tea from spilling.

  Charles
came to his rescue. “If I remember correctly, Miss Caroline, your parents met for the first time on their wedding day. An arranged marriage, was it not?”

  Caroline looked at him with barely concealed irritation. “Indeed.”

  “Well, there you are then,” said Charles, slapping his knee as he turned to regard him with a smirk. “Perhaps there is the solution to your problem, eh? I’m certain your lady mother would be delighted to handpick her own daughter-in-law, would she not?”

  Sorin breathed a quiet sigh of relief as the fickle tide again turned in his favor. “Indeed she would,” he agreed with a chuckle. His traitorous eyes again found Eleanor and lingered on her for a moment. “However, I prefer to choose my bride-to-be myself.”

  “And who can blame you?” said Charles, his face breaking into a smile as he looked to Rowena. “After all, I chose my own lovely bride and look how happy it has made me.”

  “Oh, was it you who made the choice, then?” Rowena’s smile was soft in spite of her teasing tone.

  Sorin looked on with a touch of envy. Indeed, his friend’s joy was complete. He was the lord of a fine estate—several, in fact—while still young enough to enjoy it, his wife was both beautiful and affectionate, and his line assured.

  It was the sort of life he’d have had with Jane, had she lived. But Fate, in her caprice, had dealt him a different set of cards. He looked at Eleanor, sitting there serving them tea, so composed and elegant, completely unaware of the ardent feelings she evoked in him. Truly, she had grown up to be every inch the lady he’d always told her she must be. He refused to believe she wouldn’t marry. The call to matrimony was not something many young women denied for very long.

  All it would take was a little pressure. Her friends, like the eager Miss Caroline, would marry and their lives would become vastly different. Then those friends would begin having children and motherhood would add yet another layer of separation. Left behind, she’d begin to feel lonely and want to rejoin their ranks. Then a handsome young man would come along with all the right words to unlock her heart, and she’d traipse down the aisle with a smile on her lips to slide that man’s ring on her finger.

  And then she’d be gone.

  The thought lashed at him like a whip. He pushed it aside. She would marry. It was only right that she should have a life filled with all of the happiness she deserved. And he’d ensure that it happened, even if it meant tearing out his own heart. “Rowena, I meant to ask how the children were this morning.” A safe enough subject. Better than talk of marriage, certainly.

  “As good as may be,” she said with a wry laugh. “Michael is giving Nanny fits, insisting on keeping a pet toad in the nursery. Emily is still coughing, which has us a bit worried, but she seems to be steadily improving.”

  “And young George?”

  “Is doing very well with his lessons,” she said, her expression one of immense pride. “His tutor has told us that he’s quite a promising little scholar. Naturally, he’ll go to Oxford—”

  “Ahem. Rowena my gem,” interrupted Charles gently. “I thought we agreed he would attend King’s College in Cambridge.”

  Her smile broadened just a little and she patted his arm. “Did we? I can never remember, darling. But there are many years yet to come before we must make a final decision. None of us knows what things will be like by the time George is of an age to attend.” She rubbed his arm soothingly. “I’m sure there will be many fine institutions from which to choose by then, and we don’t yet know his natural bent.”

  This seemed to mollify Charles, somewhat. “Well, being a King’s man, I am naturally biased toward Cambridge. But…I suppose we should wait and see the direction he takes before carving anything in stone.”

  “You are ever reasonable and fair-minded, my love,” said his wife, giving him a final pat.

  Sorin hid a smile. He had no doubt whatsoever that little George would be an Oxford man, if she wanted it that way. She had the benefit of time to exert her gentle influence. Again, he looked at Eleanor. Her sharp eyes and ears never missed much, and he wondered if she was taking notes on how to properly handle a husband of her own.

  All at once he pictured himself with that coveted title, a blissful image of them discussing plans for their own children. He allowed this fantasy to live for no more than an instant before snuffing it out. It was an impossible dream.

  How could he violate Charles’s and Rowena’s trust by admitting amorous feelings for their cousin, whom he’d practically helped them raise? Especially when she looked on him without the slightest romantic interest whatsoever. If that wasn’t enough, then there was the fact that they were all wrong for each other.

  Unlike his shy, quiet Jane, Ellie was a force of nature. Despite what she’d said, he knew from her many letters that she craved adventure and excitement. And though she’d apparently taken his admonishments to govern her impulsive nature to heart, he could still see its mutinous spark in her eyes. He wouldn’t be the one to put it out.

  He’d tried to shape Jane into something she wasn’t and the outcome had been disastrous. His brushstrokes could be plainly seen in Ellie’s demeanor now, and he longed to undo them, to take back his censure. He’d wanted to protect her, to teach her caution, to make her more like Jane—for her own good.

  It had been a mistake.

  Even if by some miracle he could convince her to accept his suit, the act would only result in her misery and eventual resentment of him. She could never be content as his wife. Ellie needed a husband who was like-minded, a kindred spirit. Someone young and idealistic, someone ready for an adventure. He was not that man. Not anymore.

  No. The only way out of this was to see Ellie married—to someone else. Someone better suited to her. Someone worthy of her.

  “I believe I shall go to London this Season,” he announced, watching as eyes widened around the room. One pair in particular—the wrong pair—shone with undisguised delight. Miss Caroline looked like a child who’d just been promised a pony of her very own. Eleanor’s gaze, however, was fixed on the teapot. “I’ve been away for far too long and must get reacquainted with everyone,” he continued, hiding his disappointment. After all, why should she care whether or not he went to London?

  “How wonderful!” said Rowena. “You’ll come with us to all of the balls and parties, of course?”

  “Naturally,” he answered. It would be torture, but he’d do it if only to see Eleanor safely married by the end of it. At least then he would have a measure of peace. Above all, her marriage would force him to get on with his own life. “It’ll be like old times,” he said, trying not to sound pained.

  “By George, I think it a marvelous plan!” said Charles. “You’ll come with us, have a jolly time of it, and we’ll find you the perfect wife!”

  Sorin repressed a groan. That Charles had the same strategy for him as he did for Eleanor was irony at its finest. “Why not?” he said, forcing a laugh. “It’s better than allowing my mother to choose my bride, certainly.” He fought the impulse for a moment, and lost. “What think you, Eleanor?”

  She looked at him and smiled serenely. “I think it a fine plan. I should like nothing better than to see you as happy as my cousin.”

  Again disappointment stung hard, and with it the certainty that seeing her happily married was the right thing to do—for her sake, as well as his own.

  Chapter Three

  Eleanor fought for inner calm as she watched Caroline shamelessly flirt with Sorin. Such behavior was to be expected whenever Caroline encountered any reasonably decent-looking male of the species—but his favorable reaction to it was most certainly not.

  “Eleanor?”

  She jumped and saw that Charles was staring at her expectantly. “I’m so sorry. What were you saying?” If the heat in her cheeks was any indication, she was turning as red as a beet.

  “I said that with any luck some young buck will persuade you to marry, as well,” he reiterated. “Oh, I know you mean to stay ‘unen
cumbered’ and all that rot, but you never know.” He turned to Sorin. “This may be the year our Jericho finally falls.”

  “Charles,” admonished Rowena, giving him a sharp look.

  “Jericho?” said Sorin at the same time.

  Her heart sank.

  “Yes, well, Lady Jericho, to be precise,” corrected Charles, ignoring the elbow his wife nudged against his side. “One of the fellows dogging Eleanor’s heels last Season, a young reverend, in fact,”—he broke off and chuckled for a moment—“declared he would bring down her walls even if it meant marching ’round her house seven times while blowing the matrimonial trumpet.” He dissolved into laughter.

  Eleanor cringed. It wasn’t all that funny, really.

  “A most persistent young man, as I recall,” added Rowena, shooting Eleanor an apologetic glance. “He proposed to her three times.”

  Caroline turned to face her with a wounded expression. “Did he? You never told me.”

  “Well, to be honest, I did not think it noteworthy.”

  “Not noteworthy?” said Charles with another incredulous laugh. “The man proclaimed before the entire assembly at the Darlington ball that God Himself had promised him in a dream that our Eleanor would be his wife. Not noteworthy!” he scoffed. “You should have seen the bloody book at White’s. Entire pages were devoted to wagers on whether or not she would succumb to his siege. Every man in London with a shilling to spare likely bet on the outcome.”

  Sorin’s face was deadpan. “How disappointed they must have been when she made good her escape.”

  “Ah, indeed.” Charles wagged a playful finger. “But he did not make it easy, oho no. Our Eleanor ran, and wherever she went, the good reverend followed.”

  Indeed he had. Like a biblical plague.

  “He tried everything to catch her,” continued Charles. “I understand he even shammed an injury at one point.”

  “An injury?” exclaimed Caroline, her hand rising to her bosom.

  If Sorin’s gaze hadn’t been fixed on the region over which that hand rested, Eleanor would have found her dramatic display hilarious. As it was, she was not at all amused. “Yes,” she bit out. “He ‘hit’ his head on a low branch during a garden party—quite intentionally, I assure you—and then in front of everyone requested that I accompany him back to the house so that he might recover. I could not decline without seeming rude, so I agreed. As soon as we were out of sight, however, the horrid little toad miraculously recovered his ailing faculties and then proceeded to behave in a manner most untoward.” He was still staring at Caroline. Her temper flared. “He kissed me.”