Reese rose from his chair and stepped to Lord Denbigh’s side with a placating gesture. “Let’s keep calm heads,” he said. “The trouble in Ireland isn’t going to resolve itself at the breakfast table.”
“Your Mr. Murtaugh is one of too many land managers who have been attacked recently,” Harrison added, though whether he was saying it as a concession or to lessen Lord Denbigh’s rage was debatable.
“It’s the fault of the managers that they’re murdered in the first place,” Lord O’Shea grumbled at the other end of the table, rising from his seat and glaring at Lord Denbigh.
Cece gulped and pressed a hand to her stomach. It was a blessing that the breakfast table separated Lord O’Shea and Lord Denbigh, but that didn’t stop a war of words.
“It doesn’t surprise me at all that a dog like you would applaud murderers,” Lord Denbigh growled.
“And it doesn’t surprise me that you would make a hero and a martyr out of a man who probably starved, beat, and raped his way to what he called land management,” Lord O’Shea replied.
Several of the ladies at the table gasped. One or two got up from the table and fled the room. Cece’s stomach roiled, but she was ready to jump to the defense of the Irish if she had to.
“You support upsetting the natural order of things?” Lord Denbigh shouted. “You champion those who would strike back at their betters and fly in the face of the role in society that God has ordained for them?”
“I doubt the Almighty ever intended for men to be treated like cattle,” Lord O’Shea fired back. “I believe He would weep if He saw the oppression that persists in His name.”
“The Irish are no better than cattle, and acts of violence like this only serve to prove it.” Before Lord O’Shea or anyone else in the room could contradict him, he snapped. “Come along, Claudia. We’re leaving. Now.”
He pulled Lady Claudia’s chair back so fast she almost spilled to the floor. Without a word, fear in her eyes, Lady Claudia scrambled to her feet and scurried out of the room without a look at anyone.
“We can delay the cricket match, if you’d like,” Rupert called from the end of the table as Lord Denbigh marched after her.
Lord Denbigh stopped as though Rupert’s words were an arrow that had struck him in the back. He whipped around, glaring at Rupert. “The match is still on,” he growled. “I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to crush you all for anything, especially now.”
He didn’t wait for a reply before charging out of the room, radiating fury.
A long, painful silence followed. Cece sat frozen in her chair, not sure if she should say something to diffuse the situation or if she should simply drink her tea and pretend nothing had happened.
“If you will excuse me,” Reese said at last, breaking the tension. “I must speak to my staff about departures.”
Reese’s exit relieved some of the tension, and a dozen, whispered conversations started up around the table. Cece wished she were sitting next to Rupert so that they could discuss what had just happened.
“I hate to say it,” Rupert spoke over the low chatter, “but perhaps this is not the best time for a house party after all.”
“You may be right,” Henrietta said, glancing across the table at her brother. “It might be best if we all head back to London.”
“Particularly as this unfortunate event will likely have political consequences,” Lord Herrington agreed with a nod.
Murmurs of agreement sounded around the table. Cece met Rupert’s eyes across the distance and nodded. It would be best for them to be in London if the murder of Lord Denbigh’s father’s steward led to bigger trouble.
Breakfast was finished in a hurry. Reese had more than just a quick talk with his staff to deal with as the majority of his guests requested their things be packed and brought down for departure right away. Cece packed her own trunk, since she was perfectly capable of doing it and felt the maids could be used elsewhere. She did it with a heavy heart, though, and by the time she gathered with the rest of the guests on Albany Court’s front steps, waiting for the carriages to be brought around, she had the distinct feeling as though someone had died.
“Of course, someone has died,” Reese told her when she confided as much in him. “We might not have known Mr. Murtaugh, but I fear his death will affect us all.”
“I fear you’re right,” Cece told him, glad that the two of them were friends.
That sense of gloom stayed with her all the way to the station, while Rupert exchanged their return tickets for the next train to depart, and as the two of them settled into a first-class compartment together.
Which was why, when the train rolled forward and Rupert moved to sit on the seat beside her, circling his arm around her shoulders and grinning at her like a schoolboy with a sweet, she recoiled.
“Rupert, what are you doing?” she demanded, pushing away from him and moving to the opposing seat when he tried to kiss her.
Rupert blinked in surprise. “We’re alone in a train compartment once again,” he said, a hint of offense in his voice. “Since we enjoyed each other’s company so much last night, I figured—”
“You figured what?” she snapped. “That I would be in an amorous mood after hearing of the violent death of a man? That I would want to engage in wicked activity when the entire political situation in Ireland may be about to explode?”
Rupert clenched his jaw. “If we held ourselves back from love every time the situation in Ireland was about to explode, there would be no love at all.”
“Then perhaps there shouldn’t be any,” Cece said, louder than she intended to. A porter passing in the train’s narrow hall beside them flinched in his steps and frowned at her through the window.
Rupert reached over and drew the shades to give them some privacy. “I didn’t mean to offend your delicate political sensibilities,” he grumbled. “I withdraw my offer of intimacy.”
Cece’s eyes snapped wide. “You act as though it were something I requested, not something thrust upon me.”
“You didn’t complain about things being thrust upon you last night,” he said in a quiet, sullen voice.
“Rupert Marlowe, you do beat all,” Cece huffed. She crossed her arms, shook her head, and stared out the window at the passing countryside, as irritated with him now as she had been on the way up to Albany Court.
“Forgive me for wanting to take comfort in the arms of the woman I love during times of distress instead of fretting uselessly about it,” he said, as put out as she was.
She glared across the compartment at him. “Don’t fret about it, then,” she said. “Don’t behave inappropriately to the moment either. Use the power you have as a lord, as a man, to pass laws that will make the situation right. I only wish that I could do the same.”
She settled into her seat, writhing with discomfort in a thousand ways. She was miserable that women were so helpless to address the problems of the world, miserable that Rupert seemed to think the answer to everything was sexual congress, and miserable that anyone had to die, or kill, for what they believed in. If things didn’t change soon, she might end up doing something rash and causing an even bigger scandal than she already had.
Chapter 17
Every time he thought he was taking a step forward, Rupert found himself sliding back to where he started. He tossed the bag containing his cricket kit into a corner of the porch that ran along one side of the pavilion bordering the pitch at Lord’s, bending over to draw out his bat as if unsheathing a sword. He would never understand Cece, never in a million years. Just when he thought things were finally perfect between the two of them, she turned into a cold fish once more.
He jerked around, intending to stomp down the porch stairs for a little practice before the momentous game against Denbigh and his friends began, but instead, he nearly thwacked Fergus with his bat.
“Careful, there,” Fergus said, laughing and holding up his hands. “It’s Denbigh’s squad you want to beat to a pulp, not me.�
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Rupert softened his scowl, shaking his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled, heading on down the steps to the grass.
Fergus followed him, his bright, ginger hair shining in the sunlight and contrasting sharply with his cricket whites. Where Rupert was all frustration and darkness, Fergus looked as though he’d been knighted and handed a sack of gold all at once.
“Why are you in such a good mood?” Rupert asked him. The question came out like an accusation, leaving a bad taste in his mouth.
Fergus shrugged and followed him out to the wicket, catching a ball that Jack Craig, a last-minute addition to the team, tossed his way. “The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I get a chance to show up Denbigh and his lot today.”
Rupert glanced sideways at his friend just as a peal of feminine laughter swelled from the edge of the wooden grandstands that started several yards from the pavilion. His heart leapt for a moment as he instantly spotted Cece front and center in the group. She and the rest of the ladies wore stylish, white day dresses with some sort of large purple flower pinned to their chests. Cece’s blonde hair was piled atop her head and topped with a tall, brimmed hat decorated with purple ostrich feathers to match her flower. She looked like a fashion plate, but considering the simple lines of her skirt and the lighter fabric, she was also dressed as though she might challenge him to another badminton match.
Cece wasn’t the only woman who caught his attention, though. Lady Tavistock was laughing louder than the rest of the women. Not only that, she glanced their way and sent Fergus a smile that was so coquettish it might as well have been an advertisement of availability.
“The sun is shining indeed,” Rupert grumbled, shaking his head.
They reached the wicket, but rather than jumping into practice, Fergus clapped a hand on Rupert’s shoulder and turned him to face him. “What have you done now?” he asked.
Rupert glared at him. “What makes you think I did anything?”
Fergus answered with a flat stare, crossing his arms.
“Women are a mystery,” he said with surprising vehemence. “They say one thing then behave inconsistently. They smile one moment then tell you off the next.”
“What did you do?” Fergus repeated in more ominous tones.
Rupert huffed in annoyance. “Why must I be the one at fault?” The heat rising up his neck and face stung of guilt. He answered his own question with, “It’s Denbigh’s fault. Him and his father and their Irish holdings.”
Fergus’s brow shot up. “Don’t tell me you’re blaming the Irish for all your problems too.”
“No, of course not,” Rupert grumbled. “But things were going so well at the house party.” A rush of heat of another kind filled him at the memory of just how well. “Then Denbigh’s father’s bloody steward had to go and get himself killed, and—”
Fergus held up a hand to stop him. “Never mind. I know why Lady Cecelia is vexed with you.”
Rupert let out a hopeless, irritated breath, his shoulders dropping. “All I wanted was to come home from South Africa, leave the army behind, and to take up my duties as Earl of Stanhope with the woman I love at my side. I didn’t expect to leave one battle just to enter another.”
“Life is full of battles,” Fergus told him with a rare streak of seriousness. “You’re my friend, Rupert. You’re like a brother to me. But the whole purpose of serving our country was to put our youth behind us and to take up the responsibilities of men. That includes swallowing your pride now and then and thinking with something other than your cock.”
“I’m not just thinking with my cock,” Rupert argued, though an uncomfortable itch spread down his spine even as he spoke the words.
Fergus raised one eyebrow doubtfully. He let his arms drop and shifted his stance. “If you can’t learn to take the slings and arrows of life in stride, you’re going to find yourself fighting more battles than any sane man should ever get himself into. And if you refuse to listen to the woman you love, listen to the things she doesn’t say as well as the things she does, then you won’t even give yourself a safe place to retreat to when the rest of the world attacks.”
His friend was right, but pride kept Rupert from admitting it outright. “And you derive all this wisdom from your vast experience with women?”
Fergus grinned impishly, glancing past him to Lady Tavistock and the rest of the ladies, who were moving away from the grandstand toward the pavilion. “I do all right,” he said, leaving Rupert to imagine what was going on.
“Wait! Where are you going?” One of the older gentlemen, Mr. Clarke, who had come to watch the match from the pavilion porch called out to the approaching ladies. “You can’t come up here.”
Rupert’s uncomfortable conversation with Fergus and his focus on his own problems instantly dropped. He steeled himself and marched back toward the pavilion, Fergus on his heels.
“What do you mean we can’t go up there?” Lady Tavistock asked, looking like a general at the front of an army of white-clad women.
Mr. Clarke flapped his mouth indignantly before forming words. “Ladies are not allowed in the pavilion.”
“Why not?” Cece asked. She sent an imperious, sideways look to Rupert as he and Fergus reached the scene. “Are you afraid we’ll damage the place?”
Some of the other May Flowers laughed. Mr. Clarke didn’t look remotely amused.
“It simply isn’t done,” he said dismissively. “Ladies have never been allowed in the pavilion. Ladies should not be wandering free across the grounds at all.”
“Are we a flock of sheep that has been set loose to destroy your grass, then?” Lady Tavistock asked with a look of shock and offense.
Mr. Clarke’s face pinched as though she’d said something foul. “I refuse to discuss the matter with a jumped-up female who thinks too much of herself. Where is your husband, madam? Why has he not restrained you?”
Lady Tavistock’s expression went stone cold. “My dear, late husband, the Marquess of Tavistock, is in his grave, sir.”
Mr. Clarke turned red and stammered, “I’m very sorry, my lady, very sorry.” He then straightened and went on with, “But ladies still aren’t allowed in the pavilion.”
“Never mind,” Cece said, catching Rupert’s eye with a sideways glance then moving closer to him. She snatched the cricket bat right out of his hand and said, “A lady’s place is on the cricket pitch.”
A flurry of approval and excitement arose from the dozen or so other May Flowers as Cece rested the bat jauntily over her shoulder and marched out toward the wicket. Lady Tavistock slipped over to take the ball from Fergus’s hand before catching up to Cece. Rupert exchanged a glance with Fergus, then both of them rushed to catch up to the ladies.
“You can’t possibly propose to play cricket,” he said, falling into step by Cece’s side.
“And why not?” she asked, one eyebrow raised. “I’ve handled a bat before.”
The look in her eyes that accompanied her words caused Rupert to miss a step and choke on the reply he was about to make.
Fergus caught the meaning of the comment as well and laughed outright. “I’ll show you how to bowl, Lady Tavistock,” he said, crossing behind Cece and Lady Tavistock to take the ball from her. “It’s all in the action of your swing.”
“What’s going on here?” Jack asked, jogging to meet the invading group of women, along with several of the other players.
“Since your opponents have yet to arrive, Mr. Craig, the ladies of the May Flowers have decided to take up cricket and challenge you instead,” Cece said.
Most of the other players laughed congenially.
“Lady Claudia is going to be devastated to have missed this,” Cece’s friend, Lady Diana Pickwick, laughed as she stepped away from the group of women to pick up a cricket ball that lay abandoned in the grass. She tossed it to one of the other women, Lady Beatrice Lichfield.
“Lady Claudia would never approve to begin with,” Lady Beatrice answered with a laugh.
“That lot never approves of anything the rest of us do these days,” Cece said, ignoring the question.
Several of the other ladies hummed in agreement. Rupert was surprised to find at least half of them scowling. He’d been under the impression that the May Flowers acted as one.
“We should form a May Flowers cricket team,” Lady Tavistock said, her expression lighting with inspiration.
Several of the other ladies, Cece among them, voiced their agreement and delight.
“You know, there are scientists and physicians who are beginning to postulate that women should be physically active,” Cece said. “Contrary to the prevailing notions about female fragility.”
“Hear, hear,” Lady Diana seconded.
Jack grinned. “Have any of you ever played cricket before?”
A chorus of no’s and disappointment sounded from the women.
“Never,” Lady Tavistock said. “But there’s a first time for everything.”
“And you condone this?” Jack asked Rupert with a smirk.
“No,” Rupert answered. “Not at all.”
“Rubbish,” Cece huffed, swinging his bat and walking up to the wicket. “How difficult can it be?”
“Far more difficult than you imagine,” Rupert said, following her. “This isn’t badminton.”
“My athletic skills do not end with badminton, Lord Stanhope,” she said, positioning herself in front of the stumps and thumping the ground with the toe of the bat before assuming the most dreadful batting form he’d ever seen.
“No, no, you’re doing it all wrong,” he groaned, walking up behind her. The juxtaposition of irritation at her antics and lust at being able to stand with his arms around her, turning her arms and straightening her back was enough to make him lose his mind. “Your grip is all wrong, for one. Your thumb and forefinger on each hand should form a vee that lines up with the center of the bat’s back. Your dominant hand goes on top.”
As he positioned her hands correctly, she leaned subtly back into him, pressing her backside against his crotch. Her dress had very little bustle, which meant he took the movement for exactly what it was.
A Lady’s First Scandal Page 18