A Most Scandalous Engagement

by Gayle Callen

  “Or to get the appropriate response out of you. I’m quite enjoying your blush. Perhaps we’ll truly throw caution to the wind and dance together a third time.”

  “No, that is too much for one night,” she said, stepping away when he would have pulled her back into the center of the drawing room.

  “I must show my new devotion somehow. I could sneak into your bedroom . . .”

  She laughed, knowing her reaction was what he wanted to project to the room. “As if anyone would know. Shall we go for a carriage ride tomorrow morning? I understand you have a new phaeton, displaying your wealth in the typical way of a bachelor.”

  “I am so predictable, then?”

  “Some men are. Your courtship of me will prove you’re a radical.”

  “A romantic idealist. That’s what everyone else will say.”

  She smiled. “A foolish optimist.”

  He met her amused eyes with his own. “You mean a foolish dreamer.”

  They looked at each other for a moment. Even after all the craziness of the last few days, her disappointment in him, her mistrust, it was still so easy to talk to him. She’d forgotten that these last few years since her coming out. Even more proof that, regardless of their teasing or their partnership in deception, they were not meant for more.

  “So you will ride beside me tomorrow and look giddy with happiness,” he said.

  She nodded, telling herself that Thomas would soon be a thing of the past. She just had to be patient.

  “And then you shall come to call upon my mother,” she said firmly.

  “So soon? Shouldn’t we show our new devotion for at least a day or two?”

  His eyes had become suspicious, watchful, and she knew she’d revealed too much haste.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I was just thinking to get on with the engagement, the sooner for it to be finished.”

  “And then . . . what will happen?”

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “None of your business.”

  “Ah, but I’m the love of your life,” he said, smiling wickedly, even as he squeezed his elbow to his side, trapping her hand against him.

  She had a fleeting impression of warmth, and the steely muscles of an active man, before he was forced by propriety to loosen his hold.

  “How can you keep secrets from me?” he continued.

  “Even husbands and wives aren’t supposed to share everything.”

  “They’re not?”

  “Of course not. Such sharing is for friendships, like we used to have.” For just a moment she let him see her seriousness. “I never thought you would wager over something so personal to me, Peter.” She was still hurt, and didn’t care if he knew it.

  “And I never thought you would keep such reckless secrets. With your behavior, I can’t even imagine the things you’re hiding. You’ve been so insistent that you’ve changed.”

  The edge of her annoyance was sharp and brittle. “I am not reckless. Everything I do is perfectly thought out.”

  “You’ll have to prove that to me.”

  “Gladly. I will see you in the morning.” She spoke stiffly, between smiling lips.

  “You’re not convincing anyone of your infatuation with me,” he chided, letting her go as another man approached.

  She lifted her nose in the air and turned away.

  As Peter drove his pair of matched gray geldings through the London traffic the next morning, he couldn’t forget the look on Elizabeth’s face when she’d left him at Lady Marlowe’s dinner party. As she’d allowed another man to take her hand and lead her into the dance, he could have sworn she seemed . . . afraid.

  Before that, she’d put on such a show for the guests, being sweet and shy and beguiling in her innocent flirtation. Even he’d almost been fooled.

  A barouche took a corner too quickly, and only his reflexes saved the two carriages from disaster. He glared at the coachman, who shook a fist, but Peter knew he should concentrate more on his driving and less on the mystery of Elizabeth.

  And she was a mystery, even to his family. His mother already seemed suspicious about why he wasn’t spending every moment trying to help Mary Anne. He was attempting to regroup where his sister was concerned, to think of a new plan to make her see the error of her ways. He’d had to tell them both that he was taking Elizabeth for a drive. Mary Anne had rolled her eyes and snickered, even as their mother allowed a flicker of hope to show in her gaze before she remembered their place in Society.

  And what would Mary Anne think when he was engaged—and then it was broken? It would hardly convince her that she’d underestimated the appeal of marriage. But he would ford that stream later, and allay his mother’s curiosity.

  Perhaps he was growing too used to making excuses for himself, he thought, frowning.

  At Madingley House, he left his groom holding the bridle of one of his horses and took the stairs to the front door with easy enthusiasm. After he rang the bell, the butler guided him through the ostentatious entrance hall and upstairs into a smaller drawing room. To his surprise, the Dowager Duchess of Madingley stepped inside. Where once her expression would have lit with fondness, now she smiled with a hint of concern.

  “Good morning, Mr. Derby,” she said, gliding into the room.

  He bowed to her. “You look radiant as always, Your Grace.” Once she’d settled herself onto the sofa, he sat down across from her.

  “I understand you’re taking Elizabeth out for a ride this morning,” the duchess said.

  “So I am. She expressed interest in my new phaeton.”

  “How kind of you to amuse her.” Though she continued to smile at him, her black eyes seemed shadowed with curiosity and confusion. “And how is your mother?”

  “She is well, thank you. Dealing with my sister, of course, although surely you are familiar with the travails of young ladies.”

  She nodded, but he sensed she had more on her mind than polite conversation.

  “Mr. Derby . . . Peter.”

  She used his Christian name, smiling faintly, knowing she’d earned the right long ago.

  “Forgive my prying,” she continued, “but . . . I am curious about this recent attention to Elizabeth. I heard from friends that last night you danced several times together.”

  “We did.” He continued to politely smile. “Elizabeth and I have always gotten along well together.”

  “Yes, but . . .” Her smile was fond, yet almost sad. “You know she thinks of you as a friend,” she said in a low voice.

  “Of course.” He felt a slight surge of guilt. He knew things about her daughter . . . was doing improper things with her daughter.

  Yet he wouldn’t stop, couldn’t, not after these last few years of dawning realization that Elizabeth was a special woman.

  Chapter 6

  Elizabeth came to a stop outside the small drawing room, hearing Peter’s voice—and her mother’s. She winced and held still, listening, avoiding the gaze of the footmen, who pretended they didn’t know what she was doing.

  “Peter,” the duchess continued, “forgive my curiosity, but I need to protect my daughter. After all, years ago, you showed interest in my niece, Susanna.”

  Elizabeth held her breath. Had something happened between them she didn’t know about?

  “There was a summer when I wondered if Miss Leland and I would be more than friends,” Peter said, “but it was not meant to be.”

  Elizabeth had a brief memory of Susanna crying—over Peter? Perhaps there was more to the story. And then she remembered the ball celebrating Matthew’s return home last autumn—she’d seen Peter and Susanna leaving the dance floor together. At the time she’d thought nothing of it, but now her curiosity was heightened. Had he tried to make Susanna . . . one of his women? How could she think of Peter as such a rogue? Except somehow, for some reason, he seemed to have become one.

  Her mother continued to probe Peter’s past. “And then you courted Emily Leland, when we thou
ght she was Matthew’s widow.”

  “And do you blame me for that, Your Grace?” he asked.

  “Of course not, Peter. You were not the only man to show interest when she emerged from mourning. You even spent time at Madingley Court right after he returned from India. That was not awkward, between you and Emily?”

  “Only at first, Your Grace,” he said smoothly—too smoothly. “Emily made certain that I would feel at ease.”

  Elizabeth could not let this interrogation go on. It was time to play her new part, freshly “in love” with Peter Derby. She would use the memory of the portrait to make herself blush. But when she swept into the room, and Peter rose quickly to his feet, the way he looked at her made her stumble as she came to a stop. Those blue eyes glowed with admiration, and instead of thinking of the portrait, she found herself remembering being alone with him in the library, their arms about each other, their mouths so close to a kiss.

  She smiled at him, aiming for enthusiasm. “Good morning, Peter.”

  He took her hand and bowed over it, giving it a special squeeze. “You look radiant, Elizabeth.”

  She tried not to look at her mother, who watched them closely and could usually read her mind. She would be the most difficult person of all to convince.

  Elizabeth linked her hands when he released her. “Thank you, sir. Perhaps my radiance will drive away the chance of rain.”

  “A cloud would not dare show itself today,” he said.

  She laughed, then looked to the duchess. “Mama, we’ll be off, then. I’ll take my maid with me.”

  “And I have a groom with me as well,” Peter assured her mother.

  The duchess nodded, looking from Peter to Elizabeth. “I am certain you’ve both thought of everything.”

  What did that mean? Elizabeth wondered, not daring to exchange a glance with Peter. Oh, she was feeling so guilty she was reading hidden meanings everywhere. After donning her bonnet, she lifted her light summer shawl, but Peter took it from her hand and draped it around her shoulders.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, peering up at him from beneath her lashes with exaggerated admiration. She glanced at her mother. “I’ll be back soon!” Putting her hand on Peter’s arm, she allowed him to lead her outside, knowing that Teresa, her maid, followed. When the footman closed the door behind them, she let out a heavy sigh as they went down the stairs to the pavement.

  Peter chuckled and said for her ears only, “Misleading your mother was not as easy as you thought it would be.”

  “It was manageable,” she insisted lightly. “And for you? I overheard a bit of your conversation.”

  Though she watched him carefully, he betrayed no uneasiness as he said, “I believe she’s worried I’m so desperate to be attached to your family, I’m going through every eligible relation one at a time.”

  “Then you skipped Rebecca.”

  “Give me time.”

  Elizabeth’s laugh faded as he turned to help her into the carriage. She put a hand on his chest and looked into his eyes. They stood too close together on the public street, but he didn’t move away.

  “Peter, what if—”

  “Stop worrying, Elizabeth. I saw a mother trying to protect her child. She thinks I’ll hurt you,” he said, grinning.

  He didn’t allow her to climb into the phaeton; instead he lifted her right off the ground, his hands strong about her waist. She sank onto her seat a bit breathlessly, then held on as he climbed aboard from the far side, rocking the carriage. Behind them, his eager young groom assisted Teresa into the lower rear seat.

  They began their journey sedately enough, heading into the heavier London traffic. The noise was raucous, from costermongers calling out their wares to performers on stilts shouting for a coin. They wanted to be seen, just like she did, but she was grateful the distraction made private her discussion with Peter, even from the servants behind them.

  “My mother received a visitor this morning,” Elizabeth said, “and I didn’t think a thing of it—until I later heard her interrogating you. She must have heard that we spent an inordinate amount of time together last night.”

  “Ah, then we succeeded in attracting notice right from the beginning. That will work out well for you, for . . . whatever reason you want this engagement to seem real.”

  Smiling, she said nothing. She could take care of her own problems, without more complications from him.

  “But then again,” he continued, “the ton is always interested in whatever you do—especially when it involves a lowly gentleman such as myself.”

  She nudged him with her elbow playfully, feeling almost as if she had her friend back. Almost.

  “I heard other things you were discussing with my mother. So tell me about your feelings for Susanna.”

  He held the reins loosely threaded through his fingers, and if he felt any tension at her words, the reins did not transfer it to the horses. They trotted along sprightly, gathering many an admiring or envious stare, while Peter considered her request.

  “You know we briefly exchanged a flirtation,” he said.

  She tilted her bonnet to see him better, and was surprised that his smile had given way to a thoughtful frown.

  “I was young, and very foolish, newly conscious of my limited status in our world.”

  She sobered. “Peter—”

  “It was long ago, and I was far too immature. At the time, I truly considered that we might enjoy each other’s company, two people who studied too hard, who tried to fit in.” He gave her an ironic smile. “You’ve never had that problem, but Susanna and I both did. My father, obsessed with bettering our connections, had been pressing me and James to find highly born wives. And there you all were, next door. But right in the middle of our new flirtation was a crowd of revelers that I wanted to be a part of. They didn’t care for Susanna’s bluestocking ways, and made fun of her behind her back. I didn’t defend her; I laughed along with them.”

  “Oh Peter,” she said, touching his arm. “How old were you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Surely you have forgiven yourself by now.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t even know she’d overheard. I only knew that she’d decided anything beyond friendship was over.”

  “I saw you together last autumn at Madingley Court.”

  His smile was grim. “That’s when I discovered she’d known all along that I hadn’t defended her. In some ways I feel a part of her retreat from Society. I apologized, but it didn’t go well at first. We are on better terms now.”

  “You mean until you confronted us over the painting.” She spoke softly, just in case the servants behind them were listening. She glanced over her shoulder, but Teresa was holding on for dear life, and the groom was pointing something out to her and speaking in her ear.

  Peter shook his head ruefully. “All my mended fences blasted apart.”

  “It was your choice,” she reminded him.

  “And yours. You’re just upset I didn’t openly come to your rescue that night.”

  She could not deny it. “You put yourself against me, Peter. I never thought you would.”

  He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Did you ever think that my participation in the wager might save you from worse exposure?”

  “No. And I disagree.”

  They were quiet for several minutes as he negotiated the turn into Hyde Park. They drove down the lane until he pulled up next to a wide expanse of lawn bordered by flowering roses.

  “What are we doing?” she asked.

  He reached behind their seat, treating her to a close view of his face in profile as the groom handed him a large basket.

  “A picnic?” she said in surprise.

  He only grinned.

  She wanted to look at his handsome face, imagine they were courting, knowing that many people in the park were watching them. She had to play her part, so that every man here would know she was taken.

  When Peter helped her down, she let her ha
nds linger on his shoulders, and looked up at him wishing her bonnet didn’t hide her love-struck expression from much of their audience.

  Peter only smiled, and set about laying out a large blanket. Behind them, his groom and her maid stood talking as the groom watered the horses.

  Elizabeth knelt down on the blanket, then sat back, allowing her blue flowered skirts to pool around her. She saw Peter stop what he was doing to stare at her. It seemed a long moment, and she was uncomfortable with the scrutiny, for she’d had too much of that the last few days. But it was all a performance for a tonnish audience.

  She couldn’t help saying, “You’re very good at this. But then you’ve had practice.”

  “Your curiosity is showing, my dear.” His gaze came back to her face, and wearing a self-deprecating smile, he knelt down and began to unpack the basket. Soon her plate overflowed with chicken and ham, jam puffs, late strawberries, and wedges of cheese. “Perhaps food is the way to a woman’s heart.”

  She groaned and shook her head, but wondered how many women had softened to his attentiveness. He opened a corked bottle and poured lemonade into a glass before handing it to her.

  “Not champagne?” she teased. “Shouldn’t we be celebrating our partnership?”

  “Celebrating our deceptions, you mean?” he countered mildly.

  “You are too literal, Peter.”

  He sat down beside her, leaning back on one arm. “And you are surprising.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, before taking a bite of ham.

  “I thought you had put such deceptions behind you.” He toasted her silently with his lemonade and drank.

  To her surprise, she found herself watching the way his throat worked as he swallowed. She caught herself, embarrassed, then gave him a smile. “So you thought you knew everything there was to know about me.”

  “I can’t say that,” he mused, watching her openly. “We have not exactly been close confidantes these last few years. But that painting . . . I never would have guessed it of you.”