A Most Scandalous Engagement

by Gayle Callen

  Mary Anne nodded, saying nothing.

  “Would you like to attend the opera tonight? It is the opening of Benvenuto Cellini.”

  “Will Peter be attending?”

  “I mentioned it to him this morning, and he agreed to escort me.”

  “Then since my mother will insist I go anyway, I accept.”

  “Such eagerness for my company overwhelms me,” Elizabeth said dryly.

  Mary Anne’s eyes focused on her at last. “Is that sarcasm from the perfect Lady Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth winced, but she understood. “I am capable of it. I try not to use it, but sometimes I’m provoked.”

  Mary Anne nodded slowly. “You’re not usually competitive, but yesterday I provoked that response in you as well.”

  “You don’t know me as well as you think. I’m very competitive.”

  They stopped at a dressmaker’s window where colorful ribbons were on display. Elizabeth hoped Mary Anne would like them, but she only continued to regard her.

  “If you’re so competitive,” Mary Anne said, “then you won’t mind that while you made me wait today, I played billiards with one of your guests.”

  “A guest?” Elizabeth said with a frown, choosing not to respond to the goading about her tardiness.

  “Lord Thomas.”

  She stiffened, but tried not to show it. “Yes, I saw him briefly. He’d arrived with his mother, but I was already running late, and I didn’t want to keep you.”

  “So he came to see you?”

  “No, he accompanied his mother to see my mother.”

  Mary Anne nodded thoughtfully and looked back at the window. Elizabeth suspected she wasn’t really seeing it.

  “I think that color blue would be lovely with your hair,” Elizabeth said. “Shall we purchase a length?”

  “I’m not fond of frills,” Mary Anne said distractedly. Then her gaze turned keen. “You don’t mind that I played billiards with him?”

  “Mind? No, of course not. You have a passion for the game.” Peter had already deduced that forbidding his sister would only make things worse. “Was anyone else playing with you both?”

  It was Mary Anne’s turn to stiffen; it was in her wary eyes, and in the way she fisted her hands before putting them behind her back. “Afraid I will embarrass you?”

  Elizabeth touched the other woman’s arm. “Of course not! I only care about your reputation, since Lord Thomas has his own reputation as a rake.”

  “Really?” That deflated her defensiveness, and her voice turned curious. “He didn’t seem that way to me.”

  “And that’s another reason to make more friends in Society. You’ll learn of whom to be wary.”

  Mary Anne shrugged and started walking again.

  Elizabeth knew not to press her advice too hard. “My favorite dressmaker is just down the block. Do you mind if we stop in, so I can pick up a gown I just had made?”

  Mary Anne nodded.

  If Elizabeth hoped to have the woman try on a sample dress or two, those hopes died as Mary Anne remained seated and watched her being fawned over by the clerks. It was embarrassing, and certainly made her seem even more above a commoner like Mary Anne. Not the impression Elizabeth wanted to leave at the end of the afternoon.

  She would have another chance at the opera to leave a better impression on Mary Anne—and William, she reminded herself quickly.

  Chapter 16

  Peter walked the crowded corridors during intermission, Elizabeth displayed on his arm. The Royal Italian Opera House with its elaborately painted ceiling and immense chandelier hanging over the grand staircase was the place to be seen—and they were being very well seen.

  Who wouldn’t look upon Elizabeth? She wore blue and white striped silk, like a wrapped confection in a candy shop. Her shoulders were bare, palest peach, the top curves of her breasts well displayed. It was enough to make his mouth water. He hadn’t nearly tasted enough last night—and he suspected, from the polite, reserved expression she wore, he would not get the chance tonight.

  But when she’d first seen him, he thought for certain that her eyes softened, that she had actually looked forward to being with him. Not that she’d admit that, of course, but he could be patient.

  More than one couple looked upon Elizabeth with faint pity as they passed, as if something tragic must have happened for her to choose Peter as her husband. He had known this would happen, and so had she, but she seemed overly sensitive about it tonight.

  She was overly sensitive about everything since their interlude in the carriage. Shadows of weariness darkened her eyes, and he imagined that the strain of the charade—and whatever else was bothering her—had begun to wear her down.

  Yet still she didn’t confide in him. And last night might have made that possibility even more remote.

  Now as they stretched their legs at intermission, and again someone whispered to someone else as they passed, Elizabeth appeared to have reached a turning point.

  “I just want to tell them all to mind their own concerns,” she fumed.

  “My sweet, to them, you are their concern. You’re one of them, and I’m not.”

  “I was not raised with the absolute rule that a title was important in my choice of husband. But I also know that for romance to flourish, my husband should not be like a friend to me.”

  Peter wasn’t certain she directed that at him, so he pretended not to take it that way. Giving her a bewildered look, he asked, “Why wouldn’t you want your husband to be a friend? Don’t you wish to get along?”

  “But ‘getting along’ is different than confiding your dreams and secrets, as to a friend. A husband is supposed to inspire romance and mystery, make a woman yearn to be with him. My parents had such a fairy-tale beginning, and it stood them well.”

  Was this crazy philosophy the reason she’d never even considered him in the first place? All he could do was speak huskily into her ear. “I made you yearn.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean. Marital love is a delicate, romantic thing.”

  “And you know this from experience?”

  “I’ve done my research.”

  “And what we did last night—”

  “Isn’t the same thing,” she insisted, not meeting his eyes.

  “So by denying passion, you can pretend it doesn’t matter, that it didn’t show you a side of yourself you’d never seen before.”

  “It was the wrong kind of passion,” she hissed between smiling lips. “Uncontrollable.”

  “Wild.”

  Her hand clenched his arm. “Let’s not talk about this anymore.”

  He went along with her because they were in public, but he wasn’t finished with the topic. Instead, he turned his attention back to his other goal for the evening: watching Elizabeth’s reaction to the people they met. Somewhere here might be the man threatening her—or the man she thought she wanted. So far this evening he’d seen no emotion betrayed in her eyes, but the night was young.

  At the summoning for the second half, as they began to walk back toward the private Madingley box, he heard a woman call, “Lady Elizabeth!”

  Through the crowd, he saw Miss Gibson and her brother, the baron. For one brief moment Elizabeth’s unguarded expression softened into confusion.

  His gaze shot back to the man who now stood at Lucy’s side, and then he truly examined him. The man was several years younger than himself, tall and blond as a Norse god, with green eyes that passed right over Elizabeth, as if he were looking for whom else he knew.

  Passed right over Elizabeth?

  Her smile remained pleasant, but in that moment he knew: this man wasn’t her enemy, the one who’d frightened her into a false engagement. This man was the one with whom she wanted to share her future—and her body. He was Peter’s opponent in the ancient struggle; and apparently Gibson didn’t even know it.

  “Are you enjoying Benvenuto Cellini?” Miss Gibson asked. Then she giggled. “I worked hard on that pronuncia
tion.”

  Peter nodded to the baron. “Gibson,” he said.

  Lucy showed more reaction, looking quickly, almost worriedly, between both men. So she knew, Peter thought. Of course, Gibson being her brother, after all, and Elizabeth her best friend.

  Gibson bowed and then grinned. “Derby, since we last met I’ve heard a lot about your success in the railways.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d enjoy bending your ear about it.”

  “Any time.” Then he decided to test the waters. “I do believe we’re both members of the same club.”

  “We are. We’ll talk there.”

  Peter tensed, wondering which of his escapades Gibson might have heard about, and if he’d bring them up. That wouldn’t do in front of Elizabeth.

  But Gibson only grinned and changed the subject—to something worse. “Some painting, isn’t it?”

  He’d lowered his voice, but the young fool could still be heard by the ladies. And then Gibson elbowed him.

  If Gibson knew the truth about the painting, he certainly wouldn’t bring it up in front of Elizabeth. Hell, if he knew the truth, he’d be paying a lot more attention to her.

  Peter glanced at Elizabeth, and though she looked a shade paler, she was holding up admirably. But then, she must be used to Gibson’s inattention. How could the man look at any other women when Elizabeth was right before him, so exotic and beautiful? She had the kind heart of a lady, the bravery of a woman who could accept a good challenge. She was curious and intelligent, always wanting to learn new things. Each conversation with her was different from the last—and yet Gibson still looked about as if someone else could be more interesting.

  Much as Peter told himself it was better to know his enemy, he still felt frustrated. Elizabeth thought she loved this man, yet responded to his own caresses so wholeheartedly. She seemed to separate romance from passion, as if the two couldn’t meet. Yet now he knew she was afraid of passion, afraid of being out of the control she’d worked so hard to win. He wasn’t yet sure how to show her the truth about her feelings, except by spending as much time with her as possible, hoping she couldn’t do without him.

  Elizabeth felt as if her face were frozen in place, unmoving, while her brain frantically jumped from thought to thought. She’d known Peter and William would come face-to-face again, but William paid more attention to Peter, and to her shock, it made her want to laugh. Now the two men were talking about the railways while Lucy gave her sympathetic looks. She wished she could warn Lucy to be restrained, but there was nothing she could do.

  Before the opera had begun, Lucy had stopped by the Madingley box and said she’d tried to persuade her brother to come visit with her, but complained that he never paid attention to what she said. During the first act, Elizabeth found herself watching Peter with his sister. He didn’t ignore Mary Anne like William did Lucy—Peter was so concerned about her that he’d asked for Elizabeth’s help. More than once during the show, he’d leaned toward his sister and said something to make her laugh, a light expression Elizabeth hadn’t recently seen on the young woman’s face.

  Most men were more like William, focused on their own needs, rather than on the family they took for granted. She’d always told herself that under her influence, she could make William a better man, the one he was meant to be. But now as she watched him talk to Peter, she felt . . . exasperated.

  And then she realized that William was speaking to her, and she smiled at him. “Forgive me, William, what did you say?”

  “Could I have a private moment? My nosy sister can’t hear this. It’s a surprise.”

  Lucy stomped her foot as if upset at the exclusion, but Elizabeth saw that it was an act. Lucy was excited, and assumed that she was, too. But Elizabeth had learned never to assume she understood William’s intentions.

  Peter graciously distracted Lucy. “Miss Gibson, tell me what you thought of the first act.”

  And then William was drawing her a short distance away, and in the crowded corridor, few would hear them.

  “Elizabeth, you’re going to the Kelthorpe Masked Ball, are you not?”

  Just the name of the event gave her a jolt. It was her self-imposed deadline—the return of her brother. “Of course I am,” she said, hiding her bewilderment. William couldn’t be asking to escort her when he’d just met her fiancé.

  “Something important is happening that night, and I want you to be prepared. Stay with Lucy at the ball. I was worried if I didn’t tell you now, I might not see you in time.”

  “Of course I’ll do as you ask. But, William—”

  “Good girl,” he said, smiling at her.

  He’d aroused her curiosity. Did he suspect that her engagement wasn’t real? Could he want her for himself?

  She tried to be thrilled at the thought, but it just wouldn’t happen. That masked ball had felt like an anchor around her neck for too many days. Everything was coming to a head that night, and William’s mysterious request only seemed like one more thing to worry about.

  When they returned to the others, William took Lucy’s arm. “Time to go, little sister. I have people to see.”

  Lucy waved at them as he towed her away. Elizabeth sighed, following at a slower pace as Peter moved to her side.

  “My turn to speak with you privately,” he said.

  She glanced up at him with dismay, but he wore his usual polite, attentive expression—centered on her and no one else.

  “The second act is about to begin,” she said.

  “Even better. We’ll sit on the sofa outside your box, in plain sight, and wait until everyone has returned to their seats.”

  They did exactly that, until only servants roamed the corridors, politely avoiding looking at them. Elizabeth fussed with her skirt, spreading it out, trying to keep it from wrinkling.

  Softly, Peter said, “You can avoid my gaze, but you can’t avoid the truth.”

  She pasted on a smile and looked up at him. “What truth?”

  “That at last you’ve given yourself away. Lord Gibson is the one you wanted.”

  She took a deep breath, telling herself this was inevitable. She’d tried her best to keep the two men apart, after all. Regardless of the other ways he’d changed, Peter still knew her too well.

  “Why didn’t you simply tell me?” he asked with exasperation.

  He wasn’t . . . angry? Jealous? she wondered, feeling confused.

  “It’s not as if he’s so totally inappropriate you couldn’t tell me his name,” he continued.

  “When I was younger,” she began cautiously, “it was only something to whisper about with my cousins or with Lucy. And then when I was an adult, and the feelings hadn’t gone away, it still felt like a private, feminine secret to me. Being unable to win his interest, I was frustrated and embarrassed and—” She stopped, searching his patient face. “At what point was I supposed to confess all of this?”

  “When you asked for my help.”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “And how does a”—he lowered his voice—“false engagement help?”

  “William is not the reason I—” She cut herself off, realizing she’d once again almost confessed everything to Peter. She had an image of a bloody duel at dawn, Peter lying on the ground, Thomas standing over him. She shuddered.

  Peter was watching her too closely. She tried to assemble some of the truth. “William is not the only reason I wanted to be engaged. You do remember those men pursuing me so aggressively.”

  “I remember, but you haven’t answered my question. How does our engagement help you with Gibson?”

  “Because he was supposed to realize I might be lost to him,” she said stiffly. It sounded ridiculous now—a little pathetic.

  Peter’s expression remained neutral, and it bothered her that she couldn’t read his emotions.

  “So tell me what you see in him,” he said.

  She took a shaky breath. Had she truly convinced him so easily? “He’s
handsome, of course, and I’m sure that’s all I was drawn to when I was younger.” It felt terribly awkward to talk about another man to her fiancé. “I liked his lightheartedness, and that he’s always laughing. He doesn’t need my dowry, of course, and nothing seems to bother him.”

  “He seems inhuman,” Peter responded dryly.

  “Is that how you see me?” she demanded.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Nothing used to bother me either. Perfect Lady Elizabeth, as your sister is fond of saying.” He squeezed her hand, but she didn’t let him talk. “Well I’m not perfect,” she insisted.

  “Just because you have some things in common,” he said, “doesn’t mean you’re in love. Being in love requires a reciprocal feeling from the person you want.”

  “One can’t rush that reciprocal feeling.”

  “How many years will you give it, Elizabeth, before you realize—”

  “Stop it, Peter. I don’t need lectures from you.”

  Peter watched her stand up so hurriedly her blue and white skirts shimmied. She didn’t look at him as she marched back inside the Madingley box. The second act had begun, the corridor was deserted, the music rising in crescendo—and he was wretched.

  To think, he and Elizabeth suffered from the same flaw—both of them wanting a person who didn’t return their feelings. No one could tell him not to love Elizabeth—so how could he say the same thing to her? And was he the one who was the bigger fool here? She could keep dreaming that Gibson would someday notice her, but he himself couldn’t give up.

  Because he loved her.

  The other man now had a face. The merest thought of Elizabeth trying to seduce Gibson made his blood boil. She had planned that before she even knew what passion was, he thought, and changed her mind about risking herself in so uncontrollable a way.

  But how could he be sure? He loved her—but did she only want to study his methods of seduction?

  For the first time in several days Peter did not come to call. Elizabeth kept busy, making house calls, doing some work for her charity, and coordinating engagement party details with her mother.

  But every time she had a moment to think, her thoughts went to Peter.