Improper

by Darcy Burke

  “Did something happen this evening?” Lucien asked.

  “We went to the Billingsworth musicale.” Tobias glowered at his friend. “She went off with your sister, and I found them wagering at loo. Since Miss Wingate had no money, Lady Cassandra supplied her with the necessary funds.”

  Lucien exhaled. “My apologies. But really, there’s no harm in what they were doing. Unless Cass was throwing in with the high stakes ladies? Lady Billingsworth is known for her deep play.”

  “No, they were playing for pennies, but I still don’t like it. Miss Wingate’s father is not a duke. She doesn’t even have a father. She’s a nobody from the country.” Tobias realized he hadn’t paused to censor himself as he had with Lucien’s brother.

  “Whose guardian is an earl and whose sponsor is the inestimable Lady Pickering. She is also, apparently, a close friend of that daughter of a duke. I think you underestimate Miss Wingate’s standing.”

  “Perhaps.” Tobias took a long, satisfying drink of whisky.

  Wexford tossed himself into a nearby chair. “What’s worrying Deane?” he asked no one in particular.

  Lucien chuckled. “I called him Deane too.”

  “Oh hell,” Wexford said, laughing. “Was bound to happen.”

  “He’d rather we call him that.”

  “Done.” Wexford eyed Tobias’s glass. “You’re almost out, and I forgot to pour myself something.” The Irishman stood. “What about you, Lucien? Need a refill?”

  “Not yet.”

  As Wexford stood, Tobias threw the rest of his drink down his throat and held out his empty glass. “It’s the Scotch whisky.”

  Wexford made a face and a gagging sound. “Disgusting bilge water. Doesn’t come close to Irish.”

  “Then why is there still so much of yours in the cellar?” Lucien teased.

  Wexford snatched the glass from Tobias’s fingertips. “Because I hide it so you lot don’t drink it all.” Chuckling, he went to the cabinet where the Phoenix Club’s butler restocked the supply every day.

  “Deane is frustrated by his ward,” Lucien said. “And my sister, who has befriended his ward.”

  “Is Lady Cassandra causing trouble?” Wexford called from the sideboard.

  Lucien’s brows pitched into a deep V. “Why would you say that?”

  Wexford returned with two glasses and handed one to Tobias, then the other to Lucien. “Because she’s your sister.”

  Tobias snickered. “He has a point. And she did take my ward into Lady Billingsworth’s card room.”

  Turning when he’d reached the liquor cabinet again, Wexford swept up his glass of presumably Irish whisky and started back toward them. “Lady Billingsworth? I hope you didn’t give your ward much pin money, Deane.”

  “I didn’t give her any. She was only able to play because Lady Cassandra supported her.”

  Casting himself into a chair and sipping his drink, Wexford looked to Lucien. “Sounds as though your sister is causing trouble.” His vivid blue gaze darkened. “I know all about troublesome sisters.” Because he had four of them.

  “She’s not, but I’ll talk to her nevertheless.”

  “No need. Aldington said he would do it.”

  “You spoke to him about this?” Lucien asked. “Ah, he was at the musicale. I’m so glad I’m not the heir,” he murmured before taking a drink with a thoroughly smug expression on his face.

  “He was, but we discussed the matter at White’s. I stopped in there before coming here.”

  Wexford goggled at him. “Why?”

  “To improve his reputation,” Lucien said with a snort. “As if a few visits to White’s to drink with my brother will erase the past two years of his debauchery.”

  Tobias tossed a glare to each of them. “I’m beginning to think your brother was better company.” This earned him laughter from both men. Tobias glanced toward the door. “Where’s MacNair? He’s less annoying than you two.”

  “He had business outside London,” Lucien said. “How was my brother?”

  Sipping his whisky, Tobias settled into his chair. “He had a headache. And he asked if I kept my mistress.”

  In the process of lifting his glass to his lips, Lucien’s movements arrested as he pinned Tobias with a puzzled stare. “He did?”

  “I found it odd too. I asked if he kept his, and he assured me, quite sternly, that he’s never had one.”

  “That is certainly true. At least to my knowledge.” Lucien took the drink Tobias had interrupted. “Perhaps I should accompany him and my father with Cassandra to the queen’s drawing room tomorrow so I can pester him about why he asked you such a thing.”

  “You can’t do that.” Tobias looked at him in exasperation. “I don’t want him to think we’re talking about him.”

  “But we are,” Wexford pointed out. He looked to Lucien. “You’d actually go to the drawing room just to investigate that?”

  “Not really. I would be utterly redundant. So glad I’m not the heir,” he muttered again.

  “I thought Her Majesty rather liked you,” Tobias said.

  “She does, but that doesn’t mean I need to attend her drawing room and watch a score of young ladies preen.” Lucien’s shoulder twitched. He’d never been interested in participating in Society or the Marriage Mart. His father, the duke, wanted him to wed, but as the spare, Lucien felt no pressure to do so.

  Wexford lifted his glass in a toast. “Hear, hear.” Lucien joined him in drinking.

  Tobias frowned at his whisky. He missed the days when he was not consumed with thoughts of marriage, whether his own or that of Miss Wingate. He’d feel much better when she was settled and no longer his concern.

  “Can either of you think of a well-regarded gentleman who is looking for a wife? He doesn’t need to be titled, but he must have a good reputation.” Tobias wouldn’t marry her off to a scoundrel.

  He realized many in Society regarded him that way, or as a rogue, at least. Dammit. He was trying. He hadn’t seen Barbara in a week, and he’d focused the bulk of his energy on establishing his presence in the Lords.

  “For Miss Wingate, I presume?” Lucien asked. “I’m trying to think of gentlemen who’ve joined the club this Season.”

  “What about Witney’s spare? I met him at Brooks’s the other night.” Wexford waved his hand. “Yes, I still go there on occasion. Call me out if you must.”

  Lucien laughed and cast a look of mock disdain at Tobias. “At least it isn’t White’s.”

  “Anyway, his name’s Lord Gregory Blakemore,” Wexford continued. “He’s an unassuming sort. He’s been teaching at Oxford but may become a rector. I gather he is considering taking a wife.”

  “It’s easier to obtain a living if you have one,” Lucien noted.

  “He’s a scholar then?” Tobias thought of Miss Wingate’s interest in maps and wondered if they might, in fact, suit.

  “Definitely,” Wexford said after swallowing some whisky.

  “Sounds promising.” And as the second son, he likely wouldn’t care that Miss Wingate wasn’t in possession of an impeccable pedigree. Plus, she had a sizable dowry thanks to Tobias’s father. One that would grow even larger if Tobias didn’t wed.

  Bloody hell, it kept coming back to that, didn’t it? He drank the rest of his whisky in one long gulp, then stood.

  “Are we driving you away?” Lucien asked.

  Setting his glass on a table, Tobias straightened his waistcoat. “No, just time to turn in.”

  Wexford glanced toward the clock standing between a pair of windows that looked down on Ryder Street below. “It’s early yet.”

  “I’m a respectable gentleman now,” Tobias said, brushing his sleeve. “I must keep respectable hours.”

  Snorting, Wexford lifted his glass once more. “Better you than me.”

  “Hear, hear,” Lucien said, echoing Wexford’s earlier words before taking a drink himself.

  As Tobias made his way downstairs, the port and whisky caught up with
him. The sounds of the gaming room called to him like a siren, but he held fast and went to the entry hall where a footman fetched his hat and gloves.

  Donning the accessories, Tobias thanked the footman before stepping into the cold night. Thankfully, it sobered him slightly. But only slightly. Brooks’s was a short walk away, as were any number of other entertainments, including the lodgings of his—former—mistress on Jermyn Street.

  He could walk there or to St. James’s to grab a hack. Both held temptations. He’d walk up to Piccadilly instead.

  “’Evening, Toby,” came a familiar feminine coo.

  Closing his eyes briefly, Tobias exhaled, his breath curling from him in a wisp of steam in the chilly air. “Barbara, why are you out in the cold?” She wore a thick cloak, but there was truly no reason for her to be out here.

  She sauntered close to him. “Just out for a stroll.”

  He shook his head as her familiar scent battered at his defenses, already weakened by the liquor he’d imbibed. “I’m not walking you home.”

  Curling her hand around his waist, she smiled up at him. “How about I walk you home? To my lodgings, that is.” Her fingers brushed against his backside.

  Typically, his body would jolt with awareness at her touching him like that, his cock hardening. And part of him did want her—the part that was warm and addled with whisky. The rest of him didn’t want her, and he wasn’t entirely certain why. Perhaps he was finally ready to actually be the man his father wanted him to be.

  No, not that. Never that. Giving in to a flash of rebellion, Tobias lifted his hand to stroke his gloved fingertips along Barbara’s soft, round cheek.

  Fuck his father and his machinations.

  Except if he truly wanted to win, he needed to wed, and this was not how he would accomplish that.

  Tobias stepped from her embrace. “Good night, Barbara.”

  He turned and quickly made his way to Piccadilly and the boring safety of a hired hack.

  Chapter 7

  Going down the stairs had been challenging. Climbing into the coach had been only slightly better than getting out. As Fiona maneuvered the massively wide skirts of her court gown into the antechamber outside the throne room of the Queen’s House, she prayed she wouldn’t lose her balance. How she wished Prudence were here, and not just for her help, but for her calming and supportive presence.

  After they’d returned home from the musicale the night before, Prudence had apologized profusely for revealing her presence in the card room to Overton. In Fiona’s opinion, she’d had no choice—he’d encountered her when he’d gone in search of Fiona, and Prudence had, smartly, told him that Fiona was with Cassandra. Fiona had thanked her for not jeopardizing her position and then admitted that her reasoning was self-serving, for she didn’t want to contemplate navigating London without her. Which was precisely what Fiona was doing today, unfortunately.

  The gown was a monstrosity and not just because of its size. It combined the high waist of modern fashion with the wide, hooped skirts of thirty years before, and the effect was that Fiona looked ten times her size. Or that her upper portion was a tiny bird sitting atop a massive rock. It was, in a word, unappealing.

  White with a pale peach overskirt that exposed the center of the skirts of the gown, the garment was as heavy as it was unwieldy. Fiona was grateful for the support of Lord Overton’s arm.

  “Careful there, Miss Wingate,” he murmured, his features creasing in a slight wince.

  Fiona loosened her grip on his sleeve. “My apologies. This is a treacherous costume.”

  Lady Pickering looked from the four pale yellow feathers in Fiona’s hair style to survey the room where perhaps a dozen other young ladies were already queued to see the queen. “Yes, four feathers was just right. And the cameo was a brilliant touch, if I do say so.” Her gaze dipped to the several necklaces draped about Fiona’s neck, which also contributed to her sensation of feeling as though she were a human anchor. Indeed, she’d wondered how she was going to leverage herself off the seat of the coach when they’d arrived. Thankfully, the earl had provided a great deal of assistance.

  “Pardon me for a moment,” Lady Pickering said. “I must speak with Lady Hargrove.”

  Fiona glanced about, wondering if any of the other young ladies felt as ridiculous—or frightened—as she did. And where was Cassandra? She was also being presented today.

  A lady in her early forties and, presumably, her daughter approached them. “Good afternoon, Lord Overton. May I present my daughter, Miss Judith Nethergate?”

  The earl bowed most elegantly, extending his leg in a way Fiona had never seen him do before. “Lady Corby, Miss Nethergate, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” He gestured to Fiona. “Allow me to introduce my ward, Miss Fiona Wingate.”

  Fiona dipped into a rather shallow curtsey. She didn’t dare come close to the depth that would be required in the throne room.

  Miss Nethergate was a very pretty and wholly proper English rose with pale blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. Her blossom-pink lips perfectly matched the ribbons and ruffles on her ivory gown. It was every bit as ostentatiously absurd as Fiona’s. In fact, Fiona suspected it might have been slightly larger. Miss Nethergate also had five feathers in her hair—four ivory and one pink.

  Lady Corby’s gaze slid to Fiona. “I didn’t realize you had a ward. How charming.”

  “Yes, I assumed responsibility for her after my father passed. Miss Wingate is enjoying her first Season so far.” He looked to Miss Nethergate. “And how is your Season?”

  Miss Nethergate fluttered her lashes prettily. “This is my first outing, my lord. I am looking forward to the Basildon ball tomorrow evening. Will you be there?”

  “Indeed we will.”

  Fiona wondered if she could get her eyelashes to do what Miss Nethergate’s had done. She’d ask Cassandra to teach her. Surely she’d be able to do it.

  “Your gown is lovely,” Miss Nethergate said, eyeing Fiona’s dress.

  “Thank you. They’re quite large though, aren’t they?”

  “That is the way of court dress,” Lady Corby said with a patient smile. “If you walk correctly and curtsy with grace, the gown will flow and sway beautifully. Like birds showing their plumage.”

  Well, the feathers certainly brought birds to mind. Though they’d have to be particularly fat ones.

  “Oh, it’s time,” Lady Corby said, her smile evaporating and her brow creasing as she pivoted toward the doors of the throne room, which had just opened.

  “Good luck,” Miss Nethergate said before turning with an effortless poise that made Fiona want to weep.

  “Don’t worry,” Overton whispered. “You’ve practiced plenty. You’ll comport yourself beautifully.”

  She cast him a dubious stare. “Like a bird?”

  He laughed softly. “Please don’t.”

  Fiona smiled in spite of her nerves.

  Lady Pickering rejoined them. “Ready? We’ll wait to be called.”

  Scanning the room again, Fiona saw that Cassandra had finally arrived. And it was a good thing because her name was called next. Fiona met her gaze as she walked past, and Cassandra winked at her.

  “Good luck!” Fiona mouthed.

  How did Cassandra look spectacular in her overlarge gown? White with minimal gold and red accents, her dress was simply magnificent. It was the lack of fussiness, Fiona realized, that made it look less…garish.

  No, she didn’t look garish at all, especially given the way she glided across the floor as if she regularly walked around in such a dreadfully uncomfortable state. For even though Cassandra’s gown might be the loveliest one here, it was still a death trap as far as Fiona was concerned.

  Suddenly, Fiona heard her name. Every part of her turned to ice, and she feared she was too frozen solid to move. But then the earl nudged her, pulling her along into the throne room.

  Rectangular, with people lining the sides as if they were spectators at a sport, the room
seemed to grow longer with each step. At the opposite end was a dais upon which Queen Charlotte sat surrounded by her ladies in waiting.

  Fiona’s breath caught. As ridiculous as she felt, this was a moment she had never imagined and would never forget. She was a nobody from nowhere and here she was about to meet the queen. Everything after this would be somehow less.

  The weight of everyone’s stares pressed down on Fiona, joining the frightful burden of her gown and jewels and feathered headdress. At last, the dais seemed to be close. She caught sight of Cassandra to her left but didn’t dare turn her head. Keeping her gaze pinned to the floor of the dais, Fiona put one foot in front of the other until Lord Overton came to a stop.

  “Lord Overton and Lady Pickering,” someone intoned.

  The earl presented an even more elegant bow than he had in the antechamber. “May I present my ward, Miss Fiona Wingate.”

  Lady Pickering sank into a curtsey. “I am pleased to be Miss Wingate’s sponsor, Your Majesty.”

  Now it was Fiona’s turn. She’d practiced all this dozens of times—until her thighs and calves had ached. And while she’d done it wearing the hoops beneath her gown and a headdress with two feathers, she hadn’t been wearing the actual gown or this headdress or any of these jewels.

  Fiona carefully moved her right leg behind her left and slowly lowered herself toward the floor. When she’d finally reached the appropriate depth, she felt a surge of giddiness. Almost there!

  But her left leg went numb suddenly. She feared for her balance. Panic rushed through her as she wobbled. She took a deep breath and silently told herself that she could manage this—she had only to rise. Only her legs were immovable, as if they were locked in place. She didn’t dare look toward the earl or Lady Pickering. She was to keep her head pointed forward, her gaze directed at the queen’s skirts.

  Fiona heard a murmur to her right. She’d been down too long. She had to stand up!

  Clenching her jaw, she squeezed her hands into fists and straightened her leg. The movement was too fast however, and the balance she’d fought so hard to maintain completely gave way.