Not Proper Enough (A Reforming the Scoundrels Romance)

by Carolyn Jewel

  “Pardon me, Mrs. Bryant. May I sit?”

  She wanted to tell him no.

  “Certainly, my lord.” She picked up her reticule and moved to the chair by the wall, leaving her seat for Fenris, and him with a place beside Hester.

  From here, her view of the stage was reduced to a slice of the very top of the stage. She could see nothing of the scenery unless she leaned over the railing and craned her neck. She could, however, see directly into the box on the opposite side of the auditorium, and that proved a welcome distraction. Two of the occupants had opera glasses trained on their box, and one of the two men was Mr. Dinwitty Lane.

  Fenris took the seat she’d vacated and immediately turned to Hester. Eugenia put down her opera glasses and contented herself with staring at the occupants of the box across the way. Mr. Lane had his glasses trained on Hester.

  “Miss Rendell,” Fenris said in a melting voice. How could she have forgotten how entrancing his voice could be? The huskiness was really just patently unfair. A man could seduce a woman with just that voice alone. “How lovely you look this evening.”

  Hester smiled at him, but it was plain her thoughts remained with whatever she and Camber had been discussing. “Thank you, and good evening to you, my lord. I hope you’re well.”

  “I am. You? Experiments going well?”

  Hester nodded with more enthusiasm than she ought to have shown. “We are gathering our data. It’s crucial, you know, that we take exact measurements. Is that not so, your grace?”

  “It is.”

  “Since your father is an accomplished artist, we are not merely taking daily sketches of our respective plants. We paint them.”

  “Brilliant idea of hers,” Camber said. “Takes extra time but well worth it when we examine and compare past data.”

  “We do not know if the watercolors are stable. We have added to our record keeping in case they’re not.”

  Eugenia did not understand their captivation with documenting the daily growth of their plants. She’d once made the mistake of asking, and Hester had obliged with an answer so long and detailed she was cross-eyed and suffering from a megrim by the time the explanation was over. Horticulture and botany were not subjects that fascinated her.

  Camber shifted on his seat in order to get a different view of the stage, but then, no, his opera glasses remained on his lap. It was impossible not to think that here sat a man who had the ear of the government, whose single word could and did decide a man’s fate. His patronage might secure one for life; his disapprobation could lead to personal, social, or even financial ruin. And he spent his leisure hours with Hester or painting watercolors of the leaves of a violet.

  The second intermission arrived, along with louder conversation as people left their seats and headed for the saloons and foyers where they might be seen even more openly by people of fashion. “Tell us, Miss Rendell,” Fenris said, tilting his head to include his father in the remark, “are you enjoying the performance?”

  Hester clasped her hands on her lap and gave Fenris and Camber a warm smile. The duke patted her hand. “Yes, my lord, very much. And I wish to say, your grace, how much I appreciate you inviting us. You were kind to think of us.”

  “Not at all,” Camber said.

  “I find the tenor to be quite talented.” Fenris leaned an elbow on the back of his seat, and, honestly, could any man be as carelessly handsome as him? “What do you think, Miss Rendell?”

  Hester glanced at the bit of the stage visible from their seats. There was just now nothing to see but empty stage. Since she’d spent most of the performance whispering back and forth with Camber, Eugenia thought it likely Hester had no idea what the tenor had sounded like. “I like his singing very much.”

  Fenris had his back some three-quarters to Eugenia, but he turned his head to look at her. The floor fell away again, all because his gaze swept over her. She stilled, afraid he’d guess her attraction to him and think that it meant more than it did. “What do you think, Mrs. Bryant? Do you agree with Miss Rendell?”

  “I am quite enjoying the performance.” She snapped open her fan. This was too much. How was she to deal with this man when he so strongly disrupted her peace of mind? One look at his lovely brown eyes and she was cast back to the Turkish room, and, God help her, she did not regret what had happened there. Something flickered in his eyes, and she was as filled with doubt as ever. “I beg your pardon. I desperately need a breath of air. I shan’t be long.”

  “Shall I escort you?” Fenris spoke in so offhand a manner she wondered if he even meant it. She looked away. No, she thought. No, he did not. And yet, a voice in the back of her mind whispered otherwise. Across the way, Lane trained his glasses on them. Hadn’t the man something better to do than spy on innocent operagoers?

  “Will you come along, Hester?” Eugenia asked.

  “If you like.”

  Camber put his hand over Hester’s. “I should like to continue our discussion.” He looked to Eugenia. “Do you mind if we do? I shan’t let her out of my sight. I promise you that.”

  “Not at all, your grace.” More than anything she wanted to be away from Fenris and his disturbing presence. If she left Hester with the Duke of Camber, in his own box in the company of Lord and Lady Monson, Mrs. Gloster, and everyone in the auditorium, what could be improper about that?

  As she rose to make her way out of the box, her forgotten reticule slipped from her lap and landed on the floor with a soft clink of the contents. She bent to retrieve it. At the very same time, so did Lord Fenris. Their fingers met.

  The medallion Lily had given her swung out. By some perverse jest from the heavens, the ribbon from which it was suspended tangled around a button of Fenris’s coat. Momentarily unable to straighten, she was close enough to smell his cologne. The scent reminded her of his mouth on hers, the silk of his hair beneath her fingers. The sound he made when he came.

  Fenris made a sound that was a combination of sigh and grunt. “Mrs. Bryant. A moment—”

  In such dim and close quarters, Eugenia had little room to maneuver. Unable to see the details of the way in which the ribbon had entangled with his coat, she tugged on the medallion. His lapel flapped toward her.

  “Mrs. Bryant—” His head bobbed when she tugged again, and, to her utter horror, her bosom ended up at his eye level.

  “Oh dear,” Hester said.

  Eugenia lifted a hand to forestall the possibility of Hester’s assistance.

  Fenris put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Please remain still a moment, Mrs. Bryant, I can just—”

  This was worse than overhearing Fenris calling her a blowsy girl. Worse by far because she knew she would be laughed at again. She did not want to be this close to him. Not now. Not ever again. Nor did she wish to be the object of everyone’s amusement. She gave the ribbon another tug. Fenris’s upper torso hitched toward her, and he let out a hard breath.

  “The deuce?” she heard Camber say.

  “Mrs. Bryant.” Fenris’s gaze landed on her breasts. The man was unabashedly staring, and it made her dizzy, anxious, and embarrassed all at the same time. “A moment. Please.”

  “Pull on it,” Camber said.

  Fenris lifted his eyes to hers, and he was trying not to laugh. He whispered, “Yes, please. But not here, darling Ginny.”

  He might find this amusing, but the laughter was at her expense because he was Fenris and no one ever laughed at Fenris. Her stomach twisted into a painful knot. She had been the object of his derision before and the thought of enduring that again made her ill. “I hate you,” she whispered back.

  She yanked on the ribbon, and her medallion came free with more force than expected. Fenris’s button arced through the air as she straightened at last. The button hit her shoulder and tumbled down. Into her décolletage.

  For one long, awkward moment, no one said anything. She was aware, horribly aware, of the quiet in Camber’s box and distant laughter from Lane’s box. Had that awful
man seen what had happened? He couldn’t have. Could he? The knot in her stomach pulled tighter than ever.

  He had. She knew in her soul he had. What else would so amuse Lane and his friends? She remembered, with crystal clarity, all the awful things Fenris had said about her and how happily people had repeated his words to her. She had no polish, a bit dull, and less than attractive, unless one liked a healthy, blowsy sort of girl. She didn’t care how vociferously Fenris now denied he’d meant those words. He’d said them, and no one, no one who had been in London at the time, had forgotten.

  Fenris held out a hand. “My button, if you please?”

  Eugenia smiled sweetly. Poisonously sweetly, she hoped. He only had the upper hand in this acquaintance if she ceded it to him, and she wouldn’t. Fenris stood with his back to the stage, hands behind his back, blocking, she realized, any view of her retrieving his button from her bosom. For that, she was grateful. She fished it out and he took it, taking care to hide the exchange from the curious in other boxes. The button stayed on his palm long enough for her to see it was gold and engraved with the family crest. Then he closed his fingers around it and dropped it into a pocket.

  From across the stage someone shouted out, “Have you rescued the demmed thing yourself, Fenris?”

  She closed her eyes and schooled herself. There was no reason to believe the remark was a comment upon that button, but it was, and she knew, when she opened her eyes, that everyone else within earshot knew it, too. She was as cool as ice. A veritable iceberg. “Hester, do keep Lord Fenris and his father company.”

  “Yes, Lady Eugenia.”

  She edged around her chair and exited to the corridor, crowded with people on their way to visit acquaintances or headed for refreshments in one of the saloons or to the retiring rooms, and she joined the river of people. She didn’t care where she went as long as she was anywhere but that dratted box. Halfway down the corridor, she stopped under a pool of light from a chandelier and pretended to adjust her gloves. She had no doubt that before the evening was done the story of her and Lord Fenris’s button would be on everyone’s lips, blown all out of proportion, and with her made ridiculous once again.

  Eugenia was aware she was sulking and did not like it in herself. But right now she hated Fenris. She really did. She hated that she’d made a fool of herself with him, and she hated that she wanted to blame him for what had happened in Camber’s box when the fault was hers. If she’d allowed him to untangle the ribbon, his button would have stayed attached to his coat.

  She tucked herself into a corner and watched people stroll past while she attempted to reconcile herself with the fact that her resentment of Fenris was, in this case, misplaced. Ladies in full evening dress and gentlemen in their most splendid clothes passed by her corner. She admired the jewels on display and wished she had more of her own. Robert had bought her hair combs shortly after they were married, and his combs were in her hair. She had only one ring, and no pearls, no rope of gold beads. No diamonds or rubies. No brooches or earrings. She had only her medallion, which, so far, had brought her not even one perfect lover. Where was the legion of adoring men the medallion’s reputed magic was to have falling at her feet, begging for the joy of a single glance from her?

  As she stood tucked into the corner, she became aware that she, too, was being watched. More than one gentleman slowed and stared at her as he passed. How many of them had already heard about Fenris and the button? She made sure to look away. She smoothed her hand along her arm and took her time refastening the tiny pearl buttons of her glove. She had to because her fingers trembled.

  From somewhere in the crowd, she heard the words fished his button from her bodice. Oh, Lord. Her humiliation was complete, and she had only herself to blame. The knowledge made her memory of that awful man’s smirk as he took the button from her palm even sharper. Her fault or not, a part of her wished she’d thrown that button in his face.

  Gradually, the number of people in the corridor decreased. It was near time for her to return to the box. She didn’t want to. She fiddled with her gloves some more. Another gentleman slowed as he walked past where she stood, continued on, then, to her surprise, returned. Eugenia looked steadfastly away. She did not know him.

  He bowed to her, and his gaze seemed stuck on her bosom. Lovely. Imagining buttons down there? “Excellent performance tonight, don’t you agree? Mozart. Quite the fellow.” He aped playing the violin and then fingers moving over a keyboard. “The composer. Wrote the music?”

  She did not answer. It was shocking, to be honest, to find herself addressed at all, let alone so familiarly, by a man she did not know.

  “Have you hired a box for the evening, ma’am? It can easily get too warm with everyone packed in and every seat occupied.” He took a step closer. The way he eyed her bosom made her hate Fenris even more. This was his fault. Why couldn’t he have stayed where he was and allowed her to pick up her reticule without assistance? If he had, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t be standing here alone. The stranger came closer. Much too close, and he was smiling at her in a way that made her stomach curl. “One needs to come outside just to breathe, yes?”

  She maintained her chilly expression. Surely, he would accept the hint and go on his way. He didn’t, though. Instead, he practically sneered at her.

  “Come now, even the meanest commodity may speak to a gentleman, if only to settle on terms.”

  She sucked in a breath, and her stomach dived to the floor. This horrible man had mistaken her for a courtesan.

  His gaze swept from her head to her toes and back. “You would enjoy my company. I assure you.”

  Eugenia tried to walk away, but he blocked her with the simple tactic of taking a half step in whichever direction she went. “Sir,” she ground out. “Let me pass.”

  “Mrs. Bryant?”

  Chapter Twelve

  FOX CLENCHED HIS HANDS WHEN HE GOT CLOSE enough to see the man who had accosted Eugenia. This was no polite encounter between opera patrons, that was plain. Eugenia was frightened, and the man who had her cornered was leering at her. Until now, he’d thought the adage about anger boiling one’s blood had overstated the case. It did not. That aphorism perfectly described his reaction. He was taken aback by the ferocity of his need to protect her from the oaf blocking her way. Through violent means if necessary.

  He lengthened his stride, ready and willing to lay hands on the man. Eugenia’s head whipped in his direction, and her eyes, wide and so ethereally blue, fixed on him with nothing in them but relief. The man accosting Eugenia leaned only his torso away from her when Fox approached. Why her reaction hadn’t cured the fool of his mistake about her gentility mystified him.

  “Mrs. Bryant.” He needed every ounce of restraint he possessed to maintain an even tone.

  She practically lunged toward him, which she was able to do only because at last the other man took a step back. “Fenris.” Her voice shook. “There you are. At last.”

  For a moment, there was no sign that the stranger recognized her greeting of him as a title of nobility rather than a Christian name or surname. Then the fellow’s eyes went wide. Fox took Eugenia’s hand in his and kissed the air above her fingers when it was all he could do not to grab the bloody interloper by the coat and throw him into Kingdom Come. Eugenia’s arm trembled.

  “Fenris.” The man’s voice cracked at the last syllable.

  Fox gave him a cool look.

  “Lord Fenris?” He was either drunk or a fool or both. “The Duke of Camber’s son?”

  With Eugenia’s hand still in his, he stood straight. He did not often find that he wanted or needed to impress upon someone the particulars of his rank. Most people knew who he was, and he’d found there was usually little to be gained from the crudeness of insisting on his privileges. Right now, he wanted to grind this man into an acknowledgment. “Yes.”

  “Well, well, well.” The ass looked at Eugenia then at him. He grinned. “Quite a victory for any woman
to tempt you from the Incomparable.”

  Though he itched to use his fists, instead, he addressed Eugenia. “Lady Eugenia. My apologies for being gone longer than I intended. I should never have left your side.”

  The other man blanched.

  Point made.

  The stranger was not drunk enough to be insensible to the magnitude of his error, it seemed. Inebriation, however, in no way excused his behavior. Fox looked away from Eugenia and held the man’s gaze.

  Her fingers tightened around his. “I confess, my lord, I was beginning to worry.”

  Pale now, the stranger bowed uneasily and said, “Forgive me, my lord. My lady.”

  Eugenia kept a glacial silence.

  “I was mistaken in…That is—”

  Fox maintained eye contact. How satisfying it would be to put a fist in his face. His hand twitched. “If you do not make yourself scarce, sir, I shan’t answer to the consequences.”

  “Indeed, sir. Indeed. Apologies. A thousand of them. So sorry to have intruded.” He bowed once, then again and made a swift and inelegant departure.

  When the fool was gone, Fox continued to hold Eugenia’s hand. His anger—not at her—did not diminish. It was all he could do to refrain from pulling her into his arms. “Did he harm you?”

  She shook her head, then managed to speak. “No.”

  “Miss Rendell was concerned by your absence.” He was careful to keep a hint of disinterest in his voice. If he had learned anything about Eugenia in the time she’d unbent enough to remain in his presence, it was that she did not take kindly to gentlemen who treated her as if she were mentally incapable. Robert would have taught her to expect that sort of respect from a man who cared for her. “She insisted I find you and bring you back.”

  She licked her lips. “A moment, if you don’t mind.”