“I can see,” the earl replied. “The room looks like a hothouse. Well done, my girl.”
Without asking, he reached out and took the cards from Bianca’s hand. His expression remained stoic as he read each one and Eleanor wondered if he was searching for a particular name.
Giving no clue to his true feelings, the earl turned. As he was leaving, a footman entered. In his arms was the largest bouquet of all, a glorious arrangement of three dozen long-stem white roses. But when he plucked the card from the center of the blooms, the earl’s brows drew together in a heavy scowl.
“Believe it or not, these are for Eleanor.”
For me? Eleanor’s hand shot to her mouth to stifle her gasp. She refused to give the earl the satisfaction of seeing her surprise. He handed her the sealed card without comment, then continued on his way.
A stab of hurt pierced her at his obvious disinterest, but she shook it away.
“Gracious, Eleanor, open the card already,” Bianca pleaded, an edge of curious excitement in her voice.
Despite her attempts to prevent it, Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat as she broke the seal. “With thanks for an adventurous afternoon. Your most ardent admirer,” Eleanor read aloud. Puzzled, she turned the card over, but there was no signature.
“Let me see.” Bianca impatiently grabbed the missive. “The handwriting is bold and distinctive. No doubt the gentleman wrote the card himself.”
“The only person I spent any significant time with yesterday afternoon was Viscount Benton….” Eleanor’s voice trailed off in confusion.
Bianca’s eyes widened. “Do you think he sent them?”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“Perhaps he admires you,” Bianca suggested. “He might be a rake, but he isn’t a fool.”
Eleanor let out a disbelieving snort. “‘Tis more likely a joke.”
“Eleanor, don’t,” Bianca scolded. “It pains me to hear you underestimate yourself. You have a great deal to recommend you. You are pretty and smart, loyal and witty. A gentleman would be lucky indeed to gain your affection.”
Eleanor stared at the card. The bold, dark strokes demonstrated the strength and determination of the writer. That most certainly defined Lord Benton. Was it he? If so, why did he not sign his name? Glancing up, she met her sister’s gaze. “Though I again say ‘tis highly unlikely, I need to ask, would it distress you if the flowers were from Lord Benton?”
Bianca was silent for a moment. “No, not one bit,” she replied, taking Eleanor’s hands. “There is no reason to think ill of him on my account. Though as a good and loyal sister I feel it my duty to warn you about him. He’s a rogue. And fickle to boot.”
Bianca smiled and the knot of worry inside Eleanor eased. If by some insane circumstance the viscount was showing an interest, she would be free to explore it. If she wanted. Did she? Eleanor honestly didn’t know.
No sooner had the flowers been sorted out and placed around the room, the invitations began arriving. The pitifully small trickle that had marred their first week in Town had overnight turned into a tidal wave. Eleanor knew it was Lady Dorothea’s stamp of approval that had opened so many doors for them and she was grateful for the support.
There were the usual balls, soirees, and theatre party invites, along with a more select number of concerts, dinners, and picnics.
“Goodness, it will take us a week to open all of these,” Eleanor said with satisfaction.
“There are no less than three invitations for this evening,” Bianca said with awe. “How will we ever decide which to attend?”
“We have already committed to a theatre outing organized by Lady Dorothea,” Eleanor reminded Bianca. “Her father-in-law had graciously offered the use of his private box. It would be monstrously rude to cancel so late.”
“I thought that was tomorrow night. I don’t know where my head has gotten to these days.” Bianca picked up the vase containing Lord Waverly’s red roses and buried her face in the fragrant bouquet.
Her dreamy expression let Eleanor know precisely where her sister’s mind had gone. “‘Tis the opening-night performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Society will be out in full force. I’m certain we’ll encounter many of our new acquaintances.”
Bianca smiled softly. “You don’t have to talk me into going, Eleanor. I am looking forward to it, actually.”
“As am I,” Eleanor agreed, looking behind her sister to the vase of carefully arranged white roses. “Shakespeare’s plays are always so riveting.”
Eleanor had only been to the Drury Lane Theatre once, many years ago during her forgettable London Season. She had been included in a party more as an afterthought, a warm female body to even out the numbers. It had begun pleasantly enough, but ten minutes into the performance she noted a striking resemblance between the actor playing the lead role of Hamlet and her estranged love, John Tanner.
The sight had rattled her completely, the stab of pain coursing through her heart swift and sharp, an aching reminder of what she had lost. Of the life she would never know, the love she would never share, of the future forever gone.
She had struggled to hold in her grief, allowing herself the release of a few tears during the more emotional moments of the performance, thankful there was so much misery in this particular Shakespeare tragedy. Her reaction, however, had been noticed and the incident caused her to be labeled an overly sensitive female, putting yet another nail in her socially unacceptable coffin.
With a firm force of will, Eleanor pushed the incident to the back of her mind as she entered the theatre this evening. As expected, the arrival of their large, boisterous party caused a bit of a sensation. She could hear the increase in the volume of conversation as they gathered inside the duke’s box, shifting to and fro while selecting their seats.
Eleanor took a chair at the rear of the box, encouraging Bianca to move to the front. She wanted her sister to be able to see everything as she took in this unique experience, but she also wanted Bianca to be seen, especially by the single gentlemen down in the pit.
The duke sat in the front with Emma flanking him on his right and Bianca to his left, leaving an empty chair beside each girl. Directly behind him were the Atwoods, Lady Dorothea’s sister Gwendolyn and her husband, Mr. Jason Barrington. Eleanor gladly occupied the third row, taking the end seat and leaving a pair of chairs beside her unoccupied.
Though at the rear, the view was excellent and Eleanor took her time as she slowly surveyed the crowd. The nobility were out in full force, easy to distinguish in their silks and satins and glittering jewels. She recognized many of them, though in so public a venue there were many new faces as well. Her attention occupied by her surroundings, Eleanor sensed rather than saw someone ease into the chair next to her.
“Sorry I’m late. The traffic was impossible. Have I missed anything of interest?” inquired the deep, masculine voice beside her.
A shiver tingled over her flesh. Eleanor turned sharply and found herself glancing into a pair of smiling eyes.
“Lord Benton!”
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No.” Straightening, Eleanor stiffened her spine and folded her arms self-consciously around her waist. “I’m just surprised. I was unaware that you’d be included in the theatre party this evening.”
“Beg pardon. Should I have sent a note ‘round preparing you?”
“Warning me would have been the courteous thing to do.”
He let out a sharp laugh. Several heads turned in their direction. Eleanor attempted a smile to distract from her blush, yet feared it only made it worse.
The viscount winked at her, then turned his attention to the occupants of the box, greeting each lady, including Bianca, with a charming smile. Eleanor swallowed hard.
She had a chance to study him as he spoke with the others, noticing how the ends of his dark hair curled attractively at his collar. Though his jaw looked smoothly shaved, there was a faint shadow of whiskers on his face.
Instead of distracting from his polished looks, the rugged appearance was a handsome addition.
“The duke is in a fine humor tonight,” Lord Benton commented. “Seated between two lovely young women, like a thorn amongst the roses.”
“I believe the correct expression is a rose amongst the thorns.”
“I know, but that metaphor hardly applies to the duke. He is far more a thorn than a rose.”
Clearing her throat, Eleanor cast him a sidelong look. “Funny that you should mention roses, my lord. I received a lovely bouquet of them this morning.”
“Not surprising.” The viscount shifted in his chair, then glanced down at the playbill in his hand.
She paused, gauging him. “The flowers were very beautiful and I should like to thank the sender. But the accompanying card was somewhat cryptic and merely signed ‘your most ardent admirer.’”
His head lifted. “Are you trying to make me jealous, Lady Eleanor? A standard feminine ploy that rarely works as it is intended.” Eleanor felt her face tighten, yet before she could say anything the viscount added, “What color were the roses?”
“White.”
His lips curled. “Hmm, if I am not mistaken, white roses are often associated with marriage.”
“Forgive me for being so foolishly mistaken,” she said. “Naturally they could not have come from you.”
Leaning toward her, he lowered his voice. “Are you certain?”
She gave him a severe stare, which only produced a devilish grin. Fortunately for Eleanor, at that moment the lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and the performance began.
She turned her attention diligently toward the stage, but alas the Bard’s lyrical words could not capture her thoughts. She was restless and distracted and soon became aware of that strange, indescribable sensation of being watched. Eleanor could feel the tiny beads of sweat beginning to form on her upper lip as she struggled to keep her gaze focused straight ahead.
She knew without looking that it was Lord Benton’s eyes that were trained so intently upon her and she flatly refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
He was playing some sort of game with her. A game that intrigued her, frustrated her, excited her, puzzled her. A game whose rules she did not understand, which made the consequences all the more dangerous.
After what felt like an eternity, the theatre lights came back up and the audience started rustling about. Eleanor nearly slumped forward in her chair, so great was her sense of relief.
“Are you enjoying the performance?” Lord Benton asked. “Lysander is doing a splendid job, but I thought the actor playing Puck too old for the part.”
“‘Tis all quite extraordinary,” she replied, realizing she had no real idea of what she had just seen, having been too distracted by the viscount to pay proper attention.
Eleanor turned away deliberately to speak with Lady Dorothea, gratefully accepting Lord Atwood’s offer to bring her a glass of lemonade. Belatedly she realized it might have been wiser to accompany the couple, since it would have provided an opportunity to escape the close confines of the box and clear her head.
Almost as if sensing her desire to escape him, Lord Benton moved his chair closer. “Now that the lights are up, we must survey the crowd and relate the latest on-dits to each other.”
Eleanor squinted at him. “Why is everyone so interested in what others are doing?”
“Because their own lives lack interest and meaning?” He tilted his head and let out a wistful sigh. “You aren’t going to be offended by this, are you?”
Eleanor knew she should be. Truly, what business of hers was it when it involved the activities of other people? “I will listen, my lord. But I will not repeat any of it, not one single word. To anyone.”
“Ah, a virtuous gossipmonger. Now that puts me firmly in my place, does it not?”
She raised her brow and assumed a haughty expression, but he was looking ahead and smiling and missed her reaction. Yet it soon became clear that the viscount was intent on having some fun.
“Pity you don’t have a pair of opera glasses to magnify the view inside the private boxes,” Eleanor said. “Heaven only knows what you could discover.”
“Only amateurs and dowagers with failing eyesight use glasses.” He took her hand and set it on his sleeve, allowing him to lean in very close. Her eyelids nearly fluttered closed as she caught a whiff of his clean, male scent. “There is an art to this that you must learn and learn quickly. Now, glance casually about the theatre, acting as though you are searching for someone. Quickly take in all that you survey, never allowing your eyes to linger too long on any one particular individual.”
“Is this truly how the nobility spend their time?” she asked. “‘Tis no wonder the House of Lords is in shambles.”
“Knowing the best gossip always gives one an advantage. Prinny is the worst of the lot, by far. If you wish to survive, you must learn the art. Go ahead, try it.”
Eleanor knew he was jesting, but she couldn’t resist the dare. Dutifully she turned her head and quickly scanned the crowd. “How was that?”
“Passable. For a first time.” His voice lowered to a conspiring whisper. “Did you notice the couple one tier below directly to our left?”
“Which couple, my lord? Honestly, you must give me more of a clue.”
“The lady is dressed in yellow and wearing the most godawful headdress man or woman ever created.”
Eleanor tipped her chin and casually turned her head. Her eyes widened involuntarily when she caught sight of the group. “I believe I have found them.”
“They are causing quite a sensation this evening.”
“Because the lady lacks any fashion sense?”
“The lady’s lack of taste should be an unpardonable offense, but that is not what has those who know abuzz.” The viscount paused. “The man on her right is her husband. The one on her left, her lover.”
Eleanor raised her brows and Lord Benton shrugged. She risked another glance at this group, wondering what sort of woman had the audacity to appear in public with her husband and lover. The husband suddenly looked up and caught Eleanor staring at him. He gave her a wide, knowing smile.
Eleanor gasped. “Oh my. I’ve been caught.”
“Made a conquest too. Bravo, Lady Eleanor.”
She felt a spurt of merriment. “I can’t believe I’m finding this amusing.”
A rueful gleam came into his eyes. “It passes the time when things get dull. I figure I have provided more than my share of fodder for the gossip mill. I should be entitled to some indulgence.”
“Your drink, Lady Eleanor.”
“Thank you, Lord Atwood.” Eleanor accepted the glass gratefully, surprised to realize how parched her throat felt.
Mrs. Barrington, sipping a glass of wine, turned in her chair and they exchanged impressions of the play and the performances. The men discussed some political news, their views seemingly in accordance. There was no gossip shared and before long the play resumed.
Throughout the next act, it was Eleanor who kept glancing over at Lord Benton. His eyes were always on the stage, though she noted he drummed his fingers lightly on his knee.
At the next interval, the viscount stood and offered to escort Emma outside for some fresh air before the final act began. Watching them leave, a sliver of regret jabbed at Eleanor. She snapped open her fan, trying to chase away the heat of disappointment spreading up her neck to her face. It would have been great fun strolling the hallways, her arm on Lord Benton’s.
No sooner had the emotion surfaced, Eleanor firmly scolded herself for such foolish thoughts. Her attraction to the viscount was both misplaced and foolish. By all accounts, there were numerous women already infatuated with him. Younger, prettier, far more interesting women. He did not need Eleanor to be added to the list.
At least Bianca had gotten over her interest in him. There had been a steady stream of young men paying calls during the intermissions, Lord Waverly
among them. Eleanor could plainly see her sister laughing and flirting with them, encouraged by, of all people, the duke.
Since she had been so distracted by Lord Benton during the performance, the final act failed to hold Eleanor’s interest. A sigh rushed past her lips when the play ended, but Eleanor was unsure whether it was relief or disappointment. Perhaps she just wasn’t the type of person who enjoyed the theatre.
The duke declared himself too tired to join them for a late-night supper, but everyone else seemed eager for the evening to continue. The ceaseless rain once again fell upon them when they left the theatre and there was a bit of confusion as everyone scrambled to get inside their carriages.
Rushing forward, Eleanor gratefully accepted the helping hand of a liveried footman as she stepped into the marquess’s coach-and-four. Believing that Bianca was following behind her, Eleanor relaxed against the plush velvet squabs, shaking the raindrops off her cloak.
The carriage door remained open and she gazed out the window through the steady rain, waiting for Bianca. But instead of her sister, a gentleman entered, his face cast in the shadows. He sat directly across from her, then lifted his head. Amusement lit his face.
Lord Benton! Eleanor blinked, for a moment too stunned to react. “I am waiting for my sister,” she said finally, breaking the silence.
“I saw Lady Bianca enter Atwood’s coach, which is just ahead of us. I believe Lady Dorothea, Emma, and the duke were also with them.”
“This isn’t the marquess’s coach?”
“No. It’s mine.”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon.” Face flushed with embarrassment, Eleanor started to rise, but the viscount held out his hand.
“No need to leave. ‘Tis a short carriage ride and we are all going to the same place.”
It sounded perfectly reasonable. Indeed, it would seem ridiculously churlish to remove herself since it was, as he said, only a short carriage ride, and the rain was coming down even harder. Yet why did her stomach tingle with a sense of forbidden emotion as if somehow knowing being alone with him was unwise?
A Little Bit Sinful Page 12