by Claudia Dain
“Sense,” he growled at her. “For if she’s ruined, then he is required to marry her. No man of sense wants a ruined girl when he can have one who’s above reproach and gossip and suspicion.”
If that wasn’t the most unkind, unprovoked attack! How completely like him. How perfectly and supremely like the horrid Lord Cranleigh to throw that comment in her face.
“My cousin,” she snapped before he had fully finished speaking, “was and is the most proper, the most lovely girl until your brother arranged to meet her in a darkened room and … and … did something to her! And then he ruined her! It’s common knowledge!”
“It certainly is,” Cranleigh said flatly, which made the whole thing somehow Louisa’s fault, when it wasn’t, or it shouldn’t have been.
“He ruined her!” she said, challenging him to deny it.
“According to her, she ruined him,” Cranleigh said. “What’s more, she’s proud of it.”
Of course, it was at this moment that Amelia realized that Iveston hadn’t said anything in rather a long time, and that she wasn’t engaged in even a spirited conversation but a heated debate, and that the entire room, which was quite full now, was staring at her. At them. At her fighting with Lord Cranleigh, the Duke of Hyde’s son.
Of course it was completely Cranleigh’s fault. Obviously. She couldn’t, not after all these years of appearing perfect, have fallen into public disgrace in a single hour.
Oh, very well, a half hour.
“As they are contentedly married,” Iveston said mildly, “the point seems moot. But certainly no one, for any reason, would want to see a girl ruined.”
Is that what they had been arguing about? How stupid. Of course no one wanted to see a girl ruined. Even the gleam in Cranleigh’s cold blue eyes affirmed it, which was hardly surprising.
It was so difficult to credit that he was the son of a duke. He bore himself like a street tough. A sailor. As to that … Molly may have jumped the fence and … no, no it was ridiculous. And even if it were not, she was not going to think of her future mother-in-law in such a light. It would make dealing with her at family gatherings so awkward.
“If you believe that, Iveston, then you shouldn’t get yourself involved with Lady Amelia and her infamous interview. You’ll ruin either yourself, or her, or both,” Cranleigh said.
Infamous? Was she infamous? She felt a tiny thrill, uncertain if it were a bad thing to be even slightly infamous after two years out. It might not be so bad. In fact, it might be worse to be invisible, which she certainly had been until tonight. Never before had any gentleman during the Season been more than passingly polite to her and now, now she had two men at her elbows. Of course, one was the thuggish Lord Cranleigh and he was an absolute horror, but the other was the future Duke of Hyde and he was quite nice, entirely pleasant.
How pleasant and serene life could be as his wife. Why, she might go days without knowing if he were in the house or not, he was so very quiet and polite. Certainly, a woman could hardly do better than that, as husbands went.
How lovely. Only a few days after consulting with Sophia Dalby and she had her man. Oh, well, not precisely had him, but it was a near thing. All that was left to do was to arrange for him to ask her, ask her father, ask his father, get the license, arrange the day, agree upon the terms of the contracts, sign the contracts …
Oh, very well, there were still a few details to be worked out, but she had decided to put all her efforts upon Lord Iveston. As he was sticking to her side so very agreeably, he clearly had made the same decision. The real problem facing her was how to get rid of the ever scowling Lord Cranleigh. He did put such a damper on courtship. It was very nearly amusing. Yes, she most definitely did feel like laughing.
“Lord Cranleigh,” she said politely, or as politely as was possible when talking to Cranleigh, “as an interview, such a formal word for what is, in truth, simply a discussion, and as a discussion is simply a conversation, and as yet, no man or woman has been ruined by a conversation, I fail to see the source of your concern. I will not harm your brother. I can say with complete confidence that he will not harm me. You are free to seek your entertainment elsewhere.”
She barely refrained from giving him a shooing motion with her fingers. Barely. She only refrained because she thought he was entirely capable of reaching out and breaking them off at the knuckle.
“She has a point, Cranleigh,” Iveston said.
Amelia smiled a bit savagely.
Lady Dalby was watching her from a few feet distant and nodded her approval, or what Amelia assumed was her approval. Certainly Lady Dalby had done her part in keeping Aunt Mary out of the middle of things. How she had done so, Amelia couldn’t imagine for, even deeply in her cups, Aunt Mary could be so intrusive. Amelia was completely certain that if Aunt Mary had been conscious and not snoring on the sofa, Louisa would never have found herself married to Lord Henry, Iveston’s younger brother. Of course, Louisa hadn’t wanted Lord Henry at all, but rather Lord Dutton, yet she had been distracted somehow by something that had happened in that closet and Dutton had been forgotten from that point onward.
Amelia was not going to allow herself to be dragged into any closets. There were many things that a man might do in a closet to confuse a girl.
“I am quite certain Lord Iveston will not ruin me,” she said, hoping Cranleigh would pester someone else. Her gaze scanned the room and settled on Penelope Prestwick, looking very fetching in white muslin with cream and black embroidery at the hem and her ever-present diamonds at her ears and in her hair. They looked quite spectacular against her black hair, which was obviously why she’d chosen diamonds as her jewel. That, and the Prestwicks were rumored to be fabulously wealthy. “Miss Prestwick is quite lovely, Lord Cranleigh. Perhaps she would be interested in your thoughts about conversation. Unless you fear she might ruin you somehow.”
She oughtn’t to have said that last bit, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself where Cranleigh was concerned.
“She is a beautiful woman,” Cranleigh said, staring across the room at their hostess. Amelia felt a small stab of annoyance to hear him say it. “I should very much enjoy getting to know Miss Prestwick better, but,” he said, turning back to face her, his cold blue gaze piercing her, “I dare not leave Iveston un-chaperoned. You could well ruin him. It might be a family trait, mightn’t it?”
At which point, her annoyance became a gleaming sword of immense weight.
“I would like him to stay, if you don’t mind,” Iveston inserted pleasantly, his brows lifted in question. “I do think that having a witness of sorts can only be to the good. To preserve your reputation, I would not break with tradition.”
Which meant she had no choice at all and had to agree to let Cranleigh hover at Iveston’s elbow. There were worse things; it could have been Aunt Mary. But at least Mary drank.
“Before the music fully starts,” Iveston said, “would you not like to ask me something? I should so hate to come up short when Calbourne insists we compare our interviews.”
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
“Somewhere in your nursery rhymes,” Cranleigh said, intruding yet again, “you must have learned that men do talk. They compare. They judge. They even, Lady Amelia, are known to make coarse jests.”
“Darling Cranleigh,” Sophia said from behind her. “How generous of you to instruct Lady Amelia, who is surely the most innocent woman of my acquaintance, in the habits of the man about Town. Certainly, if a woman is to find her way to the altar, with the appropriate man at her side, she does need keen instruction. Naturally, her brother, the Marquis of Hawksworth, is not the man for the job, as no brother ever is for a sister. But you, you have risen up to help Lady Amelia. I don’t know the last time I’ve seen such gallantry in action.”
Lord Cranleigh was struck dumb. They all were. It was something of a relief.
“Were you next going to explain to her that men also offer marriage? In the best circumstances they offe
r a lovely cash settlement or a first-rate house in Town. Sometimes, they offer both,” Sophia said with a seductive smile. “Yet sometimes, Lord Cranleigh, a woman would rather have cash than a husband.” When Cranleigh turned white about the mouth, a truly lovely sight, Sophia added, “But obviously, that would depend entirely on the man offering himself up for consideration, and certainly neither you nor your brother would be refused consideration. Isn’t that so, Lady Amelia?”
“I … ah … that is,” Amelia stammered. What to say? There was nothing to be said that would not be crass and obvious and crude, but then, in for a penny, in for a pound. “I should consider any offer most carefully, as I believe any woman would.” That sounded fairly mild, considering. “Of course, some decisions can be made very quickly,” she added, staring at Cranleigh, the oaf.
“Then Lady Amelia is not looking for a husband?” Cranleigh asked of Sophia while staring at her. He was such an unpleasantly brutal man, quite the sailor of reputation.
“Only the right sort of husband, Lord Cranleigh,” Sophia answered smoothly. “As you, one day, will seek out the right sort of wife. If there is scandal in that, London truly has gone dull. I may be required to do something about that.”
“Move?” Cranleigh said brusquely.
Sophia laughed and, tapping his arm with her fan, said, “Leave London? No, darling Cranleigh, I would simply and completely have to stir things up a bit. Whatever occurs, London must not be allowed to fall into solemnity and respectability. How hopelessly dull that would be.”
Amelia had never before heard respectability referenced as dull, and it did explain much about Sophia Dalby and the course her life had taken. It also, like a worm burrowing into the side of a well-built ship of the line, caused the tiniest hole of speculation as to what her life would be like without the armor of respectability. Certainly she had gone about her hunt for a husband with both respectability and solemnity as armor about her. And what had it got her? Respectability and solemnity. Not a duke. Not anyone.
“But as to what questions were asked of the Duke of Calbourne,” Sophia continued on, the men held silent by her combined allure and authority, a truly remarkable and useful combination of assets, “surely that would be indiscreet to divulge. You can’t want your own interview to be bandied about, Lord Iveston. I did think you a modest, private man.”
Sophia did not give him a chance to either confirm or deny the observation. Could he have done either and retained a speck of dignity? Continuing on was actually something of a mercy. Yes, it could be thought so.
“As to what you would like Lady Amelia to ask of you,” Sophia said casually, “perhaps you have taken the concept of an interview too literally.”
The occupants of the room pressed in on them without any trace of shame. Certainly at least twelve people could hear every word spoken between them and one of them was the Marquis of Ruan. How perfectly odd. What interest could he have in any of this? Amelia had only met him last week at Hyde’s, during that scandalous dinner where Louisa had got herself ruined and engaged.
There was that pairing again, scandal and marriage. Were they ever to be tied irrevocably together? Perhaps only when Sophia Dalby was involved. Well, she was involved very deeply with Amelia, but Amelia was both certain and determined that she would not be ruined, not now. No ruination for her. Though, looking at Iveston, he did not appear to be the sort to ruin a girl, not by accident and certainly never intentionally.
Her gaze strayed to Lord Cranleigh. He, on the other hand, looked exactly the sort to ruin a girl by simply being introduced to her. Sailor.
“Have I?” Iveston said, giving his full attention to Sophia—again. Really, this was not to be borne. Every time Amelia paused to think and ponder and consider what best to do next, Sophia swooped in and monopolized every man within sound of her.
“Or perhaps he has not,” Amelia said boldly. It was a very scandalous thing to suggest, and she had no idea what to say next, but all eyes were once again on her and she intended to keep it that way for as long as she could. “I don’t think it amiss for a woman to ask a simple question of a man, particularly as he appears so very eager.”
“A simple question?” Sophia said, smiling. “Of course, he should be more than willing to answer a simple question. Was your question of Lord Iveston to be simple, Lady Amelia?”
Blast and bother, now that put an even more scandalous turn to the situation. It was almost as if Sophia were challenging her, but that was ridiculous. What purpose could Sophia have to do that? There was something odd about Sophia’s brand of help.
“I shall leave Lord Iveston to determine whether my question is simple or not,” Amelia said diplomatically. “Lord Iveston, I should very much like to ask you why you appear not to find my interviewing, to use your word, of potential husbands to be scandalous? ”
“Perhaps insulting would be a better word,” Cranleigh said stiffly. Amelia ignored him.
“Lady Amelia,” Iveston said, after looking censoriously at his annoying brother, good man, “no matter what word is used, I do believe it shows a levelheaded and logical approach to marriage, which I must confess is not often on display in the women I’ve met to date. Scandalous or not, it is very practical and I do find myself ever an admirer of practicality.”
Well. That was surprising.
“Chamber pots are practical as well and one doesn’t drag them into the center of the dining table.”
No need to speculate as to who had said that.
“Are you comparing me to a chamber pot?” she asked, turning the full force of her gaze, indeed her full attention, upon Cranleigh.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Cranleigh said in a stiff undertone. “I still maintain the boundaries of decorum.”
“I think you are mistaken, Lord Cranleigh,” she replied swiftly, before Sophia could reinsert herself into the conversation. “I do believe that, in trying to manage your older brother’s life, you step beyond many boundaries.”
Cranleigh leaned close to her, his icy blue eyes as hard as shining blades. She held her breath, but did not take a step away from him, though she wanted to. Certainly she wanted to. Most definitely.
“And if I do, Lady Amelia,” he breathed in cold disdain, “who is to push me back within the bounds? You?”
There was only one answer to that. She didn’t think. She didn’t debate. She didn’t ponder.
Amelia set her palm against Lord Cranleigh’s massive chest … and pushed.
Thirteen
MISS Penelope Prestwick almost laughed out loud.
Amelia Caversham had her hand squarely in the middle of Lord Cranleigh’s chest and appeared to be trying to push him, right in front of Lord Iveston, too. It was the strangest way to acquire a duke that she’d ever seen and it was sure to fail, if one could judge by the expression on Iveston’s face, though, he did not look offended so much as amused. That was odd. In fact, Iveston looked, why, he almost looked as though he might actually laugh.
That was not good.
The fact that pushing Cranleigh, who was built like a monument, was sure to prove impossible had very little to do with anything, except to prove, if proof were needed, and she hoped it were, that Amelia Caversham had no idea how to comport herself around men of title and fortune. A rare fact as Amelia was the daughter of a duke of healthy fortune. Certainly, for a girl who had every advantage, Lady Amelia had no idea how to take advantage of her assets.
Penelope was sure to do better.
“Whatever can she be doing?” George asked her.
“Making a fool of herself?” Penelope replied to her brother.
“What lovely entertainment you’ve provided,” the Marquis of Penrith said at her elbow. “And I’d only expected a small orchestra. You have gone quite above the mark, Mr. Prestwick, Miss Prestwick. My compliments.”
Oh, dear. He had come? Penrith had been invited, of course, as everyone had been invited, but she hadn’t thought he’d come. In fact, she’d almost
hoped he wouldn’t come.
The Marquis of Penrith had the most dangerous of reputations in regard to young, unmarried women. It was rumored, and of course Penelope paid as much attention to the Penrith rumors as she did to every other, which is to say she considered them carefully and then swallowed them whole, that Penrith could and did with astounding regularity seduce innocent girls into doing all sorts of scandalous things merely by suggesting that they do scandalous things. It was his voice, you see, a husky, velvety murmur of masculine amusement and vague arousal that was his weapon. Even girls who knew nothing of arousal, vague or not, understood it at once, once Penrith had got them alone.
Penelope, perhaps not as innocent as some—as she had exchanged a few mostly innocent caresses with a very attractive groom at her father’s estate the day she had turned twenty, because the day had seemed to call for something in terms of a rite of passage, and she had no regrets as she still was not married and a girl did like to have some small experience of men before she found herself married to one for life—knew enough about Penrith’s reputation that she took a step away from him to be nearer to her brother.
And then she looked into Penrith’s cat green eyes, let her eye travel over his tousled dark blond hair, and discreetly cast a glance up and down and up again his lithe form … and took a step nearer to Penrith. Her brother was at her side. What could happen?
“I’m afraid, Lord Penrith,” Penelope said a bit stiffly, which was mortifying as the worst a woman could do was appear nervous when talking to a man, “that I must redirect your compliment to Lady Amelia and Lord Cranleigh, who are acting independently and outside the bounds of propriety.”