Lady Eleanor's Seventh Suitor

by Anna Bradley

  But despite Tilly’s glower, Camden West looked rather pleased with himself. “But Miss, ah . . . Tilly? Surely Lady Eleanor has told you we’re betrothed?”

  Eleanor’s mouth dropped open in horror. Oh, dear God. If Tilly told her mother such a tale, Lady Catherine would take it straight to Alec, and then she’d have the hounds of hell nipping at her heels, indeed. “What nonsense, Mr. West! We’re nothing of the sort—”

  “Lady Eleanor.” Tilly planted her massive hands on her hips and turned a stern grey eye upon Ellie. “You’re not playing games with this gentleman, are you?”

  So he was a gentleman now, was he? Just a moment ago Tilly had been scowling at him as if he were no better than a marauding pirate. “Games?” Eleanor widened her eyes. “Why no, Tilly. Of course not.”

  She glared at Mr. West, who gave her the most maddening smirk before he turned an angelic smile on Tilly. “After you, Miss Tilly. My carriage is right outside.”

  Eleanor stared at him. Why, in the name of all that was fair, should a scoundrel like Camden West have such a charming, boyish smile? Even Tilly blinked for a moment before she gave them each a suspicious glare, and stalked out the door.

  Eleanor turned a baleful eye upon Camden West. “Just the drive this afternoon, if you please, Mr. West. We won’t have time for the marriage today.”

  With those crushing words she attempted to sweep past him, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Your scheme won’t work, Lady Eleanor.”

  Eleanor flicked a piece of lint from her sleeve. “Nonsense. You can’t know that. You’ve only seen the start of my scheme.”

  It would work. It had to. Her chance at love—her very freedom—rested on the success of this scheme. She’d do whatever it took to hold onto it, even if she had to make herself very disagreeable, indeed. She’d earned the nickname Lady Frost with no effort at all on her part, and by the time she finished with Mr. West, she’d have a worse one.

  She quite liked “The Terror of London.” Perhaps that would catch on.

  He pulled her closer. “You don’t deny it, then?”

  Eleanor’s eye widened. Dear God, if she weren’t wearing such an enormous hat, she’d be able to feel his breath against her neck. An involuntary shiver skidded down her spine. Goodness—did he have to put his lips right next to her ear to speak to her? “I deny nothing, Mr. West. I also admit nothing.”

  To her surprise, he chuckled. “You won’t capitulate easily, I see.”

  Eleanor’s brows drew together. Why should he sound so pleased about it? What was wrong with the man?

  “Let me be understood right now, my lady. You can drag a chaperone everywhere with you for the next two weeks, and we’ll still be betrothed at the end of them.”

  Her smile returned. Did he think Tilly comprised the whole of her scheme, then? As clever as he was, it seemed Mr. West would make the same mistake all her suitors had made. He’d underestimate her. “Certainly, sir.”

  His fingers tightened on her upper arm. “I didn’t agree to these two weeks so you could find a way to squirm out of our bargain.”

  “No? Well then, it seems you’ve made a tactical error already, Mr. West, for you did agree to them.”

  He didn’t reply, but looked at her for a moment with . . .

  God in heaven, it looked like interest. His grip loosened, but before he released her, he teased his fingertips down her arm.

  Eleanor’s breath caught. Had he just . . . caressed her? She gaped at him, but he only raised an eyebrow at her with a hint of lazy amusement, his eyes gleaming.

  He did have lovely green eyes, and such long lashes—

  For pity’s sake, not this again.

  Eleanor wrenched her gaze from his and attempted to collect her scattered wits. No doubt Mr. West was accustomed to manipulating ladies who were befuddled by his good looks, but she didn’t lose her wits over any gentleman, and especially not this one.

  “I suppose you could always change your mind about the two weeks now. Tell me, Mr. West. Are you the sort of man who goes back on his word? Are you a gentleman, or a scoundrel?”

  To her surprise he hesitated, as if to give her question serious consideration, then, “I’m both.”

  Eleanor stared at him for a moment, then retreated back under her hat to consider this alarming response. Both? Nonsense. One was either the villain or the hero. Never both at once.

  He took her arm again and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. “There isn’t much difference between the two, in any case. Between gentlemen and scoundrels, that is. I’m sure we can agree on that.”

  No, they could not, but if he believed they’d agree on anything, she was making a muck of this. Was it possible he appreciated a sharp tongue? He’d be the first of her suitors who ever had. The others hadn’t paid much attention to anything she said, clever or otherwise.

  “One point of agreement?” She peeked out from under her hat brim to gauge his reaction. “Not enough to build a marriage upon, is it?”

  He shrugged. “It shouldn’t be, but more than one marriage has been built on far less.”

  Oh, this was splendid. Not only did the infuriating man appear to agree with her, but now he’d made her agree with him. That was far too much agreement for two people who’d never marry.

  It hadn’t occurred to her he’d want a clever wife, but then all the gentlemen who’d courted her were aristocrats whose days were taken up with dressing and visiting, afternoons at their clubs, and evening entertainments. Mr. West didn’t spend his time lounging at White’s, drinking whiskey and wagering on young ladies’ marriage prospects. He was a businessman, and a successful one. A clever, determined wife with the right social connections could be invaluable to him. She could open doors he’d never get a foot in otherwise.

  Well, that put her scheme in an entirely new light, didn’t it? If he wanted a clever wife, she was about to become startlingly dim-witted.

  “I await your pleasure, Lady Eleanor.”

  She took his arm and let him lead her outside, where a barouche sat at the curb, the soft top down, despite the indifferent weather. Eleanor bit her lip. He did pay attention to details then, just as he’d said. With the top down, everyone on the fashionable promenade would see her in his company, and the gossip would start before they’d even made it once around The Ring.

  Mr. West signaled to the driver to ascend the box, then held out his hand to her. “Lady Eleanor?”

  She gave him the tips of her gloved fingers and tried not to notice the way they disappeared into his hand. His palm was so large it swallowed hers, and he’d swallow the rest of her if she couldn’t find a way out of this mess.

  She was about to spring into the barouche and take the place next to Tilly when a glance at the seating arrangements made her change her mind, and she took the opposite seat instead.

  Mr. West swung up after her and settled himself in the seat beside her. She jerked back like a scalded cat when his knee brushed against hers, but he didn’t appear to notice.

  “Are you quite comfortable, Miss Tilly?” he asked.

  Tilly gave him a non-committal grunt in reply.

  Eleanor, lost in her own thoughts, ignored them both.

  “. . . spend much time driving in the park?”

  Goodness, his legs were long, and his thighs were . . . muscular. They took up an awful lot of room in the carriage. She hadn’t realized she’d be able to feel the heat of his thigh next to her own. She hadn’t wanted to sit next to him, but if she seated herself to his right, her hat blocked his view of her face, which made it much harder for him to carry on a conversation with her.

  It gave her time to think.

  “. . . perhaps some better weather before the season is over.”

  Was it too late to persuade him she was addle-pated? She’d been so shocked this morning she hadn’t said anything coherent at all to him, so perhaps it was still possible—

  “Do you prefer to drive in The Ring, or walk around the Serpe
ntine?”

  Blast it. How had she so misjudged him? Her schemes were generally quite effective; her siblings had thoughtfully provided scrapes and scandals enough for her to hone her skills in that quarter, but here she’d made a tactical error, and right at the outset, too.

  “Lady Eleanor, Mr. West is speaking to you.”

  She’d made a mess of this, and now so she’d have to backtrack, and pray he didn’t notice. It wasn’t ideal, but perhaps all was not lost. He wanted to marry her, yes, but he didn’t seem to like her much, and unless she was mistaken, he also didn’t have any use for the ton. If he already thought her frivolous and spoiled, surely it wouldn’t take much effort on her part to encourage him she was a peahen, as well.

  Well, it would have to do, wouldn’t it? She’d simply present him with what he expected to see, and hope for the best. Perhaps he wouldn’t think to question it.

  “Can you hear me, Lady Eleanor?”

  Eleanor jumped. “My goodness, Mr. West! Why are you shouting in my ear?”

  He gave her an exasperated look. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I feared you’d fallen into some kind of a fit.”

  “Fit? Why, how ridiculous. As you can see, I’m perfectly well.”

  Tilly grunted again. “Mr. West asked you a question, my lady.”

  Eleanor hesitated. Did she dare?

  Foolish question. She did dare, because she hadn’t any other choice, unless she wanted to find herself married to Camden West.

  And that was no choice at all.

  She let her jaw go slack, opened her eyes wide, and turned this blank expression upon Camden West. “Question? What kind of question?”

  He drew in a long, slow, patient breath. “Shall I repeat it for you, Lady Eleanor?”

  Eleanor furrowed her brow, as if her answer required the utmost concentration, then turned to him with a vapid smile. “Oh, how kind. I wish you would.”

  “Would you prefer to drive around The Ring, or take a walk along the Serpentine?”

  “Oh!” Eleanor clapped her hands together in glee. “I do so love a drive!”

  He startled, then frowned down at her. “Of course. A drive it is.”

  She tilted her head to the side, as if disappointed, and sighed. “Oh, but I do so love a walk, as well.”

  Too much? If the change were too abrupt, he’d think her mad.

  Then again . . .

  Madness. Yes, that might work, too. No gentleman wanted insanity in the family line. She’d keep it in mind in case the mind-numbing foolishness didn’t work.

  “Why don’t we see which you prefer when we arrive?” His tone was polite, but his hands, which rested on his knees, closed into fists.

  Not too much, then. She bit her lip to hold back a sigh. It was silly of her to be disappointed. Mr. West was giving her just the reaction she wanted, and yet . . .

  She’d expected more of him. As observant as he was, shouldn’t he be able to see through such a ruse? How disheartening that even the cleverest of gentlemen should be so willing to believe a lady is a featherbrain.

  She pushed the thought aside. This was what she wanted—for him to find her silly and tedious. “What a wonderful idea! How clever you are, Mr. West.” She laid a hand on his arm and gave him a dazzling, vacant smile.

  A featherbrain, and a flirt.

  It was a delicate maneuver, flirting with Mr. West, but there was nothing in the world more tedious than excessive adoration. One need look no further than poor Lord Tidmarsh for proof of that. As handsome and wealthy as Mr. West was, the ladies likely did fawn over him, so he might find it more tedious than most.

  He looked down at her hand, which lingered on his arm a touch longer than was proper, then into her face. She gazed back at him, careful to keep her expression worshipful.

  He shifted back in his seat, as if he wished to get away from her. “Yes. Clever. Thank you, Lady Eleanor.”

  After a moment, Eleanor removed her hand and ducked back under her hat, but not before she got a glimpse of his face. Oh, dear—he did look annoyed, as if nothing irritated him more than a scatterbrained woman.

  What a shame, for she felt an alarming case of scattered brains coming on. Like seeds on the wind, they’d scatter all over London.

  Chapter Six

  Whoever had said ignorance was bliss was an infamous liar.

  Eleanor cocked her head to the left, then to the right, but it was no use. Try as she might, she couldn’t think of one insipid comment to make about the painting. After three days of pretending to be a half-wit, her brain had at last rebelled. It refused to produce a single inane observation.

  Ignorance, as it happened, was dreadfully hard work.

  Camden West studied her, waiting for her to say something about Benjamin West’s painting Cupid Stung by a Bee.

  But she had nothing to say. Her fountain of foolishness had run dry.

  Blast it. She’d been looking forward to the Royal Academy’s exhibit. She’d planned to view the selection of paintings and drawings at her leisure, but now her visit was spoiled by Camden West, who’d insisted on escorting her here today.

  Three days. Three endless days, during which time he’d called on her three times, taken her on three afternoon drives in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour, escorted her to Lady Davenport’s musical evening, and monopolized her dance card at Lord and Lady Henslow’s masque ball. All of London was gossiping about them, and her mother had given her a speculative look at breakfast this morning.

  Three days, and he’d not yet tired of his pursuit. She couldn’t account for it. She’d been so staggeringly silly she could hardly stand herself anymore. Since their arrival at the Royal Academy she’d confused a Raeburn portrait with one of Mr. Wilkie’s landscapes, and referred to Mr. Beechey’s portrait of the Duke of Cambridge as “lopsided.”

  Camden West hadn’t so much as twitched an eye.

  “Well? What do you think of the painting, Lady Eleanor?”

  Ellie bit her lip with annoyance. How condescending he sounded! No doubt he was smirking at her, his full, handsome lips lifted at the corners.

  She stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Infuriating man. He was smirking. Oh, how she’d love to put him in his place. She longed to say that though she preferred Reynolds’ work to West’s, she thought West’s portrayal of Venus, with her cold, detached profile, was a fine example of the Neo-classical school.

  “The poor child,” she said instead. “He’s rather pretty, isn’t he? Whatever is the matter with him?”

  “He’s been stung by a bee. If you look here, my lady,” he pointed to the brass plaque displayed underneath the painting, “you’ll see the work is titled Cupid Stung by a Bee.”

  Eleanor hadn’t thought it possible for him to become more condescending, but she hadn’t given him enough credit. She gritted her teeth to bite back a sharp retort, and squinted at the plaque. “Ah, so it does. But I don’t see a bee in this painting. Where do you suppose the bee is?”

  He made a noise that sounded like a hastily smothered snort.

  “I believe we’re meant to imagine the bee has come and gone already. See how Venus is holding Cupid’s hand? It looks as if she’s inspecting the sting.”

  “Venus?” Eleanor moved so close to the painting her nose nearly brushed the canvas. “Where?”

  Mr. West cleared his throat. “Cupid’s mother, Lady Eleanor. Venus. Perhaps if you back up a bit you’ll gain a better understanding of the composition in its entirety.”

  “Who, the half-dressed lady reclining on the couch?” Eleanor sniffed. “She looks like a scold.”

  He appeared not to know what to say to this, and Eleanor felt a surge of hope. Surely speechlessness was a good sign? “Mr. Thompson’s Eurydice is in questionable taste,” she said, determined to press her advantage. “Her pose is vulgar, and I don’t think the infernal regions an appropriate subject for ladies. Don’t you agree, Mr. West?”

  Mr. West did not appear to agree. In fact
, if she could judge from the irritated flush on his cheeks, he wished someone would drag her to the infernal regions, right along with Eurydice.

  Ah, wonderful—a crack in his façade. “As for William Westall’s view of Richmond—”

  “Denny! Over here!”

  Eleanor didn’t recognize the high-pitched voice, or the name Denny, and she wouldn’t have paid the shout any mind at all, except Mr. West’s gaze jerked from her face over her shoulder and fixed there with such an odd expression, such a surprising combination of exasperation and affection, Eleanor turned at once to locate the source of the voice.

  Julian West was walking toward them from the other end of the hall. He held a fair-haired young girl, who looked to be no more than eleven or twelve years old, by the hand. “Ah, here you are, Cam. Amelia wouldn’t rest until we found you. Good afternoon, Lady Eleanor,” he added, with a polite bow.

  Eleanor gave him a nod, her face as stiff and cold as Venus’s. He might act the gentleman if he pleased, but she hadn’t forgotten his infamous behavior toward her sister. Charlotte still hadn’t told her the whole story, but she knew enough.

  Julian West was as guilty as the bee that stung Cupid.

  She half-turned away from him to indicate her displeasure, but she couldn’t resist a peek at him from the corner of her eye, just to see if he . . .

  Yes, blast it. Unbearably handsome, much as his cousin was. Tall, with dark, tousled hair and a wide, infectious smile. Goodness. She didn’t approve of Charlotte’s behavior in the least, but even Eleanor could understand how a man such as this could tempt a lady into an indiscretion.

  She swept a resentful gaze over Camden and Julian West. How maddening the two of them should look so absurdly handsome standing there together, as if they were a painting themselves, rendered in vibrant colors and loving detail by a besotted artist’s brush. Zeus and Apollo, perhaps?

  Eleanor curled her lip. Zeus and Apollo, indeed. More like Lucifer and his mirror image.

  “Uncle Julian said we might see the pictures today, Denny.”