He executed another turn, his partner passing momentarily out of sight behind him, and memorized each detail of the southwest wall for the tenth time. There was no help for it. The only other thing to do was speak with his partner, who was quite possibly the single most boring woman alive. She had seemed a likely enough choice when Ewan pointed her out. Her fantastic bosom was on excellent display. It was a testament to her total absence of personality that he was unable to enjoy its abundance. At first he thought she might just be shy, but they had traversed the entire ballroom twelve times now. Despite his best efforts, she had not yet said seven words.
At least she was only boring. His last dance partner had giggled incessantly and smashed his toes completely flat. The one before that had been watery eyed, with enormous feathers in her hair that made her look like a giant quail. The infernal things had flopped into his eye and mouth for the duration of the dance. It had taken four glasses of the Waverlys’ tepid punch to rid himself of the tickling feeling in his throat. He cleared it again at the memory, and his partner mistook it as an attempt to gain her attention.
“Erm. Quite the crush, eh?” He didn’t bother being clever. It was futile.
She smiled and remained silent. The man in the couple adjacent them gave Rhone a sympathetic grimace. Gavan had spent the majority of the dance attempting to incite conversation, with no luck. She just gave that benign smile and went back to staring over his shoulder. The string quartet finally ended the longest song ever composed, and Gavan returned her to her mother. He did a quick scan of the crowd and executed a hasty departure back to the architect of his discontent.
“Have ye found the future Countess of Rhone?” Ewan was having a grand time, drinking watered-down punch and eating tiny hors d’oeuvres. He was deftly ignoring the scandal his muscled calves were causing below the edge of his kilt, avoiding eye contact with the bolder ladies slowly encroaching on his position.
“That girl is either mute or touched in the head.” Gavan liberated some sort of savory pastry from his cousin and popped it into his mouth.
“She cannae be that bad,” Ewan challenged.
Gavan tipped his head in the direction of his recent partner, who gazed dreamily at the crown molding. Her mother noticed their attention and elbowed the girl sharply in the ribs.
“She doesnae have to be bright. Maybe a silent wife is just the thing for ye,” Ewan said. Even he seemed doubtful, staring at the pair. “Her mother seems keen on it.”
“No.” Gavan grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing footman and downed it. Gavan had agreed to attend these asinine gatherings full of women looking to snare a title, but he would be damned if he married some insipid teenager. If he ever married, which was extremely unlikely, it would be to a woman who could string two thoughts together.
“When did ye get so finicky, man? Just pick one.” His cousin glared down at the petit fours in his hand and sighed. “Ye need heirs. Ye cannae just let the title drop away.”
“Why not?” Gavan countered, his voice rising with the familiar argument. “It should have gone to Fiona to begin with. When I meet whatever sordid end awaits me, things will just be returning back to their proper path.”
“It’s yers by right,” the big Scot argued back. “What happened to yer mum . . .”
The escalating discussion had drawn the attention of their immediate neighbors in the ballroom.
Ewan dropped his voice down to a low growl. “The Clan needs a real succession. Yer bairns got on a lawful wife and, God willing, one of them a son. A nice, quiet chapter, that’s what Clan Dalreoch needs.”
“I’m afraid I must agree with your companion, Rhone.” The elegant woman who interrupted them was Mrs. Catherine Conduitt, far and away Gavan’s closest friend in London.
“Catherine.” Gavan leaned over the hand she offered and kissed it. “I apologize in advance for introducing you to my cousin, Ewan Dalreoch.”
Ewan bowed over her proffered hand formally.
“Never upset this woman, Ewan. Behind that perfect face is the keenest mind in England, and her uncle Sir Isaac is master of the mint. He dotes on her horribly. One misstep and all of Scotland could be in penury by morning.” Gavan swiped another pair of champagne glasses from a passing tray.
“It is a pleasure to make yer acquaintance, Mrs. Conduitt.” Ewan said with genuine warmth. “I’ve long been an admirer of yer uncle.”
“Thank you. I have long been an admirer of your cousin,” she returned with sincerity. “Which is why I was most distressed to hear that he is the central figure in London’s latest scandal. Again.”
Gavan rolled his eyes. He was used to being a topic of gossip. “Let me guess. Have I defiled a nunnery? Forced a carriage load of orphans to public drunkenness?”
“I believe that was last week.” She acknowledged his jest with a small smile. “No, this week they saw the twins from Theobald’s new play at the Theatre Royal flee from your town house in a state of undress. No dress, in fact.”
Ewan coughed to cover a surprised laugh.
“That certainly sounds fabricated. My great appreciation for all women, especially those who are nude, is widely acknowledged.” Gavan sipped his champagne with an impassive expression.
Catherine looked between him and his cousin, who was the opposite of discretion with his poorly hidden smile. “For once, all the accounts seem to be in agreement with one another. The facts deviate very little. That is not often the case with fabrications.”
The jig was up. Gavan took the only sensible route available to him. “It was Ewan’s fault.”
Ewan cursed him in Gaelic, shaking his head. Catherine ignored the Scot’s obvious culpability and sent her admonishing tsk at Gavan.
“It was!” Gavan cried, defending himself. “The twins would have left much less conspicuously if Ewan hadn’t interfered.”
Catherine shifted, gracing him with her undivided attention. “Is Mr. Dalreoch also responsible for the young woman living next door to you striking you and shoving you down her steps?”
So that rumor was circulating as well. Blast.
“In my defense, I thought Miss Howard was propositioning me and am clearly the victim in that situation. Look at my eye.” Gavan gestured to the fading bruise on his face.
“Rhone.” Catherine’s admonishment graduated to full-fledged disappointment. Gavan felt a sinking feeling in his gut that he hadn’t felt since he was a child being scolded by his stepfather.
“Ye were in a bit of a state, but I’ve never heard ye use the Latin for something ye could get away with saying in English.”
Gavan glared at his traitorous cousin, but what he couldn’t stand was the disapproval in Catherine’s expression. “Perhaps it might be possible that I was not suitably acclimated to women of a higher moral standard when I went to speak with Miss Howard, but I stand by my assertation that I was the victim of a retracted seduction on her behalf.”
“And now a young woman is ruined,” Catherine declared.
“Ruined? I didn’t lay a hand on her. Retracted seduction. All I did was speak.” God above. You would think Gavan had taken her right there on the front stoop.
“It makes no difference, and you know it. She’s been declared uncivilized for striking you and given the cut.” Catherine shook her head sadly. “I shouldn’t be surprised to hear she’s left for the Continent before the week is out. It’s a shame. We could use more women with gumption.”
Gavan didn’t get a chance to respond. Catherine’s husband gestured for her attention from a few groups over, and she made her farewells. The sinking feeling in Gavan’s gut grew, and he stifled it with the rapid application of champagne, wishing for something stronger.
The rest of the ball was uneventful in the wake of Catherine’s news. Ewan had apparently lost his appetite for matchmaking and tiny sandwiches, and he stared pensively into space. Gava
n tried to draw him out with outrageous statements, but they were all met with an absent, “Oh aye?” When Gavan suggested they make Lady Rockford’s vicious lapdog his new countess, and Ewan responded with the same, “Oh aye,” Gavan called for the carriage.
His cousin’s reticence was contagious. During the drive back to St. James’s Square, Gavan found himself wondering about a certain chestnut-haired harridan. He had a hard time believing she would let simple public opinion chase her out of London. She had stood toe to toe with him and not backed down an inch. A woman like that wouldn’t give up. The gossip would move on to something new, and it would all be water under the bridge.
As they arrived back at St. James’s Square, Gavan glanced over at Number Fourteen. There was a warm glow coming from the upstairs windows. Yes, everything would be just fine.
* * *
Gavan woke in the middle of the night with the distinct feeling that something was not right. He lay still until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, trying to find the source of his unease. He nearly jumped out of his skin when his eyes crossed the armchair and saw a hulking figure where none belonged.
“Yer awake, then?” The dark shape spoke with Ewan’s voice.
“Bloody hell, man. What the devil are you doing?” Gavan’s heart started beating again, and he sat up in irritation.
A beam of moonlight escaped the cloud cover and illuminated the room. Ewan sat calmly in the armchair, still dressed in his evening clothes. His cousin’s composed demeanor would have alleviated the last of the shock, if not for the pistol glinting sinisterly in his hand.
“Is everything all right?” Gavan asked slowly. He was torn between moving toward his cousin to disarm him and achieving a safer distance.
“No, but it will be.” Ewan nodded his head and assessed Gavan. “I’ve been thinking on the lass. All my life, I’ve been on yer side, Gavan. Ye’ve gone astray, but always I thought ye’d make it back eventually.”
Gavan tried to speak—to disabuse him or reassure him, he couldn’t be certain—but Ewan cut him off.
“I’d still believe it, but ye’ve ruined a woman and yer nae even sorry. Ye just went carrying on and jesting. I’ve never been ashamed to call ye kin, Gavan, but I will be if dishonor comes to the lass because of ye.”
Oh, bloody hell. Where Ewan’s sense of honor was concerned, things could get very complicated.
“What do you want me to do?” Gavan asked. “I can’t force people to accept her. Hell, I’m barely acceptable myself, and only because I’m an earl.”
Ewan’s eyes took on a terrifying gleam. “Exactly. The title was enough to make ye respectable. It will do the same for her.”
The sinking feeling from earlier came back in spades. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. Deadly serious.” Ewan gestured with the pistol. “Ye’ll marry her, Gavan, or I’ll put a bullet in ye. She’s no kin to stand for her, so I intend to.”
Gavan made up his mind in favor of safer distance and exited the bed on the opposite side of the armchair. He pulled on his dressing gown. If he was going to die, he’d rather not do so naked. If he wasn’t going to be shot right this instant, he certainly wasn’t going back to sleep anytime soon.
“Ewan, that woman assaulted me. She could have murdered me with her stairs. There is no way she will agree to marry me,” Gavan argued.
“Find a way. I made a promise, and I mean to keep it. Ye’ll nae become yer father.”
The words struck home so hard Gavan flinched. It would have been kinder if his cousin had just shot him. Ewan knew it. A ghost of regret flickered across the Scot’s face but was chased away by cold resolve.
Ewan pushed his frame out of the chair and moved to the door. “Yer a crafty bugger, Gavan, and charming when ye choose to be. Ye’ll think of something.” On his way out, he saluted Gavan with his pistol.
Chapter 3
Hannah had been strolling in the park with her maid for over an hour, and she was on the verge of tears. Pausing at the next intersection of paths, she resigned herself to the truth.
“It’s hopeless.” She closed her eyes and tilted her face up to the sun. With any luck, casual observers would believe she was enjoying the warmth of the day, rather than guessing the truth: Hannah was doing everything she could not to cry.
“If you don’t mind my asking, miss, what is it we were trying to accomplish?” Betsy collapsed the parasol and joined Hannah in the illusion of basking.
Hannah sighed. “We were trying to inspire a miracle.”
Every invitation she had sent, every social call she had tried to make had been met with either disdain or no response at all. It was like she was invisible. Somehow, despite being completely new to London, the entire populace had decided to give her the cold shoulder. Walking through the park, it had been the same. A girl of about her age had given Hannah a smile, only to be whisked away by a matronly looking chaperone who whispered furiously as they hurried off. Something was very, very wrong.
“Come, Betsy. Apparently London is fresh out of miracles today.”
They wearily made their way out of the park, headed back to St. James’s Square. The foot traffic was light, but it still afforded plenty of lords and ladies the opportunity to cross to the opposite side of the street as Hannah passed them. By the time they made it back to Number Fourteen, Hannah felt a desolation she hadn’t experienced since the days following her mother’s funeral. Not only was her mother never coming back, but the jovial, affectionate father Hannah had known had disappeared as well, leaving an unfeeling tyrant in his place. It had been a very lonely time, and Hannah felt its echoes in her present mood.
It was due to this tempest of emotion that Hannah did not greet her butler, Ambrose, or inquire after the events of the afternoon. Instead, she headed directly for the stairs to indulge in a good cry in the privacy of her room.
“Madam, you have a visitor,” Ambrose announced.
Hannah turned on the step. “You must be mistaken, Ambrose. Everyone within fifty miles of this town house believes I am single-handedly attempting to bring the plague back to London.”
Ambrose paused a moment before hurrying on with a shake of his head. “I tried to stop him, but he was quite insistent.”
Hannah stared at her butler as a creeping suspicion came over her. “When you say him, would you be referring to—?”
“The Earl of Rhone, madam. I attempted to bar him from the house, but he overpowered me.” Ambrose stared at the floor in abject shame.
“I see.” She did see. Hannah’s butler was far from experienced, and the earl was a singularly frustrating individual. “May I assume he is in the sitting room, or has he taken to wandering the private areas of my home?”
“The sitting room, madam.” Ambrose lapsed into silence.
Under the circumstances, Hannah supposed it was the best that could be hoped for. As an unwed woman living alone, her choices for staff had been limited. Ambrose’s lack of experience in his post was certainly showing, but she had hope that he would grow into the position.
“The earl is quite impossible to deal with,” she said to ease his tension. “Please have water heated for a bath, and the footmen stand post in the hallway. We might need to forcibly remove his lordship.”
Hannah didn’t have nearly enough energy left to deal with a spoiled earl, but she set her chin and resolved to face the problem head-on anyway.
* * *
Gavan leaned against the mantel of the fireplace and took in the sitting room at Number Fourteen. As a woman living alone, he had expected Miss Howard’s decorating choices to be overtly feminine. He was surprised to find neutral creams arrayed with gray blue and gold accents. Bless her violent little soul, there wasn’t a lace doily in sight. The dainty damask settees were clearly a hazard to be avoided, but his future fiancée had thoughtfully augmented them with plenty of large wingback chair
s in thick brocade.
He approached a chair and settled into it. Testing a few different angles, Gavan found the perfect position for his lazy sprawl. He sighed with contentment. The chairs in his own sitting room weren’t half this comfortable. Perhaps there was more to recommend Miss Howard as a wife than he had previously considered. It was unfortunate he had no intention of marrying the harpy.
The perfect solution had presented itself this morning at White’s. Two lads had been discussing their fellow’s recent engagement to a woman with an extensive dowry. Their conversation had devolved into an argument, ending in the two men betting on which would convince the lass to cry off in favor of himself first.
Once Gavan and Miss Howard were engaged, he would introduce her to every eligible man with a pulse. Eventually, one had to take. Miss Howard would jilt Gavan, allowing him to leverage the supposed embarrassment to get himself out of marriage for at least a year; more if he seemed properly heartbroken. All he had to do was get her to accept the engagement.
“By all means, make yourself at home.”
The icy formality interrupted Gavan’s musings. He was glad tone alone could not kill a man. How he was supposed to convince this woman to become engaged to him, Gavan had no idea, but it never hurt to start with flattery. He stood and turned his brightest smile on her.
“Miss Howard, what a vision of loveliness you are this afternoon,” he said with a bow.
She blinked at him, nonplussed. It wasn’t a lie. The woman looked exhausted and windblown, but it would take more than a messy coiffure to distract from Miss Howard’s appeal.
“I like what you’ve done with the place. You have an excellent eye for color.”
A Convenient Engagement Page 2