“Goodness. What on earth happened?” Mathilda perked up at the promise of a juicy story.
Mathilda’s attention was so riveted by Powell’s perfidy, Hannah didn’t have the heart to deny her the story she was clearly hoping for. She relayed the sitting room scene after her father died, and their later encounter in St. James’s Square, in detail.
“What a horse’s ass!” Mathilda declared when it was finished.
“And then they evicted her!” Jane added, still quite beset by enmity.
“Very badly done,” Catherine agreed.
Hannah looked at her companions and felt a surge of happiness. “Your outrage on my behalf warms my heart. Truly, though, I have put it behind me. I am overjoyed to be here in London now.”
“Then let us focus on that,” Catherine said. “Your debut is shaping up to be the event of the Season. I expected a decent turnout, but after this morning’s paper, the list of attendees has tripled, and it’s still rising.”
“What does the paper have to do with the ball attendance?” Hannah asked.
“You haven’t seen it?” Catherine got up and started searching through the pages of a periodical on a side table.
Hannah had been too nervous about the upcoming appointment to go down for breakfast. What could possibly be in there to inspire a rush of response to Catherine’s ball?
The older woman found the section she was looking for and handed it over. “Rhone put in your engagement announcement, and they turned it into a full-blown editorial.”
“What on earth?” Hannah took the pages.
London’s favorite Scot, the rakish Earl of Rhone, has finally gotten himself leg shackled. To whom, you might ask? What fine specimen of womanly wiles has lured our fallen hero onto the path to matrimony? One Hannah Howard, none other than the mysterious lovely involved in last week’s St. James’s Square scandal.
Hannah skimmed past the detailed recounting of her first meeting with Rhone. She had no desire to relive the experience, knowing that all of London was reliving it with her.
The announcement of the happy pair’s engagement came none too soon, as just yesterday new incendiary reports were flooding out of the same square. Astonishingly, the gig fit for a czarina the earl gifted to his ladylove is not the most exciting part of this tale. (Guard your pocketbooks, gentlemen. Within the month, every woman in Christendom will swear they must have one.) Instead, the town is buzzing with the state they returned in after their drive. Both members of the couple were covered head to toe in mud. With the carriage still sparkling gloriously, one does wonder what the amorous duo got up to on the country lanes outside of town.
Hannah groaned. It was bad enough having returned in such a state, but to have everyone correctly ascertain what they had been doing was mortifying.
The evidence is all pointing toward a love match, and this publication is pleased to be able to confirm that as fact. We have it from a very reliable source that the earl and his fiancée met on the Suffolk shores and were instantly enamored. The stars were crossed and Cupid thwarted when their match did not meet with her father’s approval. Fear not, though, gentle reader. All ends well. The sad passing of Sir Thomas Howard this summer freed our forbidden lovers to pursue the affections they had maintained through secret correspondence since their parting.
Rhone had wasted no time getting that story in the wind. It was so close to what they had come up with in her sitting room, she wondered if he might be their very reliable source.
It is clear to this observer that the Earl and soon-to-be Countess of Rhone have no shortage of passion, whether it be expended in diversions on a country lane or explosive lovers’ quarrels in one of London’s premier districts. It is the opinion of this observer that such a fact should come as a shock to no one, given the widely known proclivities of our beloved rascal earl. We congratulate him on finding a mate of such spirited disposition to match his own.
The Hon. Miss Hannah Howard will be presented to society at a celebration held by the illustrious Mr. John Conduitt and his always lovely wife, the former Miss Barton, one week from today. It is our deepest hope that the patronage of such cultivated grace as is possessed by Mrs. Conduitt will not transfer too heavily to the young Miss Howard. We have our eye and highest hopes affixed to the earl and his new fiancée, who promise to be the most exciting couple of the Season, if not the decade.
“Bloody hell,” Hannah murmured.
Mathilda’s snort brought a flush to Hannah’s cheeks, and she looked up from the paper to see an amused smile flirting with the edge of Mrs. Conduitt’s mouth. She handed the paper over so Jane and Mathilda could read it.
“It’s quite the stroke of luck, really,” Mathilda said when they finished.
“Luck?” Hannah didn’t feel particularly lucky. She was mortified.
“In one fell swoop you’ve gone from outcast to sensation. You and Rhone will be in high demand.” Jane’s agreement held a note of unease.
“You don’t think it’s a bit . . . conspicuous?” Hannah asked.
“Oh, certainly. All of London will be watching your every move.” Mathilda sounded excited at the prospect.
“Are you certain that’s a good idea?”
“I know it can be quite intimidating to have all eyes upon you,” Catherine said quietly, taking her hand. “But the fact is, they’ll be on you whether you choose to treat it as an advantage or not.”
Hannah looked up and met Catherine’s kind eyes. “How did you manage it?”
Catherine’s responding smile was still kind, but for a brief moment the gentility was replaced with an element of steel. “Failure was not an option I allowed myself. The only path is forward, Miss Howard. You must walk it with certainty and confidence, or be trampled by the wayside.”
* * *
Gavan adjusted the bonnet on his head and checked his visage in the glass.
“For God’s sake, take that bloody thing off,” Ewan said from the desk.
“After all the trouble you took designing it? Certainly not.”
“Ye won the bet,” Ewan said through gritted teeth. “That means ye dinnae have to wear the damned thing.”
“Not having to doesn’t preclude me from wanting to. It’s wonderful.” Gavan turned his head this way and that, assessing his reflection. “I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you. You appear to have a natural talent for ladies’ headwear. Have you ever considered taking up a trade?”
It really was remarkable. It was an enormous creation with a white lace brim, rimmed in looped ribbons of pink and gold, with pink rosettes positioned at the bottom corners. Streams of pink and white ribbon trailed from the rosettes to secure the bonnet into place, fly free in the wind, or both. There were far more than were necessary for function. It created a whimsical feeling Gavan appreciated.
Ewan leveled a quelling stare at him. “Yer buffoonery willnae get ye out of this. There’s business to sort out, and yer going to sort it, Laird Dalreoch.”
“The only thing I don’t understand is why it’s so large,” Gavan pondered, ignoring him. “It’s easily four sizes bigger than it ought to be.”
“I had to estimate.”
“But four sizes? You can’t really think my head is this large.”
“Aye, well, it has a tendency to swell excessively, especially when yer feeling full of yerself.”
Gavan turned to give his cousin a flat stare. Ewan returned it with interest and indicated the chair behind the desk. Fine. If Ewan wanted him to play the laird, so be it.
He took the seat and arched an eyebrow. “What is the business?”
Ewan glared at the bonnet Gavan still wore, but he had won all the ground he was going to.
“Young Ian wants to graze the sheep on the west side of the Blackwood,” Ewan began.
Gavan picked up a letter opener and began flipping it in his fin
gers. “So let him.”
“Angus says Grant McConnel swore he’d murder the wooly bastards if they set a single hoof on that side of the river.”
“What the devil does Grant McConnel care where young Ian grazes sheep?” he asked, flipping the knife ever higher.
“He’s grazing cows on the land west of the Blackwood,” Ewan said.
The letter opener landed point first into the surface of the desk.
Gavan hated livestock. He remembered riding the land with Seamus, learning about the smelly, necessary beasts. Sheep stripped the vegetation from the land, requiring the herd to be moved regularly so they didn’t starve and the land didn’t become barren.
“Skip that one. What else?” He pulled the opener free and started spinning it in his palm.
“Auld Ian’s horse barn burnt down.” More livestock problems.
“What else?” Gavan focused on the spinning of the knife, trying not to attach the faces from his childhood to the names Ewan was reciting.
“Morag’s dropped another bairn. That’s six now. Calum doesnae say so, but ye know they’re bursting at the seams in that cottage.”
Not livestock, but no less of a herd.
“Is there more?”
“Aye.”
“How much more?”
Ewan’s expression spoke volumes.
“Put it in a list so I can look at it all together.” The knife resumed its spinning.
Ewan watched the glinting edge, his eyes narrowed. “Ye cannae ignore this. Yer going to take care of these yerself.”
“I will. Just let me think on it.” He gave the opener a final spin.
“There’s one more thing.”
Gavan set the opener down. It was failing miserably in its role of keeping him from remembering his early years in Scotland. His own clansmen hadn’t refrained from gossiping about his parentage—they had just chosen to whisper it behind his back rather than ridicule him to his face.
“It can’t go on the list?” he asked.
“No.”
“What is it?”
“Ye need to do something about Fiona,” Ewan began.
Gavan immediately stood, preparing to flee the room.
Ewan stood and grabbed his arm. “Stop it, ye great coward.”
“We agreed that the less I have to do with Fiona’s life, the better,” Gavan said, shaking off his cousin’s grip.
“I know what we agreed, but we were wrong.” The big Scot dragged a hand through his ragged hair. “She’s half wild, Gavan. Leaving her alone was a mistake. She needs ye.”
“Nobody needs me,” he said quietly.
“Ye know that’s not true.” Ewan’s face constricted.
Gavan didn’t know that, but it wasn’t worth arguing with his stubborn cousin. He scrambled for a diversion, and his mind immediately went to Hannah. It seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
“Can we discuss it later? I need to give Hannah her last gift before the ball.”
“Aye. Later, then.”
* * *
From the doorway of Number Fourteen’s dining room, Gavan had a front-row view of the spectacle occurring within. The table and chairs had been removed, and his fiancée had arranged her household into a three-couple set. Bailey’s sister was acting as the caller, directing the group’s movements. She called for a double figure of eight, and the ensuing chaos deposited Hannah directly in front of Gavan in the doorway.
“Good morning,” she said, breathless from the dance.
“Good morning.” The joy in her wide smile put him at a temporary loss for words.
“Have you come to join us? We could do a Scottish reel!”
The groans from the dancers gave him an idea of how long they had been at it. The Scottish reel was a lively, complex set of steps. Gavan decided to play the hero and accrue some valuable credit with Hannah’s staff.
“Actually, I was hoping I might have a moment alone, if you don’t mind taking a break.” He leaned in close. “I have something for you.”
Hannah’s eyes lit with curiosity. “I should really keep practicing.”
“Oh no, dear. A break will do you good. Let the knowledge steep in your bones.” Bailey’s aunt was already hustling footmen out of the dining room. She mouthed a “thank you” from behind Hannah’s shoulder as they filed past.
“Is it possible that you might have overdone it a bit?”
His fiancée looked sheepish. “Possibly, but it’s just so much fun!” She flung her arms out to the side and twirled, coming to rest in the center of the open space in the dining room.
Gavan followed her like a beacon. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
“I can’t bring myself to stop. I’m afraid I’ll wake up in Suffolk tomorrow and everything will have been a dream.” She confessed her fears so easily, so openly.
Gavan could not imagine doing such a thing. “It’s not a dream.”
“I know. I know it’s irrational.” And just like that, she shrugged off her concern. “So, what do you have for me?” she asked, eyes twinkling.
He tilted his head, indicating that she should follow him to the patch of light streaming in from the windows. The lack of presentation hurt his sense of showmanship, but hopefully the morning sun would set it off to advantage.
Gavan slowly reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling out a velvet bag with equal sluggishness.
“Hurry!” She reached to take it, but he held it out of range.
“‘Patience is the companion of wisdom,’” he quoted, avoiding her grasping attempts.
“‘Abused patience turns to fury,’” she quoted back.
Gavan chuckled. It was dangerous to tease her; not so much for his safety as for the outcome. Her violence turned to passion in a flash, and he had already failed once since declaring his intention to be honorable. Although really, the fact that she still had her virginity at all was a feat of chivalry. In fact, that would be the new bar. If he could survive this engagement without making love to Hannah, Gavan would consider his quest successful.
He handed over the bag before she could start growling at him. Loosening the strings, she gently drew the piece from the velvet, revealing a glittering riot of fire tones.
“It’s a stomacher,” he said. “For the front of your gown.”
Superfine goldwork created a delicate setting for garnets, citrines, and rubies that formed the shape of tiny flowers set in curved banners that suggested, rather than outlined, a triangular shape. Thin leaves filled with the same stones sprouted amber teardrops—suspended to allow for motion. At the center was a polished piece of amber with an exotic tropical flower trapped in its heart.
She was frowning down at the piece, silent. Maybe he should explain.
“The amber looks like honey drops to me, and I always think of . . .” Not the time to talk about how she tastes like honey. “When the light hits it, it quite resembles a flame, and . . .” Do not call her a hellcat. “The flower.” Yes, talk about the flower. “If it hadn’t been trapped, it would be wilted or crushed by now. It never would have made it to London. It’s stronger for its captivity.”
She looked up then, her gaze unreadable. “How do you know about that?”
“I had Bailey mine his sister for information,” he confessed. Oh God, this was a mistake. Bailey must have gotten it wrong. Gavan should have just slathered her in diamonds like he originally planned.
She stared down at it again, her palm tilting to set the stones alight. A stray beam of warm light reflected up, glinting off a tear rolling down her cheek.
“Bollocks.” He stepped forward to . . . take it back? Comfort her? He didn’t know; he just wanted to undo the tears, but she stopped him with a raised hand. “Give it back. I’ll get you something else.”
She shook her head. “I want this one.”
“I’ll get you something better. There’s still time.” He would send Magnus to steal the crown jewels, if that’s what it took. Lord knew the man could probably do it.
“There is nothing better. This is perfect.” She clutched it to her chest.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re weeping.”
“Not all tears are bad, Gavan. Sometimes something moves you and there is no other response.” Her almond eyes did have a certain warmth beneath the tears.
“And this is one of those times?”
“Yes.”
Gavan decided to believe her. “Oh. Well, then. It was all my intuition. Bailey had nothing to do with it.”
Hannah laughed, and the sound washed over him like a blessing. She liked it. She was happy. She took a step forward—the present still pressed to her breast—and he prepared his self-control for one of her uninhibited kisses. When her arms wrapped around his waist and her head pressed against his cravat, he was at a loss.
Gavan couldn’t remember the last time he had been held so innocently; childhood, perhaps? He tentatively placed his own arms around her shoulders. It felt nice. It was a different enjoyment from kissing her, but there was a comforting element to it that Gavan was ashamed to admit he craved. He rested his cheek on the crown of her head and closed his eyes. They stood there in the warm light, Hannah pressed close to him, and all the tension of his meeting with Ewan drained out of him.
“Ahem.”
Gavan looked up. Of course it was Ambrose. That man had been born purely to irritate him.
“Go away,” he said, clutching Hannah to his chest.
The butler gave him an acid glare over Hannah’s bowed head. “Miss, the rest of the gowns from Madame Baudette have arrived.”
Hannah scrambled free of his embrace, grinning like a loon and calling for Betsy. She appeared to have forgotten about him entirely but turned at the last minute in the doorway.
“Thank you, Gavan. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
Chapter 10
“It is a pleasure meeting you as well, Lady Atherton, Miss Atherton.” Hannah dropped another curtsy as the woman and her daughter moved off farther into the ballroom, and she surveyed the surroundings again. It was hardly the first time, but Hannah couldn’t stop herself.
A Convenient Engagement Page 11