The Birthday Scandal

by Leigh Michaels

  Lucien’s pride tingled a little. There was nothing about him that made her even consider casting out a lure?

  “We’re meeting alone in a very private spot,” Chloe went on. “Whether you are sitting next to me on this log or looming over me would hardly make a difference to my father, were he to discover us here. So you may as well stop trying to look like a Roman statue and sit down. Let’s get this conversation over with before there is any reason for someone to come looking for either of us.”

  For a flighty young miss, Lucien thought, she suddenly showed a terrifying amount of common sense. He sat down gingerly, staying as far away from her as he could on the uneven log.

  “Despite what you seem to think of me,” she began, “I don’t wish to marry the Earl of Chiswick.”

  “Good judgment there,” Lucien muttered.

  “But I cannot simply reject the offer.”

  Lucien had to admit she was probably right on that count. Refusing any request of Chiswick’s was a dicey sort of task, and Chloe’s father would not be sympathetic to her reluctance.

  “I might have an idea, along those lines,” he began. Perhaps his seduction notion wasn’t such a bad idea after all. She wasn’t in the least interested in him, which eliminated most of the danger. If she would agree to play along just a little—flirt a bit, giggle like a girl with a beau, whisper nonsense, send a melting look his way now and then—he was certain the Earl of Chiswick would not only notice, but he’d get on his high horse and break off the entire connection before Sir George knew what had hit him.

  Chloe shook her head. “I have a perfectly good plan, and the last thing I need is another one to confuse the situation.”

  Lucien was almost disappointed. Couldn’t she at least have let him explain his idea? “Let’s hear your plan, then. If I’m to be involved in this—”

  “You’re a bigger wet goose than I thought if you believe I’d put myself in your power any more than I must. All I need is for you to do an errand for me.”

  Lucien shrugged. “I imagine your father has grooms who would appreciate earning a few shillings by taking care of your personal requests.”

  “Are you trying to sound like a dunderhead, Lord Hartford? I need a letter delivered, but it wouldn’t take much wit for a groom or a stable boy to realize he could earn a great deal more by taking it directly to my father for a reward, rather than seeking out the person it’s addressed to.”

  “And then you would be in the suds.” He eyed her narrowly. This might be the answer to his quandary. If his father was to hear that his chosen bride was communicating secretly, with—now there was the question. Who? “It’s a letter to a lover, I gather?”

  She tossed her head. “Of course not!” Then she bit her lip. “Well—I suppose you would say…”

  “I had a suspicion you weren’t writing to tell your old governess about your betrothal. I think you’d better tell me all about this plan of yours, Miss Fletcher.”

  “What is there to tell?” She had turned delightfully pink. “It’s a letter, that’s all.”

  “If it’s so ordinary, send it by the mail coach.”

  She looked him over as if she’d like to build a fire and turn him on a spit. Then she sighed and went over to her horse. From a saddlebag she took a folded page. “I need for you to hand this letter to…” Her voice dropped. “Captain Hopkins. Jason Hopkins. You must put this into his hands—and only his.”

  Now Lucien knew what she’d sound like if she whispered nonsense into a man’s ear—because that order was just as lacking in wit as any feminine chatter he’d ever half-listened to. “Just as a matter of curiosity—because I haven’t officially agreed to be your errand boy, Miss Fletcher—I don’t suppose you’ve thought far enough ahead to tell me where I might find this paragon of the British Army?”

  “Of course I have. He’s in the infantry, and his regiment is stationed now at Peterborough.”

  At least a couple of hours’ ride, Lucien calculated. And then he would have to turn straight about and ride back. Of course, that assumed the captain was to be found in his quarters or nearby. If he happened to be off on maneuvers or delivering messages for some colonel, it might take days to run him down.

  “It won’t work,” he said. “I can’t just disappear from the castle for the better part of a day. Everyone will ask uncomfortable questions about where I went and why.”

  He thought for a moment she was going to cry, but Chloe Fletcher was made of sterner stuff than he’d expected. “How difficult can it possibly be for you to go for a long ride? All a gentleman must do to excuse himself is to announce that you need relief from your family’s constant company. Or you can make up a story. In fact, if you weren’t hen-hearted, you could simply go and make no explanation at all.”

  Lucien’s jaw set hard. “Hen-hearted, am I?”

  “It appears so. No wonder your father gives you no respect, if you never stand up to him!”

  “You and my father have discussed this?” The polite edge to his voice could have peeled an apple.

  “I’ve never discussed anything of the sort with him. We’ve barely exchanged words.”

  “Then I hardly think you an expert on the subject of my dealings with my father.”

  “But your sisters’ feelings on the matter are not difficult to read, and they coincide with my own observations.”

  She was damnably slow to take a hint, Lucien noticed irritably. He nodded toward the folded page in her hand. “What is in this letter?”

  “None of your business.”

  “It is if I’m to be carrying it. Tell me, or I won’t help you.”

  Chloe tilted her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. “Deliver it to Captain Hopkins,” she countered, “or I’ll do nothing more to stop the wedding. So what about it, Lord Hartford?—for it’s entirely up to you. Would you rather be my messenger this once, or my stepson forever?”

  Chapter 10

  Isabel didn’t come down to breakfast until late, but she was surprised to find the room crowded. Even the duke was in evidence; Isabel exclaimed in delight to see Uncle Josiah downstairs, with more healthy color in his face than she had seen since their arrival.

  “Coming down to breakfast is nothing to make a fuss over,” he grumbled.

  “He’s been growling at all of us,” Emily put in. “But I think he looks pleased nonetheless that we’re attempting to coddle him.”

  Isabel noticed her sister’s full plate and helped herself to a sizeable pile of shirred eggs. She was considering the relative attractions of beef or ham when she realized that her husband was regarding her thoughtfully down the length of the sideboard, and she almost dropped the serving fork.

  She felt her cheeks go as hot as the flame under the chafing dishes as she recalled their uninhibited behavior last night. It all felt like a dream now. Had she really shrieked as she took pleasure in what he was doing to her?—and then, afraid that the household would hear, bitten down hard on her hand to keep from shrieking again? Worse, she was very much afraid that at one point she had been so lost to good sense that she had begged…and then after he had finally done with her, she had tumbled into sleep so suddenly and so deeply that she didn’t even know when he had left her bed.

  “Let me help you to kidneys,” Maxwell murmured. “They are said to be very healthy for you.”

  Had there been the smallest hesitation in his voice before that last word—as though it was not Isabel’s welfare he was commenting on, but that of the child he was so determined to create?

  But of course he was thinking only of his child.

  She told herself she was not shocked at the realization; she wasn’t even surprised. And she definitely was not disappointed to have it made clear that her own health was a concern for him only as it might affect a child she carried.

  In fact, she was almost pleased to have the solid reminder of what was important—particularly since a child was just as important to her, now, as it was to him. Once she had
embarked on this course, there was no way out but through—so the sooner she was provably pregnant, the sooner this farce would be over, and the sooner she would be free.

  Maxwell laid a hand on the back of the chair next to his, as if to pull it out for her, but Isabel shook her head. “I shall sit with my uncle,” she said, and took a chair between her father and the duke. Odd, however, that even though she was three seats away from her husband, she could feel him next to her, as though he was still cupping her wrist to hold her plate steady as he spooned kidneys onto it. She could smell his cologne as clearly as if his scent had soaked into the sleeve of her morning dress where he’d brushed against the fabric.

  She half listened to the conversation as she pushed the kidneys around on her plate, and thought that Emily, sitting across from her, was being unusually chatty this morning. Her sister was sitting next to Gavin and paying not a whit of attention to him. What a shame that was. If only Emily could see their new cousin as Isabel herself did…

  Emily paused midsentence as her gaze came to rest on Isabel. “My dear, what did you do to your hand?”

  Isabel glanced down at the shadow of a bruise. “Bumped it, I suppose,” she said and prayed that Emily would let the subject drop.

  Chiswick turned a page in his newspaper. “Is Hartford still abed? One must wonder what sort of dissipation he could possibly have found to indulge himself in, not to be able to arise at a decent hour of the morning. Not that the rest of you are exactly early birds today.”

  Isabel felt her face warm. Dissipation—yes, that would be an accurate way to describe a good deal of what had gone on between her and Maxwell last night. She tried not to look at her husband, but she knew that his gaze was resting on her.

  “You must have been quite deeply asleep last night, Emily,” Chiswick went on, “since Hartford couldn’t rouse you.”

  “Country air,” Emily said promptly. “It always makes me rest so well.”

  Gavin chuckled. The duke looked askance at him, and Gavin added, “A castle was never my idea of the country. If you’d seen some of the small farms around Baltimore—”

  “Spare us, Athstone,” the duke said. “If I wanted to see agriculture in the heathenish new world, I’d have gone there. Take yourself off and study your ancestors for a while. Surveying the portrait gallery will give you a better understanding of the value of history and family, and help you forget about farms.”

  “Of course, sir,” Gavin said respectfully. He bowed to the company and went out.

  Emily pushed her chair back. “The seamstresses will be waiting. If you’ll excuse me, Uncle Josiah?”

  Isabel stopped stirring her food. “Wait just a moment, Emily, and I’ll go with you.”

  Maxwell intervened. “But you have not yet finished your breakfast. Let me get you a fresh, hot plate, because your food must have gone cold. You must keep up your strength, for the sake of—”

  Isabel’s face flooded with color.

  “—the seamstresses,” Maxwell finished gently as he set a plate before her. “You want to be able to stand still long enough that your ball gown will fit properly—don’t you, my dear Isabel?”

  Though Gavin never seemed to be in any hurry, he could obviously move quickly when he wanted to—for by the time Emily followed him from the breakfast room he was out of sight, and it took her a few minutes to run him to earth in the portrait gallery which spanned the width of the second floor of the castle’s oldest section.

  He was standing halfway down the gallery, contemplating a full-length portrait of a long-dead Duke of Weybridge and idly scratching the ears of Uncle Josiah’s favorite dog, when she caught up with him. “Well, I must say this is the last place I thought of searching for you, Gavin—exactly where Uncle Josiah suggested you go.”

  He smiled a little but didn’t take his gaze off the portrait. “A right old tartar he looks, doesn’t he?”

  Emily spared no more than a glance at the old duke in his stiffly whaleboned brocade coat and long, cascading curls before turning back to Gavin. “What were you thinking? Laughing at me in front of the entire family for saying I slept soundly!”

  “You do sleep soundly—and a good thing it is I didn’t or you’d have still been in my bed when Benson came in with tea this morning.”

  Emily bit her lip and said reluctantly, “I suppose I owe you thanks for that much. I seem to have been more tired last night than I thought.”

  The corner of Gavin’s mouth twitched. “All that fresh air, no doubt.”

  “There you go again,” Emily accused, “laughing at me. You must be more circumspect or someone will guess that we…that we…”

  “You mean someone like your father? I should warn you that before you came down this morning, he admonished me to have a care with your reputation.”

  Emily’s heart dropped to her toes. “But how could he possibly suspect—?”

  “He told me that after our moonlight drive last night, he is concerned I may not fully appreciate the need to treat an English lady’s good name with delicacy.”

  She could breathe again. “I’d almost forgotten that.”

  “My heart breaks,” he murmured.

  “A moonlight drive, in company, is nothing. It’s done all the time in the ton. And stop trying to distract me. You can’t go around laughing at me when—”

  “Whenever you tell some gigantic bouncer? Is your behavior at breakfast what you consider being circumspect—chattering at random so no one else could get a word in, and never once looking at me? If that is an example of you being discreet—”

  “More discreet than you were,” she accused. “And you must have let something slip to Benson.”

  “I swear on my honor I did not. What makes you think I did?”

  “Because he was in the gallery when I came down this morning, and he looked at me in such an impertinent way—”

  “That would have been your own guilty conscience speaking, Emily. Benson is only impertinent to people who insult me.”

  “Me? I haven’t—”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “All right,” she said reluctantly. “Perhaps I have. But—”

  “There’s an easy solution to all of this, you know. Just don’t come back to my room.”

  Emily was startled. “What?”

  “Surely last night provided the answer to your questions. If the possibility of being discovered troubles you so much, and if you feel you cannot trust me to maintain the proper respectful attitude, then you should thank your good fortune that last night is safely past—and not take further chances of discovery.”

  “Oh.” Emily was surprised for a moment that he was being so calm, so straightforward, so clear of vision. She wondered if Gavin had found himself in this sort of situation before—facing down a woman’s kinfolk just hours after making love to her.

  And his suggestion was quite sensible, she had to admit. Emily had, in her inexperience, underestimated the difficulty of carrying on an intrigue directly under the noses of her entire family. How, she wondered, did the ladies and gentlemen of the ton ever manage? But house parties were generally made up of friends, not families—and if all of the guests were following the same set of rules, they would not ask uncomfortable questions of their fellows.

  There was no reason to feel irritated at how easily Gavin seemed to have given up the idea of another night together. In fact, it would have been quite embarrassing if he had insisted, or pleaded, or begged, or bargained. She was glad he was being sensible.

  “Quite a simple solution,” Gavin said.

  Emily tried to smother her aggravation. Did he need to sound so pleased that their affaire was already finished?

  The silence stretched out awkwardly as she considered ways to excuse herself without looking as though she were running away or flouncing off in disappointment.

  Gavin gestured toward the nearest oil painting. “Would you care to explain to me who all these worthy ladies and gentlemen are, and how they’re rel
ated? I’m reasonably certain the duke intends to quiz me.”

  Emily darted a look at him, suspicious that he was changing the subject in an effort to spare her feelings. But he seemed perfectly earnest. “That’s the fourth duke you’re looking at,” she began. “The artist is said to be Sir Peter Lely, who also painted Charles the Second. His duchess is just over there.”

  “The one who looks as if her stays are pinching?”

  Emily tried not to giggle. Most of the gentlemen of her acquaintance wouldn’t admit to knowing what stays were—at least not in a young lady’s hearing.

  Gavin offered his arm, and Emily slipped her hand into his elbow.

  “Standing at her right is her son, the marquess. If you look closely you’ll see your signet ring.” She pointed.

  Gavin twisted the signet on his finger.

  “And the next portrait is her daughter,” she went on. “That artist is said to have fallen in love with his subject and flattered her greatly.”

  “She looks like you,” Gavin said softly.

  And it was a long time and a good many portraits later when Emily remembered that she’d been meant to spend the morning with the seamstresses.

  Chloe Fletcher’s demand had been nothing short of blackmail, and as his mount steadily clipped away the miles that lay between the linden grove at Mallowan and the army barracks at Peterborough, Lucien could scarcely believe that he’d surrendered to her demands. He was not only being held hostage by a pert little miss who probably weighed less than any one of the duke’s favorite hounds, but she had used a threat that any fool would know she couldn’t possibly mean to carry out. Run my errand or I’ll marry your father after all.

  What had he been thinking of, to cave in to something so foolish?

  He whiled away a few miles thinking about what would happen if she acted on her threat. Lucien wouldn’t mind watching the fireworks if the Earl of Chiswick came up against someone just as determined as he was.