Sin and Sensibility

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Please don’t worry yourself, Mr. Noleville. I was six when their yacht capsized. While I do miss them, I certainly don’t begrudge you your own parents. That would make me a very pitiful creature.”

  “Which you are not.”

  Eleanor forced a smile. “Thank you.” She shook herself, remembering that her questions did have a point. “Do you acquiesce to your father’s rules and orders?”

  “What an odd question. Of course I do; he is the patriarch of the family.”

  “And he holds your purse strings.”

  The line of his lips thinning, Noleville drew the curricle to a halt. “I do not discuss monetary matters with young ladies. It’s not gentlemanly. And if I may be so bold, my lady, it isn’t seemly for you to carry on such conversations, either.”

  For a moment Eleanor wasn’t certain whether to be angry or mortified. It couldn’t be a good sign when prospective beaux began criticizing her behavior—she’d never met a group of men so willing to forgive anything. And the fact that this beau was correct didn’t leave her feeling any better. “Perhaps you should take me home, if my conversation offends you.”

  He nodded. “I think that’s best. I shall do so at once. I daresay you are merely out-of-sorts, my lady. A cup of peppermint tea and a nap will no doubt do you a world of good.”

  Eleanor refrained from rolling her eyes, but just barely. Yes of course there must be something wrong with her. No female in her right mind would ever question the value of patriarchal influence or wonder whether even men had free choice.

  Neither of them spoke again until the curricle stopped at her front door. As soon as Stanton helped her and then Helen down to the ground, Noleville doffed his hat, said, “Good day to you,” and sent his team back down the drive.

  She didn’t bother to reply as she stomped inside and up the stairs, her maid at her heels. “Stupid,” she grumbled, not certain whether she referred to Roger Noleville or herself.

  “That was quick,” Zachary said, sticking his head out of the billiards room door.

  “Yes, I suppose it was. I made the mistake of asking an honest question.”

  Her brother took a step farther into the hallway. “How honest?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, it wasn’t scandalous or anything. Just something about authority and freedom.”

  “Good God, Nell, you’re supposed to talk about the weather and who’s courting whom. Not treatises on free will.”

  She grimaced at him. “It was hardly that. And his reply was less than enlightening. He told me I needed peppermint tea and a nap.”

  Zachary laughed. “If I told you that, you’d try to blacken my eye.”

  “Both of your eyes. Now leave me alone.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Before he could vanish again, though, Eleanor remembered her promise about escorts. “Zach?”

  Dark hair and gray eyes peered around the doorway again. “Yes?”

  “Will you escort me to the Goldsborough dinner tonight?”

  “Oh. Ah, certainly.”

  Eleanor put her hands on her hips. “What now?”

  “Nothing. I was going to go to the Society and play faro, but I can do that tomorrow night.”

  Another head appeared, much like the first, except for the green tint to the light gray eyes. “I’ll take you.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Shay.”

  “He only volunteered because of the Goldsboroughs’ cook,” Zachary put in.

  “What?” Lifting both eyebrows, Eleanor looked at the middle Griffin brother. “A cook?”

  “Gads, Nell, Mrs. Neal is at least ninety. It’s her chocolate desserts I’m after. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to kill Zachary.”

  “Could you wait an hour or two? I’d like him to take Peep and me to the museum. He can visit the statues.”

  “Ha ha.”

  Shay brushed past her, calling for his jacket. “In that case, I’m coming, too.”

  Valentine sat at his desk, four invitations spread out on the mahogany surface before him. A dinner, a recital, and two small soirees. All for tonight, and all at approximately the same time.

  He tapped his finger against the recital. It was in all likelihood the one Eleanor Griffin would be least likely to attend, and it was the least appealing to him of the four. Therefore, that was where he should go for the evening. Of course he also had a myriad of clubs where he could spend several hours. Clubs also had the additional bonus of liquor and cards—and no young ladies of good standing.

  Grimacing, he pushed the recital invitation off the desk. A club definitely had more appeal than two hours of squeaky viola or strident pianoforte. With a nod he swept the other three invitations into a stack and dumped them into his top drawer. Halfway to his feet, though, he stopped and sat again.

  Maybe he could fool anyone else, but he’d long ago moved past attempting that with himself. Besides being counterproductive, it never worked. And so he had to admit that he wasn’t looking to avoid seeing Eleanor, or trying to steer clear of any postcoital clinging or hysterics—the sort of thing he usually avoided with a passion. He had even more cause to do so now, since seeing her in the park today with Roger Noleville had been like having a ramrod driven through his chest. Considering the nastiness of that particular sensation, he wasn’t at all sure why he wanted to see her again. But he did, and he wasn’t going to any damned club tonight.

  “You are mad, Valentine,” he muttered, yanking the drawer open and freeing the other three invitations again. All three were possibilities, since the Griffins knew all three households and would have been invited to all three events.

  With a grumble he grabbed one of them and stuffed the other two into his pocket. One in three; he generally liked those odds. As for the reason why he was so determined to see her, that would require self-reflection, and he avoided that whenever possible.

  Chapter 16

  As he entered the ballroom of his second soiree of the evening, Valentine began to consider that he should have engaged in at least a little self-reflection before he went scampering about Mayfair looking for a woman he supposedly didn’t want to see. Especially considering that he couldn’t seem to find her.

  He detested so-called intimate soirees; all it meant was that the hostess invited strictly those people with whom she wished to be linked, or more commonly, those with whom she wished her son or daughter to be linked. And Mrs. Stewart had two daughters. Even though he was seldom the target, circumstances had been known to cause all sorts of odd behavior among the marriage-challenged.

  “Deverill,” the Duke of Melbourne said, clapping him on the shoulder with far too much enthusiasm.

  Valentine started, then realized he actually had reason to be relieved to see Eleanor’s brother. “Don’t be so happy to see me,” he murmured, dodging behind a potted plant as Iris Stewart began a turn in their direction. “I’m not here to frighten off the chits who want to approach you. In fact, I have no intention of being pulled into this Hades at all. I’m only here looking for Nell.”

  “Bastard,” the duke grunted, talking behind clenched teeth and a faux smile, his gaze on the young Miss Stewart as she approached.

  “Sorry, there’s only room for one of us back here. Now where’s Nell?”

  “She and Charlemagne went to the Goldsborough dinner. Leave while you can; I’ll distract the natives this once, but that will put you in my debt again.”

  Valentine scowled. “No, it won’t. I’m escaping in order to fulfill my previous debt. You can’t tack on another one, especially since your damned calendar listed four potential destinations for your sister tonight.”

  The duke sighed. “Fine.” He took a step forward, out of Valentine’s line of sight. “Miss Stewart. You are looking especially lovely this evening.”

  At the sound of a grating giggle, Valentine grinned. As soon as Melbourne had maneuvered the older Stewart sister away from his hiding place, he dodged out the side entrance and returned to his coach. “Goldsborou
gh House,” he instructed.

  He thought Dawson sighed just before the coachman clucked to the team, but considering that Goldsborough House would be their third destination in an hour, he decided to overlook the insubordination. At least the earl’s home was close by. He would be arriving almost halfway through the meal, but as the Marquis of Deverill, he was expected to do such things.

  His tardiness would also mean that he would be relegated a place at the foot of the table; Lady Goldsborough would have reshuffled the seating to cover a vacant space farther up the table as soon as the butler confirmed that he wasn’t present. But that was a good thing, since Lady Eleanor would be nowhere near the end of the table. He could look at her, but he wouldn’t have to speak with her.

  The Goldsborough butler announced him, and he followed the servant into the large dining room. Since he was titled, everyone stood to acknowledge his presence, but he deliberately refrained from looking about for Eleanor. “My apologies, George, my lady,” he said instead, stepping forward to greet the host and hostess. “I had some business I needed to attend to.”

  “Ah, and what was her name?” the earl muttered with a grin, shaking his hand.

  “George,” his wife chastised, curtsying. “We’re pleased you could join us, Lord Deverill.”

  “Thank you, Lady Goldsborough.”

  “Deeds, please show Lord Deverill to his chair,” the countess instructed, seating herself again.

  As he strolled the length of the table behind the butler, he finally looked at the gaggle of fellow diners. The most prestigious guests would of course be seated closest to the head of the table, and Eleanor and Charlemagne were on either side of the earl and the countess, respectively. “Shay, Lady Eleanor,” he greeted, nodding.

  “Valentine. Makes sense you’d arrive in time for Lady Goldsborough’s famous chocolate dessert,” Shay returned, chuckling.

  “It’d take Bonaparte attacking London to make me miss that,” he said, though he’d never heard the dessert mentioned before.

  Eleanor didn’t say anything, though she inclined her head politely enough. His abdomen tightened as he scented her lavender perfume. Sweet Lucifer, he should have gone to a club.

  As he’d predicted, he ended up at the foot of the table, with Amelia Hartwood at one elbow and Roger Noleville at the other. “Miss Amelia, Mr. Noleville,” he said, accepting the wine one of the footmen offered.

  “M-my lord,” Amelia stammered, her cheeks darkening to an alarming shade of red.

  Valentine stifled a sigh. Of course he would end up seated next to the daughter of a minister. Lucifer was laughing at him again, but after last night he supposed he deserved it. Bedding the virginal sister of his best friend when he was supposed to be protecting her. It had to be among the lowest things he’d ever done.

  “Deverill. Saw you at the park this morning,” Noleville said, his own tone rather gruff.

  Noleville was rather stiff as well, Valentine recalled. Wonderful. All this because he wanted a glimpse of Eleanor, when he might simply have called on one of her brothers at their house and avoided having to spend at least the next hour between the holier-than-thou duo.

  Now that he was trapped, however, he might as well have a little fun with the circumstances. “Yes, I saw you as well,” he replied to Roger. “Driving with Lady Eleanor, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Courting her, are you?”

  Roger blinked. “That’s a bit personal, don’t you think?”

  It probably was, and it certainly wasn’t his usual roundabout way of finding out information. As he asked the question, though, he’d felt that wrench inside his gut similar to what he’d experienced when he’d first seen Eleanor sitting in another man’s curricle. “I’m a family friend.”

  “So she said. In fact, she even defended your behavior toward the Mandelay sisters.”

  “What behavior?” Valentine countered, stiffening a little. “We were chatting, I believe.”

  “I don’t wish to argue with you, my lord. But neither can I condone a single gentleman accosting young, unescorted females in public.”

  “You—”

  “Deverill,” Shay called from the head of the table, “who was it that sold you Iago?”

  Valentine took a breath. Be calm, he told himself. He hadn’t come to begin a fight with anyone. And besides, given Noleville’s lack of imagination, he doubted Eleanor could seriously look at the young man as a suitor. “I didn’t purchase him,” he said in a more carrying voice. “I won him in a hand of ecarte. From Wellington.”

  From the murmur that ran along both sides of the table, several of the guests were surprised that the Duke of Wellington played ecarte—much less that he ever lost. Given his skill at strategy, however, the duke was a surprisingly poor gambler. And Valentine had badly wanted the half-mad Iago.

  Before Noleville or someone else could then accuse him of cheating the duke or some other nonsense, footmen brought out the next course, the apparently famous aforementioned dessert. It looked like raspberries in melted chocolate with some sort of cream topping. Tentatively he raised a spoonful to his mouth and looked up to see whether anyone else had already tasted the concoction.

  Pale gray eyes met his from down the length of the table. Valentine stopped, the spoon halfway to his mouth, and tried to interpret the look she gave him. He expected anger or remorse, or more pleasantly lust, but unless he was mistaken, she was disappointed.

  In him? Why, in God’s name? His performance last night had been exceptional, if he did say so himself, and she knew him well enough to be unsurprised by both his tardiness and his halfhearted flirtation with the Mandelay twins in the park. If they weren’t so chatty and simpering he might have pursued the conversation more seriously, but even before he’d sighted Eleanor, his heart simply hadn’t been in it.

  Holding her gaze, he took a bite of dessert. Not bad, but hardly worthy of the fame Shay accorded it. But now he had something more significant to contemplate, anyway. He needed a word with Eleanor. Yes, he was supposed to be guarding her, and he was doing a damned poor job of that, but she couldn’t possibly be contemplating settling into matrimony just because he’d provided her with a swimming and a lovemaking session. And she certainly couldn’t be serious about marrying someone as stuffy and dull as Roger Noleville. And she had the nerve to be disappointed in him.

  Directly following dessert, the ladies abandoned the table, going to gossip or embroider or whatever it was they did when no men were present. The butler brought around a box of fine cigars and some port, while Valentine rose to seat himself beside Shay.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” Eleanor’s brother whispered, lifting his glass to cover his words. “I’m only in attendance because Nell requested an escort.”

  “I have a duty, if you’ll recall,” Valentine pointed out, grateful for once that Melbourne had wrangled him into this fiasco. Otherwise he would have to be admitting some rather troubling things to himself, such as the fact that he hadn’t liked seeing Eleanor in another man’s company today, and that whatever look she’d given him earlier bothered him.

  “I would think this would be considered a ‘safe’ outing. I’m here, at any rate.”

  “Well, I didn’t know that, now did I?” Valentine lied. “How many times do I have to tell your brother to send me a note?”

  Charlemagne chuckled. “At least the dessert was worth the trip.”

  Valentine took a breath. It was the best opening he was likely to receive. “Speaking of dessert, Nell didn’t eat much of it. Is she feeling well?”

  “She’s swamped with suitors,” her brother replied, humor still in his voice. “I don’t think she had any idea that calling off her guards would open the floodgates like this. Three this morning, and four more after luncheon, all just coming by in the hope that she’ll grant them a few moments so they can charm her into matrimony.”

  “Seven in one day?”

  Her brother nodd
ed. “Truth be told, if they weren’t so obviously the dregs, I’d be concerned. But I know she’d never settle for one of them.”

  “Is she looking seriously toward anyone at all?”

  “Not as far as I can tell. She doesn’t talk to me much, though. I’ve become one of the enemy.”

  “Men?”

  “Her brother.”

  “I think she’ll come around, Shay,” Valentine supplied. “She just wants a chance to experience new things before she settles down.”

  “Aren’t you enlightened tonight? What brought that on?” Charlemagne reached over and felt of Valentine’s forehead. “Are you well?”

  Valentine knocked his hand away. “I have moments of clarity which surprise even me. This is simply one of them.”

  That had been close. Yes, he and Eleanor were friends, but he absolutely didn’t want to give any of her brothers the tiniest clue that he’d been doing more than keeping an eye on her.

  Lord Hennessy began some bawdy tale about a milkmaid and a baron. He claimed it was all true, but considering that if turned inside out the chit’s gown would have been nearly impossible to fasten, Valentine didn’t believe a word of it. Stating his disbelief aloud, however, would have meant sitting through the explanation and everyone else’s opinions on the manner, and he wanted to be elsewhere. Only when the men were finished with their idiotic gossiping would they join the ladies in the drawing room.

  Of course he really didn’t need to talk in depth with Eleanor; he merely wanted to know what that look had been about, and to be certain that she had no interest in Noleville. After all, until Melbourne called off the hunt, he still had an obligation to look after her.

  “Shall we join the ladies, then?” Lord Goldsborough finally said around a belch. “Don’t want them forgetting us.”

  “Thank God,” Valentine muttered, pushing to his feet.