Sin and Sensibility

by Suzanne Enoch

  Shay chuckled. “You need more practice at spending time in civilized settings.”

  “No, I don’t. I need to spend less time there. Then it won’t bother me.”

  “You’re hopeless.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  When they entered the drawing room the ladies were all laughing about something. As long as it wasn’t he, he didn’t much care, but Eleanor was smiling as well. He slowed, gazing at her. It was so odd. Until a few weeks ago he’d never thought of her as more than the sibling of a friend, a child he’d known for years and one he would classify more as a pet than a female, not that he had much respect for either.

  But then they’d engaged in an actual conversation—several of them, in fact, and he hadn’t known what to make of things. He did know he’d enjoyed the time he spent with her, but that certainly hadn’t led to anything good. Enjoyable, yes, but not good.

  Lady Goldsborough lurched to her feet as he entered the room. “Lord Deverill, there’s a seat next to Lady Wendermere,” the countess exclaimed, gesturing at the old bat.

  “So there is,” he agreed, taking the chair beside Eleanor.

  “You should have sat with Lady Wendermere,” Eleanor murmured. “She’s hard of hearing and could use some charming company.”

  “Then someone else can be charming. I’m not the only damned man present, and I prefer my conversations to have two sides.”

  He wanted to ask how she was, whether she had any regrets about last night. Asking, though, would mean staying to hear the answers—and he was quite certain he didn’t want to do that.

  “I was surprised to see you wander in here this evening,” she continued in a low voice, while the other guests cajoled Lady Goldsborough into sitting at the pianoforte for a tune or two.

  Valentine shrugged. “Seemed as good a place as any to get a meal.”

  “So it had nothing to do with me?”

  For a moment he just looked at her. Eleanor preferred being direct; he knew that about her. He generally preferred it himself, but not tonight. “Should it have?” he asked.

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “I mean, I flipped a coin,” he lied, “about whether to venture here or to the Stewart soiree. The Stewarts actually won, but then I recalled that their only offspring are two unmarried daughters with large feet. Hence my presence here.”

  “I see.” She looked away, toward the group of guests gathered around the pianoforte. “Might I ask you a question?” she said slowly.

  Valentine hid a grimace. “Yes.”

  “Did last night mean anything to you?”

  Damnation. “Last night? Of course it meant something. It was quite pleasant, you are exceptionally lovely, and I hadn’t been swimming in a very long time.” He almost added that he wouldn’t mind repeating the experience, but restrained himself at the last moment.

  “Swimming is the thing you hadn’t done in a while,” she repeated. “The other is more frequent.”

  “I’ve never made a secret of that, Eleanor,” he returned, a creeping unease shivering along his spine. God, she couldn’t be jealous. He didn’t want her to be jealous—but neither did he want to discuss last night any further. “How was your drive with Roger Noleville this morning?”

  “How was your chat with the Mandelay sisters?” she retorted.

  “Dull as dirt,” he said smoothly, “but it passed the time.”

  She gazed at him. “So there was nothing you would rather have been doing?”

  He didn’t know whether she was looking to comment on his lack of usefulness or whether she wanted a simple compliment. Either one meant admitting to something he wasn’t quite ready to confess to, but neither was he prepared to tolerate that disappointed look of hers. “The thing I would rather have been doing wasn’t possible, since you were unavailable.”

  Eleanor blinked. “Oh. So you—”

  “Yes, I would. You, however, made a stipulation, and I will honor it.”

  “Then it’s just on to the next chit for you?”

  As if he could get Eleanor out of his thoughts long enough to call on anyone. This conversation was becoming a little too personal—and a little too close to encouraging him toward self-reflection. “Eleanor, I’m not the one who wanted to change any part of my life. That was you. And if there’s more you wish to do, I’ll be happy to oblige. But don’t expect that I will alter an inch. I’m quite happy with my life as it is.”

  “You mean to say that you’re happy with complete frivolity and never making any more than a brief physical connection with anyone,” she said, her tone still quiet.

  “That’s none of your damned affair. And besides, you’re the one who said ‘one night only.’” He stood, still careful to keep his voice lowered. “Don’t expect me to become a bloody monk or something, just because—”

  “Excuse me,” she said, rising as well. “But if you don’t mind, I need to face some responsibilities and make some serious decisions about my future. Your determination to be frivolous is giving me an aching head.”

  “You’re giving me an aching head,” he shot back. “Insult me if it makes you feel better, my dear, but spend a little time looking at yourself in the mirror. I think you might just find that you envy me more than you disapprove of me.”

  “Maybe I do, in some ways,” she admitted, surprising him to his bones. “Your freedom to do and say what you want, and keep company with whom you please. But I do not envy your lack of…feeling for anyone but yourself.”

  That was enough of that. “Thank you for your insightful conversation,” he snapped, turning on his heel.

  He was outside and back inside his coach before he realized he still held a snifter of brandy in one hand. With a scowl he downed the remainder of the liquor and tossed the crystal onto the opposite seat. If he’d been thinking clearly he would have reminded the damned chit that just last night she’d declared him to be some sort of hero. Of course he had feelings for and about other people; just because he chose not to share them with anyone, including himself, didn’t mean they didn’t exist.

  Valentine growled. Thinking was bad. He’d learned that a long time ago. Leaning out the window, he slammed the flat of his hand against the door panel. “Dawson, take me to Boodle’s.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Eleanor sat again, trying to ignore the empty place beside her when everyone else was practically seated on top of one another in the small drawing room. The high titter of women giggling, Shay’s suave drawl, Lady Goldsborough’s sure fingers coaxing the pianoforte into a jig. Well, she should have expected that Valentine wouldn’t sit about and listen to her insult him.

  Today was supposed to have been easier. Everything after last night was supposed to simply fall into place, leaving her content with the path she was now supposed to see clearly before her. She’d had her adventure, she’d indulged her most deep-seated, naughty daydreams—and every time she set eyes on Valentine, she wanted to indulge again. Damnation, she was supposed to be able to set all of yesterday behind her and look forward to settling the rest of her life.

  Perhaps that was the problem. Deverill had done precisely that, and she still couldn’t move beyond how freeing it felt to be with him.

  “Nell,” Shay said, making her jump as he dropped onto the cushions beside her, “I’ve seen hanged thieves who looked happier than you. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m just thinking.”

  “You’ve been thinking since you came back from your drive with Noleville this morning.” Her brother glanced in Roger’s direction. “Did he say something to you? Because agreement to stay out of your affairs or not, I’ll happily break him in two for you.”

  Eleanor wondered whether he would still make so generous an offer if he knew Deverill, rather than Noleville, was to blame for her pensiveness. Breaking Valentine in half would certainly be a more challenging—and dangerous—prospect. “That’s not necessary,” she answered. “I am tired, though. Would you mind seein
g me home?”

  “Not a bit.” Standing, Charlemagne pulled her to her feet. They made their excuses to Lord and Lady Goldsborough, and her brother led the way outside. As soon as their driver brought the coach around, he helped her inside and climbed in behind her.

  “My apologies for dragging you away,” she said, still trying to pull her thoughts together. She just needed to not think about Deverill, and not think about last night. Eleanor stifled a scowl. How difficult could it be, to not think about the most important moments of her life?

  “I was actually looking for an excuse to leave,” Shay drawled. “I only came because of you and the dessert, remember?”

  She forced a smile. “How could I forget?”

  “So what’s wrong? Really?”

  “I told you, I’m just t—”

  “Tired. Yes, I heard you. That looked like an interesting conversation you and Valentine were having. Until he left, that is. Did he say something to you? One of his usual nasty little tidbits?”

  That had been what he’d said, she realized. Some of his usual cynical, jaded observations on life. She was used to hearing them—and she’d always found them amusing. But not now. Not when he was trying to say that nothing touched him, or meant anything to him. Not when he implied that she meant nothing to him. “Oh, I suppose so. But one has to expect to hear nonsense when one listens to Deverill.”

  “I suppose so,” he repeated.

  They sat in silence for several minutes, Eleanor feigning sleepiness and pretending she hadn’t managed to worry Charlemagne. Of course he’d probably been worried for the past few weeks, since she’d begun her rebellion. She sighed. “So who do you consider the best prospect to join the family as my husband?”

  He started. “What? You’re asking me? I thought this entire exercise was about you not listening to our advice.”

  “I didn’t say I’d heed it,” she teased. “I’m only asking your opinion.”

  “Well, not Noleville, the dull sock,” he muttered.

  “Isn’t he on Melbourne’s list?”

  “I think there are several dead people on Melbourne’s list.”

  “Aha!”

  Shay scowled. “‘Aha’ what?”

  “I knew Sebastian had made a list of potential husbands for me. Now you tell me ev—”

  He scooted back as far as he could from her in the confined carriage. “No, you don’t. You ask Melbourne if you want to know anything about Melbourne.”

  “Coward.”

  “Damned right. And I won’t be responsible for you refusing every eligible man on that list just to spite His Grace.”

  “Then I’ll have to refuse every eligible man in London just to be sure one of his favorites doesn’t sneak through.”

  Shay cursed. “Don’t act like a child, Nell. We’ve done everything you wanted. You can’t keep acting like an Amazon forever.”

  An Amazon. She actually liked the comparison. “It’s not about being a child, Charlemagne; it’s about not being a child. Give me a good reason why no one ever bothered to share this list with me. For heaven’s sake, they’re supposed to be men you have in mind to spend their lives with me. And yet I’m not allowed to know their names? Who decided that?”

  “And what’s wrong with someone you choose also being someone who happens to appear on Melbourne’s list?”

  Eleanor wanted to scream. The more she found herself changing, the more her brothers’ intractable manner left her frustrated and angry. “Obviously I’m taking this up with the wrong brother.”

  “And that is what I’ve been trying to tell y—”

  “I had thought you might have some standing in Melbourne’s eyes. I wonder whether he’ll tell me which females appear on the marriage list for you?”

  Shay’s expression darkened. “There is no list for me,” he enunciated. “And you won’t trick me into revealing anything. Talk to Sebastian. Or better yet, make your own damned list and show it to him. Then you’ll have somewhere to start your negotiations.”

  She almost retorted that she had no intention of negotiating, but she knew her oldest brother well enough to realize that of course she would at least be expected to make some sort of concession. Perhaps Charlemagne was correct. For a moment her mind snapped to the image of the man who’d most been on her mind over the past weeks. But she couldn’t put Valentine on a list. Besides its being a useless exercise in penmanship given the marquis’s infatuation with bachelorhood, Sebastian would never seriously consider him. And neither could she. But after last night, and even after their annoying conversation earlier, he wouldn’t leave her thoughts—or her dreams.

  “Nell?”

  With a start she straightened. “Hm?”

  Her brother leaned forward and swiped a finger across her cheek. “You’re crying,” he announced.

  “No, I’m not.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

  “Really,” she attempted. “I’m terribly happy. I’m accomplishing everything I dreamed of. Everything’s proceeding precisely as I imagined.”

  “So I see.” Charlemagne looked at her for a long moment, while she tried to fade into the shadows and not sniff. She knew Valentine’s character, and even liked most of what and who he was. But was she still simply the sister of his dearest friend? Once she brought anger and emotion to whatever it was they had, did that signal him to move on?

  “So it’s not Noleville,” Shay said slowly. “I don’t think he has enough imagination or personality to make you cry.”

  “Leave be, Shay.”

  “It’s Valentine, isn’t it?”

  “Val—no! Who cares about Valentine? I certainly don’t.”

  He looked as though he wanted to respond to that, but luckily the coach rolled up their front drive. She climbed down to the ground as soon as Stanton pulled open the carriage door.

  “My lord?” the butler queried, glancing into the coach when Charlemagne remained seated.

  “It’s still early,” her brother replied, rapping on the ceiling to signal the driver. “I have someone I need to see.”

  Chapter 17

  “Will there be anything else tonight, my lord?”

  Valentine glanced over his shoulder. Hobbes leaned into the doorway, his feet already turned in the direction of the servants’ quarters. “No. Go to bed. And send Matthews off as well. I’m not in the mood to check for traps.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Nodding, Valentine took another deep swallow of brandy. Boodle’s hadn’t provided what he’d wanted tonight, either. Eleanor’s damned questions about his life had cursed his luck at faro, vingt-et-un, and loo, and as drunk as he wanted to get, he’d realized he’d be safer at home.

  Down the hall someone rapped at the front door. Wonderful. It was either some chit he didn’t want to see, or some chit’s husband, whom he definitely didn’t want to see. Hobbes would still be close enough to take care of it. Settling deeper in his chair before the library fireplace, Valentine finished off the snifter of brandy and refilled it to the brim. Amber liquid sloshed over the rim of the crystal onto his antique mahogany end table. Hm. He was drunk, if he was spilling perfectly good liquor.

  The knock repeated. A moment later, he heard Hobbes pull open the door and engage in a low-voiced conversation with someone. The butler’s voice grew louder, and another male voice joined in. Valentine frowned.

  “Charlemagne?” he muttered, twisting his head to face the library door as it shoved open.

  “So you’re not in,” Eleanor’s brother grumbled, slamming the door closed behind him again.

  Valentine’s first thought was that Eleanor had told her family about their tryst last night. If that had been the case, however, it would be Melbourne and a pistol charging into the room—not the middle brother. “Not socially,” he returned. “But you usually don’t require me to be social, so what can I do for you?”

  “What did you say to Nell?”

  “Beg pardon?”

 
Shay dropped into the seat opposite him. “At dinner. You had a conversation with her, and then you left. What did you say?”

  “I don’t remember. But whatever it was, it’s not any of your damned affair. I was blackmailed into keeping an eye on her, not into reporting my conversation.”

  “You made her cry, Deverill.”

  Valentine lifted an eyebrow to cover his abrupt dismay. Thank God he could blame the emotion on being three sheets to the leeward. “Are you certain it was me?” he drawled. “It seems that her family’s been providing her with a fair share of aggravation.”

  “It was you. And you damned well remember. Melbourne didn’t recruit you to make things worse.”

  “Is that was he’s calling it? Recruitment?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I don’t remember what we talked about,” Valentine lied. “Chits are all watering pots, anyway. How do you know the wind merely didn’t start blowing in the wrong direction? I hope you don’t go out on a rampage every time a chit cries, Shay. You’d never get a moment’s rest.”

  “I only go on a rampage when this one cries, Deverill. She doesn’t do it often.”

  Valentine took another swallow of brandy. Damnation. They’d only been chatting, and she’d made him angry. She’d started it, anyway. “I wouldn’t put much store in anything a female says, Charlemagne. No doubt she wants something from you. A new gown, perhaps. One of those low-cut ones, hopefully. Delicious, those.”

  “That’s enough of that. And how the devil do you manage to make women like you, when you view them with such disgust?”

  “It’s not disgust. They have their place, just like a…pig, or a donkey. But I wouldn’t make the mistake of treating a pig like anything but what it is, or using it for anything but bacon.”

  “Tell me you don’t seriously believe that.” Charlemagne stood again, no doubt preparing to storm out in a burst of indignity.

  Valentine climbed to his feet as well, with considerably more difficulty than usual. He hated missing a good show. “Of course I do. And so do you. You’re just too squeamish to admit it.”