“It’s not squeamishness, Valentine,” Shay said, no trace of humor in his voice. “I don’t have the luxury or the inclination to be that kind of bastard—I had a mother, and I have a sister, and a niece. I don’t view any of them as bloody farm animals. Whatever you said to Eleanor, you owe her an apology.”
“Nonsense.” Valentine snorted, taking another generous swallow of brandy. As it traveled down his throat, it didn’t burn with the fire it used to; good God, if he’d come to the point that not even brandy could engage him any longer, he might as well put a ball in his head. After tonight he didn’t believe he could sink much lower in life, anyway.
“You will ap—”
“I had a mother as well, my boy,” he drawled. “When I try and conjure her countenance, however, the faces of all the whores my father bedded after her demise twist and mingle about until I can’t remember which one is dear Mama, and which one is the lightskirt.” He shrugged. “Then again they’re all the same, I imagine.”
Charlemagne hit him. If Valentine hadn’t been drunk he would have seen it coming, but as the fist met his left eye he stumbled backward and landed hard in the chair behind him.
“I don’t know what the devil Sebastian was thinking when he sent you to look after Eleanor, but consider yourself relieved of your duties, you swine.” The Duke of Melbourne’s middle brother wiped his fingers on a kerchief, dropping the thing onto the floor as if he no longer wanted to be associated with it. “To make it perfectly clear, Deverill, stay away from my sister. Very far away.”
Even after the library door slammed shut, Valentine remained in his chair. Gazing at the remains of the brandy in his glass, he ignored the further yells and the additional door slam from the direction of his foyer. If he’d been sober, he would have retaliated—either by calling Charlemagne out, or more likely by simply beating the living hell out of him.
But for what? For calling him a swine? The devil knew he’d been called far worse than that, and for far less reason. No, even drunk, his first thought after being knocked off his pins had been that no one—no one—was going to prevent him from seeing Eleanor Griffin again.
“Fuck,” he muttered, and downed the rest of the brandy.
“I want to see the list,” Eleanor stated, marching into her eldest brother’s office.
Sebastian looked up from an accounts book, but not to gaze at her. His eyes flicked instead in the direction of Mr. Rivers, the Griffin family finance man. “Rivers, give me a moment, will you?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” With a bow in Eleanor’s direction, the accountant slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him.
“Now, what was it you wanted, Nell?” her brother asked.
“Firstly, I didn’t realize you were engaged with Mr. Rivers,” she muttered, walking to the window and back. Damn it all, she’d meant to appear all suave confidence and reasonableness. “I apologize for interrupting you.”
Gray eyes assessed her. “No matter. You said something about a list?”
Eleanor cleared her throat, resolutely seating herself in the chair that Rivers had vacated. “Yes. The list you’ve made of men you feel would make me a suitable husband.”
“I don’t have any such thing.”
“Yes, you do. Charlemagne said—”
He leaned forward. “Do you actually think I would sit down and put pen to paper to name men you might marry?”
It didn’t sound like him when he described it that way. “But—”
“I have several persons in my mind, as I imagine you do yourself. But I wouldn’t write them down. That would be fairly piggish and arrogant of me, wouldn’t you say?”
That had been precisely what she’d meant to say once he refused to give her access to the list. Now, foundering to sort out a new road to take, Eleanor frowned. “Then will you please tell me some of the names you have in mind?”
“Why?”
“You’re the one who knows everything,” she snapped, too quickly to draw herself back.
“Evidently not where you’re concerned. So are you interested in my opinion, or do you mean to avoid everyone I name just out of spite?”
“I’m…interested. In truth this rebellion has done little but cause a stampede of silly males to camp themselves on my doorstep. That is not what I wanted from it.” Her rebellion had also taken her several steps beyond where she’d meant to travel, and the ease with which she’d erred stunned her. As did the way she couldn’t stop imagining repeating her mistake—and with the same man, despite the fact that at this moment she was furious with him.
“So you want to call this war off?” he queried, lifting an eyebrow.
“No! I’m only asking who you might envision as my perfect mate.”
Sebastian looked down for a moment, closing the accounts book. “Perhaps we might discuss this later,” he said slowly.
“Why is that? Are you afr—”
“At the moment you have five gentlemen waiting in the morning room for your appearance.”
Drat. “But—”
“This is your rebellion. If you want to end it, then end it. But I’m not going to offer my opinion of a gentleman when you’ve specifically asked me not to. Just remember that some of these men would love nothing more than to put you in a compromising position to force a marriage. Tread carefully, Eleanor. Freedom does have a price, as I believe I’ve already pointed out.”
She had to stifle the urge to growl. “So I shouldn’t bother attempting to make amends to you. It’s either fight or surrender for me.”
“If you wish to negotiate a ceasefire, I suggest you come with concessions. I have all the time in the world, and will outlast you in a siege. And don’t expect me to step in when a natural consequence of one of your demands becomes inconvenient for you. By now you could have as many as a dozen callers awaiting your presence.”
Frustrated beyond anything she could tolerate, Eleanor pulled herself to her feet. “I won’t surrender. If you’d shown me the least bit of compassion just now, I might have. But you’ve only demonstrated again what an unforgiving tyrant you are. Good morning.”
“If I were a tyrant, Eleanor, you’d already be married. So good morning,” he returned. “And let Stanton or one of us know where you’ll be off to, and with whom.”
She slammed the door behind her, but Sebastian could still practically feel her glare through the heavy oak. Drawing a breath, he reached for the bell to summon Stanton and have Rivers returned to the office. But before he could do so, the office door swung open again. This time Zachary strode into the room, towing Charlemagne behind him. That sight was unusual enough in itself, since it was usually Zachary being dragged in to see him over something.
“Did you hear what this idiot did?” Zachary asked, dropping into the chair Rivers and then Nell had vacated.
“I believe I’m about to,” the duke said dryly. “Enlighten me.”
“It was necessary,” Shay said in a clipped, angry voice. “And you should never have allowed it in the first place, Melbourne.”
If there was one thing Sebastian didn’t like, it was other people deciding he’d done something wrong and then taking steps to correct it—especially without seeing him first, and especially when they didn’t have all the facts. “What did you do, Charlemagne?”
The middle Griffin brother folded his arms across his chest in a typical show of stubbornness.
“He hit Deverill,” Zachary supplied. “And warned him to stay away from Nell.”
Sebastian clenched his jaw. “You hit Deverill? And he didn’t kill you?”
“He was drunk.”
“And why, precisely, did you feel it necessary to hit my friend and to relieve him of his obligation to me?”
“He…he said something to Nell last night that made her cry.”
Well, that was unexpected. “What did he say?”
Shay grimaced. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t—”
“She wouldn’t tell me. And neither wo
uld he. But she’d been out of sorts all afternoon, and then—what do we need him for, anyway? She’s been asking us to escort her, and isn’t that what you had in mind? Someone you trust keeping an eye on her? We’re better suited for that than Deverill. I wouldn’t trust him near anything female, anyway. You should have heard what he said.”
Melbourne straightened. “Did he say something disrespectful about Nell?”
“Not specifically. It was about females in general. About his own mother, particularly. While I don’t think Nell has the slightest clue about what she’s doing, no one who thinks that of her sex should be allowed within a hundred miles of her.”
Slowly Sebastian pushed to his feet. “So you confronted a drunken man, coaxed him into saying something regrettable, and then hit him for it. In public, no doubt.”
Shay shifted. “No. In his library.”
“A private drunk. Did you stop to think what might have prompted Valentine to do something uncharacteristic like drink in private?”
“Like perhaps he felt badly that he’d said something to hurt Nell’s feelings?” Zachary supplied, nudging Charlemagne in the back with one elbow.
“As if Deverill feels anything.”
“When did this happen, pray tell?” Sebastian asked, anger and frustration curling down his spine. Damn it. The only person Nell seemed inclined to confide in, and not only had she and Valentine argued, but Charlemagne had assaulted him. And he’d just lost his best weapon in keeping Eleanor safe.
“Last night,” Shay muttered. “Late.”
“Since he hasn’t called you out, I’ll assume Valentine’s in a forgiving mood. You will apologize to him.”
His color darkening, Shay shook his head. “I will not.”
“You will, or I will on your behalf.”
“You’re too forgiving, Melbourne.”
Sebastian snorted. “Tell that to Nell. You might give him today to engage himself elsewhere, but do it by tomorrow, Charlemagne. I thought you were the sensible brother.”
“I say,” Zachary contributed indignantly, but the other two ignored him.
With a curse the middle Griffin brother stomped out of the room. Zachary reached for a cigar and lit it on the table light.
“This is a fine tangle, isn’t it?” he commented. “And thank you for the insult.”
“You haven’t exactly been helpful, Zach. I’m in the middle of doing accounts. Leave. And send Rivers back in.”
Zachary stood. “Just watch that you don’t run out of allies, Melbourne. You’re beginning to make Nell look reasonable.”
The duke took a breath. None of this was reasonable, and the sooner everyone came to their senses, the better.
That reminded him of something, though. With a glance toward the half-open door he pulled a piece of paper from a desk drawer, took a quick look at it to make certain he had the correct parchment, and held it up to the light at his elbow. Once it was engulfed in flames, he tossed it into the fireplace brazier. No sense leaving that about for Eleanor to find.
Hot air leaking from the open front door fogged when it hit the cold night as Valentine let one of the Halfax footmen take his coat, hat, and gloves. He’d nearly bypassed attending the soiree, but after Charlemagne’s assault, he wasn’t going to give the hothead the satisfaction of thinking he’d been intimidated. And besides, he hadn’t seen Eleanor in an entire day, and he wanted to apologize.
Why he’d been in the wrong he didn’t know, but it made sense. She was intelligent and compassionate, and she’d been the one crying. Ergo, he’d gone too far in expressing his damned opinion. He hadn’t meant for her to cry.
He hadn’t meant for a great many things to happen where she was concerned. And he knew himself well enough to realize that the best thing he could do for Eleanor Griffin was keep his distance. He’d been relieved of his duties in spying on her, anyway, and thank God for that. So of course at his first opportunity he’d gone looking for her.
As he entered the ballroom to the sound of the self-important butler announcing his presence, he saw her. She’d worn a new Madame Costanza creation, yellow and maroon silk that looked as though it would blow off her shoulders in a stiff breeze. His mouth went dry.
She turned around as the butler finished his announcement. Her eyes met his and then slipped away again when Lord John Tracey approached her. Wonderful. John Tracey. He hadn’t even known that bastard was back in London. Tracey was probably making the rounds, telling all the chits stories of his heroic deeds in the Peninsula.
For a moment he stood watching them, watching rose tint her cheeks and her soft, amused smile. When someone approached to block his view, he couldn’t hide a scowl.
“Deverill,” Charlemagne Griffin muttered, offering his hand.
“What the hell do you want?” Valentine returned, declining to complete the handshake.
“I want to apologize. For last night,” Shay said, clenching his fingers and lowering his arm again.
“Why, for the devil’s sake?”
Charlemagne eyed him for a moment. “Honestly?”
“If you please.”
“Because Melbourne ordered me to.”
“Let’s clarify one thing then, shall we? If I hadn’t been drunk, you wouldn’t have gotten a blow in. But having done so, I would hope that your reasons for it are valid enough that they don’t require an apology.”
“You are a strange man, Deverill.”
“I think it makes sense. Don’t do something unless you mean it.” Automatically his thoughts turned to a late-night swim in a baptismal pond, and the lovemaking afterward. If he followed his own philosophy, he had some more thinking to do. He’d been doing a bloody lot of that lately.
“I don’t want you for an enemy, Deverill.”
“Then never do that again.” Glancing over Shay’s shoulder, he saw Melbourne approaching. “And one more bit of friendly advice. For tonight, the Griffin clan had best leave me be.” With a nod, he turned for the refreshment table, leaving the two brothers standing in the middle of the room behind him.
Considering he’d ruined their sister he probably should have attempted being more charitable, but his mind had been such a swirling mess over the past few days that he could barely manage to keep his balance. Eleanor had joined Tracey on the dance floor for a waltz, and she seemed to be making a point of not looking at Valentine again. Perhaps, then, she’d found someone else with whom she’d rather repeat her adventure.
His fists clenched. No, this was worse than that. This had never been about an evening’s pleasure. She’d sought a moment of freedom, found it, and now fully intended to march back into Society’s fold. And where the Griffin clan was concerned, that meant marrying.
John Tracey would be a splendid prospect for that. Hell, he’d even been granted a field promotion to major, if what the wags said was true. Young, dedicated, handsome, the brother of Earl Heflin also had a guaranteed income from properties his brother had given over for him to manage. “Bastard,” Valentine murmured.
“Are you still finished with me?” a soft feminine voice cooed from behind him.
He turned around. “Lydia. Heavens, no. Is gouty old Franch here?”
“Yes, he’s holding court by the fireside.”
Valentine held his hand out to her. “Then he won’t mind if his wife dances with a charming gentleman?”
“He’d be grateful for it.” With a smile she curled her fingers around his and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. “I knew you would be back, dear heart.”
Actually, she was the one who had come looking for him, but now didn’t seem to be the time to point that out. Not when he could take the dance floor with her and let Eleanor Griffin know just how little her attentions and her approval and her body meant to him.
Determined not even to glance in the direction of Eleanor and Tracey, Valentine concentrated on complimenting Lydia about her fine choice of gown, her china blue eyes, the sweep of her low-cut neckline. And he ignored the f
act that he hadn’t the slightest desire to touch her, to kiss her, to take her, and that despite his lack of eye contact, every ounce of him was attuned to the woman happily dancing a few feet away.
“You’re being very charming tonight,” Lydia observed, smiling again. “One might almost think that you missed me.”
“I’m fairly certain I did,” he returned absently, trying to hear whatever nonsense it was that Tracey was telling Eleanor. The damned orchestra was playing too loudly for him to be certain, but it sounded like a bloody was story, just as he’d predicted.
“You know, Franch’s physician recommended that he take the waters at Bath again,” Lydia continued. “And I’ve already suggested that I stay behind in London to keep the house open.”
“That makes sense.”
“I thought so. Which means that I’ll be there all by myself for at least a fortnight. And you know how I hate sleeping alone.”
“That’s not what you tell your husband.”
Her brow furrowed. “Of course not. Do you expect me to encourage his attentions? I’d much rather have yours.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Hiding a scowl, he turned Lydia in a sharper circle to keep the other couple in earshot.
“Valentine, don’t think you can make me jealous. As a matter of fact, Lord Fowler offered to hire Lawrence to paint my portrait, if only I’d give him one of my gloves as a token of affection.”
He looked down at her upturned face. “Good God. Fowler’s older than your husband.”
“And not nearly as well heeled. I turned him down, obviously. But you see, you are not my only admirer.”
“I don’t admire you, Lydia. I use you. You’re convenient and uncomplicated.”
She blinked. “So did you used to be.”
“No. I’m quite complicated. It’s just that I usually try to ignore that fact. Lately, though, it’s been giving me a bit of trouble.”
“Valentine, are you going to sleep with me tonight or not?” she whispered, anger and frustration touching her pretty eyes.
“No, I’m not.” Her lack of concern for him matched his for her. A few weeks ago it wouldn’t have mattered—or rather, it would have pleased him. Now, though, a virginal chit had told him some confidences and had trusted him enough to allow him to be her first, and his damned world had tilted on its axis.
Sin and Sensibility Page 24