Sin and Sensibility

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I could be very angry with you.”

  “You’ve already cursed me, Lydia. I haven’t forgotten that, even if you have. I told you, I use you. And tonight I choose not to do so. Be grateful.”

  She started to pull back from him, but he tightened his grip on her hand and around her waist. “Let go,” she hissed.

  “Let’s not make a scene, shall we?” he returned. “The dance is nearly over. You may stomp away after that.”

  “I wish that one day you would get precisely what you deserve.”

  Finally he glanced over at Eleanor, to see her chuckling at something Tracey had said. Her eyes danced, the flash of her smile warmer than sunlight. Damn it, this was killing him, and he didn’t even know why. “I think your wish may already be coming true,” he told Lydia. “And you may not believe me, but I’m probably doing you a favor by not having you around me when it does.”

  “It hardly seems like you to be selfless.”

  “Odd, isn’t it?”

  “Well, isn’t this interesting?” Stephen Cobb-Harding leaned against the wall beside the Halfax conservatory.

  “What’s interesting, beside Deverill looking like he’s turning away a fair bit of tail for no good reason?” Andrew Perline stopped his careful, long-distance examination of Miss Deborah Grayling’s bosom long enough to cast another glance at the dance floor.

  “Keep your damned voice down, Perline, and pay attention. Deverill’s practically been attached to Lady Eleanor’s shadow for weeks, and now she won’t even look at him. And he’s turned away both Charlemagne Griffin and Melbourne. Something’s afoot.”

  “Maybe they’ve all tired of one another,” Perline suggested.

  “Precisely.”

  “So what good does that do you? Deverill’s still got your papers. And you’ve got a fortnight remaining before you have to start calling Paris home.”

  “Thank you so much for reminding me, and keep your bloody voice down. That’s not what I’m talking about. Not precisely, at any rate.”

  “Then what—”

  “If there’s a wedge between Deverill and Melbourne, I have been handed an opportunity to tell my side of the story to His Grace.” He gazed at pretty Eleanor for a long moment. “And I’d wager that he hasn’t heard any other side, so my task should be simple.”

  “You don’t think he’ll let you marry his sister.”

  “By the time I’m finished with my tale, he’ll be begging me to take her. And the Griffins certainly have enough money for me to pay off my damned papers. Hell, if they’re feuding with Deverill, I might not even have to ask twice.”

  “Well, whatever you’re planning, if it’s got something to do with taking Deverill down a peg or two, I’m all for it. After he practically wagered me into oblivion he actually made me ask him for the blunt to pay for the port I’d already drunk. In front of Prinny, yet.”

  “Aye,” their third companion agreed. Mr. Peter Burnsey sipped a glass of whiskey. “He may have your papers, but you two aren’t the only one whose prospects he’s ruined. If he’d left me any blunt I’d pay to hand him and the mighty Griffins a bit of a bruising.”

  “If tomorrow goes as I plan, we’ll all have the chance.” Stephen sent a last look in Deverill’s direction, then turned his attention to Melbourne. The marquis might have delayed his marriage plans by his interference at Belmont’s, but he hadn’t destroyed them. Not when Stephen had a verifiable and substantiated story to tell the duke. And not when he had a good description of what Lady Eleanor’s bare bosom looked like, and a proposal to keep anyone else from hearing about her indiscretions.

  No, tonight it looked as though his luck was finally turning.

  Chapter 18

  “I’m pleased you’ve returned to London as well, Lord John,” Eleanor said, smiling as they strolled toward the refreshment table. “You’ve certainly brightened up the evening.”

  “I believe you are tonight’s brightest constellation,” John Tracey returned with a warm grin of his own. “I’m merely an admiring astronomer.”

  With a chuckle, Eleanor accepted the glass of punch he procured for her. Thank goodness for John Tracey. When she’d set eyes on Deverill earlier, her heart had stopped. It was dreadful, not knowing whether she wanted to throttle him or kiss him—and being determined not to do the latter.

  And then he’d made it worse when he’d decided to dance with that awful Lady Franch. Everyone knew they’d been lovers, and apparently that hadn’t changed. He’d made no promises to her, but it still…hurt her that her defining moment had been nothing to him except a way to pass an evening—though with the sensation that ripped into her chest, “hurt” seemed completely inadequate to describe it.

  “Tracey.”

  At the sound of Deverill’s voice she turned, her breath catching. Valentine stood there, his attention on Earl Heflin’s brother. As she watched, he held out his hand.

  “Deverill.” Tracey shook it.

  “I wanted to welcome you back to London,” the marquis continued, releasing the grip first. “How’s Wellington faring without you?”

  John chuckled. “I shudder to think. I’m only on leave for a few weeks, though. I’m due to return to the Peninsula in August.”

  “Hopefully that won’t be enough time for the French to realize you’re not there.” Deverill finally turned in Eleanor’s direction. “I wondered if I might intrude for a moment. Lady Eleanor’s planning a surprise for her brother, and I had a suggestion about it.”

  Tracey inclined his head. “Of course. I hadn’t meant to monopolize you, my lady.”

  Eleanor sniffed. “I would have told you if I found your companionship unwelcome, Lord John.” Ha. She’d learned a few things about speaking her mind, and about enjoying her freedom, anyway. “Might I trouble you to find me a glass of Madeira?”

  The major saluted. “At your command. I’ll be right back.”

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Eleanor looked back at Valentine. “Don’t tell me that you’re chasing men away from me now.”

  “He’s very…shiny, isn’t he?”

  “Stop it. What do you want?”

  “A word with you.”

  “Then speak.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Not here. On the balcony, perhaps?”

  “No.”

  “In the hallway, then.”

  “No.”

  “Eleanor, I need to speak with you in private.” He held her gaze for a moment, then heaved a deep breath. “Look at it this way: If you feel the need to pummel me, in private you can do it without fear of scandal.”

  “My, you do make it sound tempting,” she said scathingly. “And that’s a lovely bruise on your cheekbone. Who do I have to thank for that?”

  “Eleanor, please.”

  She didn’t think she’d ever heard him use the word before—not so directly, anyway. He was a master manipulator, of course, but she knew that. The problem was, she wanted to see him in private, to have him pay attention only to her. As long as she was aware of that weakness, she supposed, no harm could come of it.

  “Very well. But only for a moment.”

  He inclined his head. “And the location?”

  “I’ll join you on the balcony in five minutes.”

  With a stiff bow he turned and walked away. Immediately she wished that she’d refused his request, but she didn’t have time to fret about it. As soon as he walked out of her sight, a horde of young men mobbed her, looking for an open spot someone might have accidentally left on her dance card, or wanting to compliment her on her gown, or her hair, or the fine weather she was apparently responsible for providing.

  She hadn’t realized that Valentine’s presence kept men at bay as effectively as her brothers’ did. It wasn’t because he warned them away from her; she knew enough about him to realize that. No, it was because of who he was, she decided, and the way he had of commanding people’s attention without appearing to make an effort to do any such thing. Charisma, Mel
bourne had called it once. Oh, yes, Valentine Corbett had that in spades.

  Given a choice between being fawned over by men who didn’t know anything about her but her family name and the amount of her fortune, or a private meeting with the man to whom she’d given her virginity, she actually preferred Valentine. She kept her eyes on the clock. As soon as five minutes had ticked by, she made her excuses, turned away all offers of escort, and strolled toward the balcony for a breath of fresh air.

  Chilly as the evening was, no one else had left the ballroom to take advantage of the relative privacy. In fact, she appeared to be quite alone. Oh, that was splendid. He’d found something more entertaining with which to occupy himself. She turned back to the doorway.

  “Going so soon?”

  Valentine emerged from the shadows at the far end of the vine-tangled balcony. Eleanor made her breathing stay normal, though she couldn’t control the fast patter of her heart. Well, he wasn’t going to get close enough to detect that, anyway.

  “I’m here,” she stated. “What do you want?”

  “I want to apologize.”

  “Apo—You don’t even know why I’m angry with you.”

  His sensuous lips twitched. “No, I don’t, but that hardly seems the point. I’ve made you angry, and I didn’t mean to. And I certainly didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m sorry.”

  Eleanor scowled. “How do you know I cried?”

  Valentine touched the bruise on his cheekbone. “Charlemagne told me.”

  Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear.” So that was where Shay had driven off to last night. “I didn’t ask him to do that.”

  “I don’t think you needed to. Do you accept?”

  “Accept?”

  “My apology.”

  “You’re not supposed to ask that.”

  He took a half step forward. “I don’t do this well, Eleanor. I just wanted to know if we’re still friends.”

  She tilted her head, trying to figure out whether he was sincere, or whether he was playing another game. Or whether he even knew what he was doing. “Why do you care if we’re friends? You’ve…” Eleanor looked about, lowering her voice just in case someone lurked near the balcony door. “You’ve bedded me, so move along. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

  “Are you jealous?” he returned, taking another step closer. “I thought that night was about your moment of freedom, your adven—”

  “I don’t want a moment of freedom any longer,” she snapped before she could stop herself. Horrified, she turned her back, facing the railing and the garden below. Damnation. All she’d ever meant to tell him was that he would be happier if he could make himself care about someone or something besides his own well-being. She hadn’t wanted to confess her continued yearnings to him, for heaven’s sake.

  “Oh.”

  “That doesn’t mean I expect you to—”

  Valentine grabbed her shoulder, spinning her back to face him. Before she could utter a gasp, he lowered his mouth to hers. Sensation and yearning flooded through her. Eleanor swept her arms around his shoulders, pulling him hard against her, drinking in his heat, relishing the touch of his mouth on hers.

  He kissed her until she couldn’t breathe, then slowly lifted his head. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?” he murmured, his gaze on her mouth.

  “The, um…I…I don’t remember,” she said truthfully.

  “You want more than a moment of freedom. I remember that,” he commented, running a thumb along her lower lip.

  “Yes. Yes. What I was going to say is that I don’t expect you to provide it. I imagine I’ve tested your charity far enough.”

  Valentine shook his head. “It’s not charity, Eleanor. I don’t offer charity. Ever.”

  God, she wanted him to kiss her again. “Even so, you—”

  “You are a complicated woman,” he muttered, kissing her again, hard and deep. “I want you. If that’s the freedom you have in mind, we’ll find a private place.”

  “Here?” she asked, less shocked than she would have expected to be.

  Valentine swallowed. Jesus, she would, if he went along with it. And he wanted to, except that too many people would be keeping an eye out for her, and someone would discover them. Melbourne would shoot him, but he was more concerned that Eleanor would be ruined and forced to marry Noleville. Or worse for him, Tracey. He frowned. Someone was going to have to keep their wits about them, and apparently that was him.

  “Not here. I’ll find somewhere.”

  “You shouldn’t give me time to consider,” she returned, lifting a hand to brush hair from his forehead.

  The gesture made him shiver. “Probably not. But I am.”

  She drew a breath, the motion drawing her bodice tight across her chest. “Or is it because you have a prior appointment with Lady Franch?”

  He forced a laugh. “No. Actually, I’ve said my fare—” He stopped himself just before he could admit that he’d voluntarily parted company not only with Lydia, but with every lover he’d had this Season—except for Eleanor. “I’ve been ordered to stay away from you,” he rephrased. “I don’t want to have to pummel Shay on principle, and he’s probably already seen us talking.”

  “Charlemagne and I are going to have a conversation of our own,” she said stiffly. “My brothers are not to interfere with my social calendar. And out of every man I’ve conversed with, I would say you’re an odd—and dangerous—choice to pick for a fight.”

  “Not if he knew the truth,” Valentine pointed out.

  She blushed. “But he doesn’t.”

  Eleanor tucked her hands behind her back. Valentine noted the gesture with some disappointment. She’d finished with touching him for tonight, then. Pity, that. He felt as though he still had some ground to make up after seeing her chatting with Tracey after the waltz. The major obviously needed to be reminded to honor the rules of competition—whether Valentine had any intention of doing so himself, or not. No monopolizing a chit when other men were lined up to converse with her. He concealed a smile, enjoying every second of the monopolizing he was doing. “So why were you mad at me?”

  Glancing past him toward the doorway, she shifted. “I’m just never sure who you are, Valentine. One moment you save my virtue, the next you take it, then you comfort me, and then you insult every member of my sex. Half the time I envy the freedom you have, and the other half I could scream at you for the waste you make of it.”

  So it hadn’t been about jealousy. She had been disappointed in him, as he’d first suspected. “I’ve spent a long time becoming who I am, Eleanor. Judge me if you like, but I’m seeing some rather amazing similarities between us, lately.”

  “I am, as well,” she agreed, not looking as if she felt insulted. “What I’m not certain about, though, is whether I’ve changed, or you have.”

  That shook him, mostly because he’d been wondering the same thing himself. Yes, he craved her, and yes, he enjoyed her companionship more than he ever had any other female that he could recall. That didn’t mean he’d changed. It only meant he’d unexpectedly found a friend, and didn’t want to lose her. Of course, even that degree of possessiveness was unlike him, but now wasn’t the time to debate that.

  He smiled. “Kiss me or kill me, but don’t ask me any sticky questions.”

  “Hm. I’m not certain that’s satisfactory.” Slowly she leaned in and touched her lips to his, soft and brief and taking his breath. “Come and see me tomorrow.”

  “I—”

  Before he could conjure any more of a reply than that, she swept past him and strolled back into the ballroom. Something had definitely changed.

  “‘Come and see me tomorrow,’” he repeated, trying to sound cynical. That was the sort of thing he usually said, enticing a chit into coming to see him when he couldn’t be bothered to make the effort of a seduction. Cynicism was difficult, though, when he knew he’d be calling at Griffin House sometime tomorrow—and probably before noon.

  The D
uke of Melbourne sat cross-legged on the morning room floor, listening to the tale of a rabbit and a very large carrot as read by his daughter. It was the seventeenth time he’d heard the story, but the opportunity to spend the morning with Peep was rare enough that he wouldn’t mind hearing it another eighty or ninety times.

  Penelope lowered the book. “How large do carrots actually grow, Papa?” she asked, her brow furrowed.

  “Not terribly large,” he returned, craning his neck to look at her seated above and behind him on the couch. “But keep in mind that the rabbit is rather small.”

  She nodded. “Yes, that’s true.”

  A scratch came at the door. “Enter,” Sebastian called.

  Stanton pushed the door halfway open and leaned in. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but you have a caller.” He offered a calling card.

  The duke ignored it. “Who is it?”

  “A Mr. Stephen Cobb-Harding, Your Grace.”

  Hm. He hadn’t heard that name mentioned in a while. In fact, Cobb-Harding had seemed to drop rather abruptly off the face of Nell’s map. “Show him to my office. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  Peep clambered off the couch to her feet. “Remember, Papa, if he’s one of Aunt Nell’s suitors, you’re not to speak to him.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he returned, pulling himself upright as well. “I’ll be back shortly. Hopefully we’ll have time to finish the story before my meeting.”

  “Yes. I have some more questions about carrots, too.”

  Sebastian sent his daughter upstairs into the care of her governess, then made his way to his office. As he pushed the door open, Stephen Cobb-Harding bounced to his feet from the chair in which he’d been reclining.

  “Good morning, Your Grace. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Have a seat, Mr. Cobb-Harding,” Sebastian returned, gesturing. He sank into the chair behind his desk. “What might I do for you?”