by Regina Scott
She shook her head. “You had chances for any number of other amusements. You were kind enough to stay with me. And you listened to me, for all like I was an equal, just like you’re listening now. I vow I am rather good about droning on about my petty little problems.”
He tapped her pert nose with one finger, a habit he had nearly forgotten he’d used when they were younger. “You aren’t droning, Sprout. You’re laying out your plan of attack, or at least trying to. And being very gracious about me interrupting you, I might add.”
She smiled up at him. “You aren’t interrupting. We are getting reacquainted.”
They certainly were. He found himself far more fascinated with the woman Cleo than the girl. And in far more danger. Cleo Renfield had led him into forest hollows after game and river bottoms after fish. He might have ruined a few cravats, muddied his boots, and threatened his favorite mount with a sprain. He’d even been chased by a maddened bull once while dashing after Cleo. Somehow, he had a feeling those escapades had been tame next to the adventures she could lead him through now.
He could hardly wait.
“So,” he said, nodding to a passing couple, “you intend to prove to your sisters by misbehaving that you should be left alone. Explain this miracle to me.”
She raised her chin. “It is simple, really. We will pretend we’re courting.”
“Unoriginal,” he commented. “They already expect me to court you.”
“Exactly,” she replied. “But ours will not be the average, tame courtship.”
“I should hope not.”
Her eyes flashed in warning. “You,” she continued doggedly, “will lead me through any number of scrapes, thus proving you are not the man they thought.”
“Ah,” he sighed, putting a hand to his heart. “They shall see the cad that I am.”
“In reality,” she said, voice becoming even more stern, “we will carefully stage our misadventures so that no one’s reputation is seriously damaged.”
“Good idea,” he replied, thinking that the most likely thing to be hurt, besides Cleo’s reputation, was his heart.
“When we have shocked them sufficiently,” she concluded triumphantly, “I should be able to point out that you were their choice and that I was merely trying to please them and you. My own choice will thereby seem tame and acceptable in comparison.”
“Your choice?” The pleasure he’d taken in teasing her the last few minutes evaporated. “I take it you have someone in mind?”
She started to shake her head but stopped at his frown.
“Say a particular major?” he pressed.
Her blush was lowering. “No, no. I intend to retire to the country, as I told you.”
“It’s all right, Cleo,” he said. “I like Tony Cutter. You could do far worse.” Now that he’d seen the woman she’d become, a part of him agreed with Lady Agnes she could do better, but he believed too strongly in her right to choose to say anything on the matter.
“I am not particularly attached to Major Cutter,“ she assured him, although Leslie found her protest hard to believe. “He has simply shown some interest. My goal is not so much about attaining his good will as my freedom. Will you help me?”
Her upturned face, still pink from her blush, was surprisingly appealing. He’d never noticed how long her lashes were, sweeping her fair cheeks with ginger fringe. Major Cutter was a lucky man. But he was not ready to give in just yet. He wouldn’t like to find that his agreement to this plan landed him smack in parson’s mousetrap.
“Tell me more,” he prompted. “Do you have these misadventures planned?”
“Well, a few,” she admitted, once more dropping her gaze. “I was hoping you’d add to the list. You do have a reputation for being a bit wild.”
He shook his head. “Not me. That was Chas Prestwick. I generally made vague suggestions, or complained about being bored, and Chas filled in the delicious details of my salvation. More likely, he had something already planned, and I simply went along for the fun.”
“Really?” She looked so crestfallen that he could not help but be encouraged to try harder.
“Not to say that I never contributed,” he told her. “Give me tonight to think about it. If we are going to pretend to be courting, I imagine I’d better start by calling on you immediately. Will three in the afternoon do?”
“Three would be marvelous,” she replied, offering him a bright smile. “And thank you, Leslie. This is very important to me. I know the plan is tenuous at best, but I promise you, you won’t regret helping.”
Lady Agnes would scold him unmercifully, Cleo’s sisters would see him hung, and he would have to watch while she gave herself to another man. His heart quailed at the thought.
At least he wouldn’t be bored.
He matched her smile. “I’ll hold you to that promise, Cleo. I’ll go along with your plan, on one condition. I expect you to give me the time of my life.”
Chapter Four
E
lectra leaned back against the velvet upholstery of her closed carriage. “I think that went rather well.”
“Couldn’t take his eyes off her,” Andromeda agreed with a satisfied giggle, settling herself in beside her sister. “Absolutely besotted.”
“Entirely too easy,” Lady Agnes muttered, shifting in her seat next to Cleo, opposite them. “What are you up to, my girl?”
Cleo sat primly as the carriage set off for their town house. With the occasional light from outside coming through the shaded windows, she knew her sisters and godmother could not see her well and was glad for it. They might have recognized the danger in her smile. “I don’t know what you mean, Godmother,” she said as if perplexed. “Was I not to attract Lord Hastings’ attention?”
“Attract it, yes,” Lady Agnes declared. “Monopolize it for half the evening, no. What exactly did you two talk about?”
Ellie and Annie leaned forward expectantly. Cleo stuffed her gloved hands deeper into the lap robe.
“The usual things, I suppose,” she replied, not bothering to cover the yawn that followed. “You know, the weather, the cut of his coat, the quality of horses in his stable.”
Her sisters sat back with a collective huff of disappointment.
Lady Agnes snorted. “That nonsense wouldn’t have kept him interested for more than a quarter minute. I hope you plan to make better conversation when he calls.”
“If he calls,” Annie muttered.
“He’ll call,” Ellie predicted. “I know that look when I see it in a man’s eyes. He’s too interested not to call.”
“Actually,” Cleo put in casually, “he did say he would call tomorrow, at three.”
She saw her sisters heads turn as they exchanged glances.
Lady Agnes rapped her on the knee. “Good. And I’ll have something to say in the matter when he appears. The two of you,” she pointed a finger at Cleo’s sisters, “had better stay away from our town house.”
Ellie drew herself up. “What do you mean?”
“We surely have every right to help chaperone our sister,” Annie added. “Particularly now that a proper gentleman has shown interest.”
“He doesn’t like you above half,” Lady Agnes told them. Cleo had to bite her lips not to laugh out loud. “You’ll scare him off, mark my words. The best you could do for Cleo is to leave this whole affair to me.”
Her sisters exchanged looks again. Cleo stiffened, ready to add her opinions to Lady Agnes’, but she felt her godmother’s hand rest on her knee again. Glancing at her, Lady Agnes shook her head silently. Cleo said nothing.
“Very well,” Ellie said at last. “I had an appointment tomorrow in any event.”
“And I was due for a fitting,” Annie put in hurriedly.
“Good,” Lady Agnes said, removing her hand from Cleo’s knee. “I’ll keep you informed of any progress.”
Her sisters said little on the remainder of the drive to the town house where Cleo and Lady Agnes were staying, and
Cleo was just as glad to escape to the house with her godmother and watch her sister’s carriage trundle into the night. Lady Agnes reached out to stop her, however, when she made for the stairs.
“A moment, young lady,” she said, grey eyes narrowed. “I want you to know that while you may fool those doddering sisters of yours, you’ll find me tougher material. Leslie is a fine young man, much too fine to be played false.”
Cleo raised her brows. “Played false? Lady Agnes, I assure you I would never do anything like that.”
“Good,” her godmother said, gripping the banister to haul herself up the stairs. “Then we have nothing more to say in the matter, at least for tonight. See you in the morning, Cleo.”
Cleo followed her and pressed a kiss on her cheek before turning for her own room. “Until tomorrow, Lady Agnes.”
She slipped into her bedroom to find Kate, the maid her godmother had hired for the Season, waiting. Cleo had entirely too much on her mind to spend more time in company. As soon as Kate had finished undressing her, she dismissed the girl and sank before the dressing table to stare unseeing into the mirror.
The night had not gone as she had planned. For one thing, Lady Agnes was suspicious. That could prove dangerous to her plan. Of course, her godmother lived to argue, so perhaps her points this evening were not so much suspicion as a desire for debate. Cleo would simply have to be more careful in her cunning.
The far more difficult matter was the case of Leslie. Who would have thought that the gangly young man from her summers would have turned out so magnificent? He exuded a certain attraction that left her rather breathless. At moments in their discussion she had quite forgotten she was dealing with her old riding pal. Then she’d wanted nothing more than to cock her head and banter with him until she made that half smile turn for her alone. But of course, flirting with Leslie would never do if she was to reach her goal. He had been quite right to point out that she could not have it both ways. Leslie was a dear friend. Her goal was to have the right to make her own choices. Accepting Leslie as a candidate for her hand so quickly would be tantamount to giving Ellie and Annie control over the rest of her life.
So, where did that leave her? She propped her chin on her hands and frowned at her reflection. Surely she must determine possibilities for shocking her sisters. Perhaps the biggest disappointment of the evening had been to find that Leslie was singularly useless when it came to generating mischief. At the very least, he could offer to race with her, as they had done so many times in the past. Perhaps she could suggest that tomorrow. She was probably being too hard on him in any event. Now that she thought on it, she had been the one to plan their adventures in Castle Combe. But that had been in much more familiar territory. She needed guidance as to what was acceptable in London.
For all her learning at the Barnsley School, with all its rules and platitudes, she wasn’t entirely sure what was appropriate. Some ladies seemed to be able to get away with a great deal more than what her sisters and godmother allowed. She wanted to be known as shocking, not scandalous. She had told Leslie she wanted to walk the line between the two, but that line seemed rather fine at times.
Leslie might indeed come up with alternatives after a night’s reflection, but she would need to lay out some actions herself. She wound one dark curl around her finger, frown deepening. There had to be something she could do before tomorrow that would set them firmly on the path she had chosen. Her eyes focused on the length of her hair, glowing in the light of the candlesticks.
Cleo grinned and rose to get her sewing basket, and the sheers therein.
*
Leslie spent the evening at White’s in an attempt to enjoy himself. He was surprised to find, however, that some part of his mind took his offer to Cleo all too seriously. He ruminated on the matter over a late supper in a quiet corner of the famous London gentlemen’s club. He pondered on the plan over piquet in the card room. But everything that came to him seemed deucedly improper for a young lady on her first Season. His usual entertainments of racing, gambling, and sporting excluded any woman of virtue. In the end, he had no choice but to give up and go home.
But even there he was not to have a moment’s peace. As he undressed himself, having found the services of his father’s aging valet entirely too depressing, he caught himself wondering just how shocking Cleo intended to be. Even one of her former activities would be enough to alienate her from the ton. He had visions of her fishing knee-deep in the Serpentine, shinnying up a tree in Hyde Park, and hunting pigeons along St. James’s. In those visions, of course, she was the Cleo of old. He didn’t want to think about what the new Cleo might do. Or rather, he knew if he thought too long about it, he wouldn’t get any sleep that night.
By morning, he still had no answers. The fact made him not a little frustrated with himself. He had agreed to meet Cleo in the first place to show how much he had grown into his new role. It had been a noble sacrifice. Why was it he could think of nothing to help her now, when things might actually be considerably more fun?
He supposed the problem was him. He’d been a devoted follower for most of his life–first of his father, then friends, and finally of one particular friend, namely Chas Prestwick. The world held a noble place for followers, and he’d been a very good one. Why was it everyone, from Cleo to Parliament, suddenly insisted that he be the leader? It was discomposing to say the least.
He very nearly called for the valet just to prove he needed help. But, in the end, he shaved and dressed himself, choosing a bottle green coat, tan chamois trousers, and a very common fold in his cravat that would have made his dapper father shake his head in mortification. Then he breakfasted and read the morning paper before presenting himself at the door to the rented town house.
Only to find that Cleo had determined to be the leader after all.
“What have you done to your hair!” he yelped before she could even greet him in the drawing room.
Her hand flew to her head, eyes wide in her obvious dismay. “I cut it.”
“Really?” he quipped, striding forward to poke at what was left of her silky tresses. “Have you gone maggoty in the brain, my girl? You look like a shorn sheep.”
She grabbed his hand and pulled it down. “Shh, she’ll hear you! I told Lady Agnes that short hair is your preference, so I cut it to please you.” She lifted her head to allow her eyes to meet his gaze, which was surely as infuriated as he felt. “Does it really look so bad, Les? I tried to follow the picture in the ladies’ magazine.”
She looked so concerned that he felt his anger waning. And why was he angry anyway? He wasn’t related to the chit; he wasn’t even serious in his courting. If Cleo Renfield wanted to cut her hair or waltz at Almack’s without permission, it was none of his business.
He angled his head and eyed the close-cropped curls. In truth, she didn’t look all that bad. Without the weight of her long tresses, her hair twined in soft wisps around her head, framing her face and calling attention to her warm eyes. Indeed, the soft curls made her look taller somehow, more sophisticated, more womanly. The elegant look was entirely out of keeping with the simple pink muslin gown she had chosen to wear. He would have dressed her in something with more dash.
“You’ll do, Sprout,” he told her. “The curls look a great deal better on you than they did on Caro Lamb, who started the whole dreadful trend. All right, I’ll go along with it. Short hair is my undying passion.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Les. Now, tell me quickly–what did you think of? We must hurry before Lady Agnes comes in. I’m sure she’s only given us this time together so you can pursue your suit.”
“My suit.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Cleo, but my ideas are as nonexistent as my courting. Anything I’d do would be completely inappropriate for you.”
“Such as?” she asked with a frown.
He had a sudden vision of Cleo riding naked through Hyde Park without her hair to cover her. “Oh, no,” he declared. “I saw what you did on little pro
vocation. I refuse to encourage you.”
She opened her mouth for what he was sure was a stinging rejoinder, but luckily Lady Agnes entered the room. Cleo snapped her mouth shut and resorted to a quick glare at him. As Mr. Cowls wheeled the parrot’s cage into the room with a decided squeak that could have been the gilt wheels or the butler’s joints, Leslie went to kiss his godmother’s hand.
“Lady Agnes,” he declared, “you grow more lovely each day.”
Accepting his kiss, she waved off his praise with a rustle of her navy silk gown. “And you grow more bold. What were you thinking to ask Cleo to cut her hair?”
“What are you thinking to cart that parrot everywhere you go?” he countered. Purposely setting his back to her sharp gaze, he strode to the cage and eyed the bird inside it. The parrot was as stiff as ever, hunching over its perch as if in some inner pain. He could almost hear the fellow’s unhappy sigh.
Of course, it could have been Mr. Cowls.
“Pretty boy,” Leslie said to the bird. “Do you know your name?”
A yellow-ringed, beady black eye regarded him steadily.
“You needn’t cozen him,” Lady Agnes complained. “He will not answer you. My nephew Thomas tried, his wife Margaret tried, my niece Catherine and her husband tried. Even Cleo tried. He simply refused to comment to any of them.”
“He rarely even squawks,” Cleo agreed. “I thought all parrots at least did that.”
“He squawks well enough at dawn and dusk,” Lady Agnes said. “Ask my neighbors in Bath. He simply doesn’t like London. A parrot generally needs the run of the house, but Electra did not stipulate that in her agreement with the owner of this wretched establishment. I am forced to keep him caged. Now he does nothing but brood.”
“Perhaps he just hasn’t heard a word that pleases him,” Leslie mused, an idea forming. “Perhaps I should give teaching him a go.” He turned to wink at his godmother. “What say you, Lady Agnes? Shall we have a daily tutoring session for your bird?”
Lady Agnes cocked her head, looking a bit like a bird herself. “Daily? You’ll come to see me every day?”