by Regina Scott
But she should not have counted the enemy as lost. “She raced with your godson,” Ellie informed Lady Agnes. “I can only hope she did not give him a complete disgust of her.”
A direct hit–and they blamed her! Cleo’s hands clenched in her lap even as her eyes rose involuntarily to meet her sister’s angry gaze.
“I’ll have you know,” she declared, “that he wanted to race. I only acquiesced to his wishes. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
The return fire missed. “Ridiculous,” Ellie maintained. “He was no doubt joking, and you took him seriously. Then you compounded the error by beating him. The poor man will never live it down.”
Lady Agnes quirked a grin. “Beat him, did you? I’d have liked to see that.”
The enemy marched forward. “Do not encourage her,” Ellie commanded. “This outrageous behavior stops now, Cleo. I rather thought we had succeeded in taming you by sending you to school, but I see that the apple never falls far from the tree.”
If Cleo had had troops, they would have been milling in confusion. “Exactly what do you mean by that?”
The enemy pursued her. Ellie shook her head, a small smile tilting the corners of her wide mouth. “Isn’t it obvious? I have tried to protect you, Cleo, from the way your mother raised you, but it is quite clear to me that she was a sorry example.”
Cleo surged to her feet. “You leave my mother out of this! At least she loved me!”
“Sit down, girl,” Lady Agnes commanded. “Your sister loves you too, in her own way.”
“I’d like to have evidence of that,” Cleo muttered, but she retreated, sinking back onto her chair, for her godmother’s sake.
The enemy did not retreat so easily. “I’ll not deign to answer that,” Ellie replied. “My actions on your behalf should speak for themselves.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Agnes declared as Cleo’s temper neared the breaking point. “What exactly have you done that’s so praiseworthy?”
Ellie raised an eyebrow. “I rather thought paying for a wardrobe and taking out this house a substantial gift,” she replied coldly.
“You picked her clothes without asking her, or me for that matter,” Lady Agnes pointed out. “You chose the smallest town house on a secluded street at the very edge of respectability and furnished it with your castoffs. Mighty charitable of you. Remind me never to ask you for favors.”
Another direct hit! Ellie’s eyes flashed. “I have done more than anyone could expect for a girl who is only a half-sister of a questionable mother. And further, I cannot be expected to provide for her indefinitely. I certainly cannot be expected to maintain a ramshackle husband with nothing to recommend him. Mr. Carlisle has made an investment in Cleo’s education and upbringing, and he deserves to see a return. She will marry to advantage. I am only here tonight because she insists on endangering her reputation. If she is to have any hope of catching a husband, she must curb this wildness.”
Cleo bridled anew.
Lady Agnes snorted. “I doubt Leslie was put off by the affair. If I know my godson, he was likely delighted to have a good race. Just see to it the next time is in private, Cleo. I agree with your sister–you have a reputation to protect.”
The enemy turned suddenly on the intermediary. Ellie drew herself up to her full height. “Lady Agnes, might I have a word with you, in private?”
“No,” Lady Agnes replied, picking up her fork. “As you can see, Cleo and I are eating. And you look as if you were on your way somewhere important. Be off, Electra. If we must speak, choose a civilized time tomorrow.”
She had an ally! Cleo gazed at her godmother in admiration. Ellie stared open-mouthed. Then she raised her head, accepting the challenge.
“You may count on it, madam,” she snapped. She turned on her heel and strode for the door.
“Electra,” Lady Agnes called, forcing Cleo’s sister to pause and look back. “Don’t forget that though your father’s will names Mr. Carlisle as guardian, it specifies that I am to have charge of Cleo’s Season. The fact might help you formulate your discussion for our next meeting. Have a nice evening, dear.”
Ellie left as stormily as she had arrived.
Cleo leapt from her seat and threw her arms around her godmother. “Oh, Lady Agnes, that was famous!”
“Hush, now,” Lady Agnes replied sternly. She waited for Cleo to resume her seat before continuing. “Don’t make me your champion, girl. I am just as determined as your sisters that you marry well.” She set down her fork again and gazed at Cleo. She had never seen her godmother look so determined. “Make no mistake, Cleo. Your sisters will cut you off without a penny the moment you marry.”
Cleo shrugged, picking up her own fork as her appetite returned. “I never asked for their money. It will not hurt me to lose it.”
Lady Agnes shook her head. “Not if you marry well. But there is danger there as well, my girl. They will also expect to receive a portion of whatever benefits marriage provides you.”
“You mean they expect some kind of settlement?” Cleo asked, trying to remember what little she knew about marriage arrangements. “I thought the husband simply settled something on the wife, or she got to keep what she brought with her.”
Lady Agnes’ mouth was tight. “Normally, either of those examples might be the case. In your situation, however, I have no doubt Mr. Carlisle has something else in mind entirely.”
“What has my sister’s husband have to do with this?” Cleo demanded. “Why should he care whom I marry or what my husband offers, as long as I am no longer his responsibility?”
To Cleo’s surprise, her godmother sighed wearily. “I am certain Electra is under considerable pressure from her husband to marry you off. Mr. Carlisle is a very prudent banker. As your sister pointed out, he has made an investment in you and will no doubt want a return. If not money in a settlement, then prestige by association.”
Cleo rubbed her sleeves as the room seemed to have chilled. “You make it sound as if he expects to sell me to the highest bidder.”
Her godmother stabbed at her salmon. “Your imagination is entirely too lurid, my girl. Just be warned. Your safest choice is to marry a man of integrity and substance who can protect you.”
Integrity and substance? The image those words brought to mind was that of an elderly country squire, like her father.
“And you think Leslie is that man?” Cleo couldn’t help her incredulous tone.
Lady Agnes barked a laugh. Then she pointed her fork at Cleo. “With your help he could be. Don’t let Major Cutter’s dash blind you to Leslie’s possibilities, my girl. Now, finish your dinner before it gets cold.”
Cleo returned to her food, but she barely tasted the choice morsels. In truth, she knew little about George Carlisle, having only met him a few times when she had been forced to stay with Ellie during school holidays. But then, she didn’t know a great deal about her sisters either. Although she hated their meddling, she had thought deep down that they did it over concern for her. Could they be motivated by greed instead? If so, her plan to shock them might never succeed.
And were funds so desperate? She had been given the impression her father had left her something, which would come to her on her twenty-first birthday. Surely she could live on that without resorting to her sisters’ charity. A cottage in the country, an elderly companion, and a good horse would be all she needed to be happy.
Still, for this Season at least, there was only so much Ellie and Annie could do. She had not been aware that her parents’ will gave her godmother such power. She had been too young to attend the reading of the will, and, in the six years since, she had resigned herself to Ellie and Annie bossing her around. It did indeed look as if she were safe for the moment, but only so long as she looked for a husband. Her plan had become vital to her future happiness. She had to succeed. And she would need all the help she could get.
Yet even as she thought about it, Leslie’s face appeared in her mind, and she smiled. Good old Leslie. Even
if Lady Agnes was sometimes a fickle ally, Cleo could count on Les for help. She had no doubt she could convince him to escort her to the Baminger ball. She simply had to find a way for him to have fun.
And if she got considerable enjoyment out of the event as well, neither her sisters nor Lady Agnes need be the wiser.
Chapter Seven
“
You want me to do what?” Leslie all but yelped when Cleo confronted him the next day with the plan she’d hatched that night. As if sensing his agitation, Hector squawked obligingly, spreading his emerald wings until they stuck out on either side of his gilded cage.
“Shh!” Cleo cautioned Leslie. “You needn’t sound so concerned. It will make all the difference, I promise you.”
Leslie watched as she pursed her lips and made soothing noises to the parrot. Her slender hands reached through the bars to gently stroke the raised feathers until Hector lowered his wings back to his sides.
“I fail to see how–what did you call it?–dressing in sartorial splendor will win me a place in Lady Baminger’s affections.”
“So that she will not regret including you on the attendee list,” Cleo countered. “Besides, you wanted to have fun, didn’t you? What could be more fun that being the most presentable gentleman at the ball?”
“Spoken like a girl fresh from the schoolroom,” Leslie replied, watching as she stiffened to glare at him. “May I hope you will be dressed in similar fashion?”
She turned from the parrot to eye him. “I always wear my best to balls.”
“And quite demure and sweet you look too,” he assured her. “Might I suggest that if you want your sisters to believe I am leading you astray, you may be better served to wear something other than white?”
She tightened her jaw. “I’d be delighted to, except that is all I own. My sisters chose my wardrobe. Insipid colors appear to be their favorites.”
“So, what’s to keep you from shopping?” he challenged. “I had to buy a blasted horse. A dress would not appear to be out of the question.”
“It is entirely out of the question,” she informed him heatedly. “I have no money of my own, and I refuse to accept anything more from Lady Agnes. She is already paying for most of the servants as well as our stables. I won’t ask her to clothe me as well.”
So, that was why they lived at the edge of Society with the odd furnishings. He was relieved to hear his godmother wasn’t strapped for cash, although he found himself annoyed with Cleo’s nip-farthing sisters. The least they could do was deck her out properly. He pulled a couple of guineas out of his pocket and flipped them to her. She caught them easily, eyes widening.
“Go on,” he told her. “Get yourself a dress and have it fitted. I’m sure it will cost more than that. Use those to show the shopkeeper you are serious, and have the bill sent to my solicitor. He’s the same gentleman Lady Agnes uses.”
She made a face and held the coins back out to him. “I can’t do that, Les. Ladies do not accept clothing as gifts.”
“A young lady should certainly be allowed to accept a gift from an old friend of the family,” he corrected her. “Besides, if you think it is improper, tell Lady Agnes and your sisters I insisted.”
She grinned. “That’s very good. Quite shocking, actually. I’ll do it, if you’re certain you won’t miss the money.”
“I have plenty,” he assured her with a smile.
“Then you won’t mind having to buy new clothes for yourself,” she replied, glancing up at him through her lashes.
He should have known better than to think he could distract her from her purpose. He gave a sigh that made Hector shuffle on his perch. “I’ll look through my closet, Sprout; that much I promise you. But I begin to think you have no idea what constitutes fun.”
She scowled, cinnamon brows dark over her little nose. “Very well, then, explain to me your concept of fun, and I shall endeavor to fulfill it.”
Leslie felt a smile tugging. He reached out and ran a finger down her cheek, watching with fascination as a blush blossomed from his touch. “Sweetling, you have no idea what you just offered.”
Her eyes widened, and her lips parted, drawing his eyes to her mouth. He’d wager her kiss would be as fragrant as the rosy promise of her lips. He bent his head to find out.
“Well,” Lady Agnes demanded, striding into the room in a rustle of dark silk, “does he talk yet?”
Leslie jerked upright. Had he been about to kiss Cleo? By her look of wide-eyed amazement and deep blush, she evidently thought so. He sent her what he hoped was a regretful smile and turned to greet his godmother. The only problem was, he wasn’t entirely sure what he regretted–trying to kiss her, or failing.
“Good afternoon, Lady Agnes,” he said, bowing. “And no, I’m afraid our good friend Hector has yet to say a word.”
“He is saying something,” Lady Agnes returned, closing the distance between them so she could affix her bird with a steady eye. “I heard him squawking yesterday and today when you were here. That at least is an accomplishment.”
“I’ve made an accomplishment as well,” Cleo announced, forcing Lady Agnes to glance at her. Leslie could not imagine what the girl intended, but her announcements had the tendency to pick his pocket or inconvenience him. He narrowed his eyes at her in warning, but, although he saw her swallow, she continued on doggedly. “Lord Hastings has agreed to escort us to the Baminger ball.”
Leslie closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to find Cleo regarding him as if afraid he would strike her and Lady Agnes regarding him as if afraid he’d lost his mind.
“Yes, well, I’d be hard pressed not to agree with anything the delightful Miss Renfield suggests,” he replied truthfully. “At what time shall I call for you, Lady Agnes?”
“Nine-thirty,” she answered, still watching him warily. “And see that you bring a large enough carriage for the three of us. No tricks to get Cleo alone.”
At the moment, his only desire was to get Cleo alone so that he could wring her lovely neck. “Certainly not, Godmother. And since you have given me a commission, perhaps I should leave for the day. I shall want to pick the appropriate equipage to do justice to your celebrated beauty.”
Lady Agnes snorted.
Cleo frowned. “You’re leaving?”
“Sadly, yes,” Leslie replied, though sadness did not begin to describe his emotions. “I shall see you the day after tomorrow at half past nine, ladies.”
“Won’t you come to teach Hector tomorrow afternoon?” Cleo asked, rather plaintively, he thought.
He bowed. “No, I think not,” he said as he straightened. “I shall be much too busy learning to dress in sartorial splendor.” With a nod to his grinning godmother, he quit the room before Cleo’s look of surprise could force a laugh to spoil his performance.
*
Cleo wasn’t sure how Leslie would end up dressing. He might well wear something awful just to spite her. She had manipulated him. It was rather obvious that he did not like to appear less than perfect in front of their godmother. The trait was all too easy to use. Yet she was certain that her plan would succeed. If Leslie could just look like he belonged at the affair, Lady Baminger would have no choice but to accept him. Once Cleo escorted him in, she’d make sure he enjoyed the event.
His enjoyment, however, would not extend to a kiss. She could not imagine what he’d been thinking to lean toward her that way, his eyelids drifting lower even as his chin angled to avoid hers. Certainly she hadn’t expected her heart to speed, her lips to purse, her own body to lean forward as well, expectantly, hopefully. Their teasing camaraderie must have made them both lightheaded.
Of course, it was possible that she had misinterpreted his intentions. He was quite right to call her new to Society, especially in the area of the intimacies shown from a man to a woman. She had never been kissed. She could not remember seeing her mother and father kissing, although she did remember they were wont to hold hands while walking down the country lanes
near their home. Certainly she had never seen Ellie or Annie show the least bit of affection for the gentlemen they’d married. Most of her experiences came second-hand, through whispered conversations among equally inexperienced schoolgirls and the brief mentions of courtly love in the novels she borrowed from the lending library.
Then there was her experience with catching Eloise and Lord Jareth Darby. But in truth, she was still not a little confused by what had happened that day. When she had first heard the thumps and mewling overhead, she had thought perhaps one of the stable cats had somehow gotten stuck. The grooms were out attending to a riding lesson for the lower form students, so she could scarcely ask them to intercede. She had clambered up the ladder and poked her head through the hole to find a gentleman lying in the hay with Eloise. Both were oblivious to her presence, and she could only stare in astonishment. The fellow’s touch to Eloise’s body had been tender, but Cleo could see tears on the girl’s face. She had rushed to rescue Eloise from her supposed attacker. Snatching up a fork used to pitch hay down to the horses, she’d jabbed the fellow in the posterior. Even now, she had to squeeze her eyes tight shut to block out the scene that had followed.
Neither of them had been pleased by her attempted rescue. The young man, tall, wiry, and incredibly handsome, had easily disarmed her and coldly set about fastening himself up. He had clambered down a rear chute she had not known the stable possessed without another word to Eloise or her. Eloise had sobbed for what seemed like hours, during which time Cleo could only sit with hands folded tightly in her lap. Any attempt at conversation was met with fresh sobs. At length, she had simply climbed down and returned to the school.
She certainly hadn’t realized she was injuring the prestigious Jareth Darby. At seventeen, she hadn’t understood the nature of coupling. Only the pain she’d seen in Eloise’s eyes had made her decide to tell Miss Martingale about the matter.
The entire scene still confused her. It had given her an awed curiosity about relations between men and women. Eloise had sobbed at Jareth’s defection, but she certainly had not looked or sounded as if she were having any fun when he was there with her. Leslie, on the other hand, was determined to have fun. It seemed unlikely then that he would wish to seduce Cleo. She must have mistaken him.