Meredith tilted her head to the side. “Whatever do you mean?”
She knew full well what he meant. “This frostiness of yours is completely unwarranted, not to mention completely irrational. I mean, I can’t for the life of me think of what I’ve done to earn your wrath. If memory serves me correctly, which I’m sure it does, then I know I am not the offending party here.”
She stared at him for a moment, narrowing her gaze just before answering. “I suppose I just don’t care much for you, Lord Sutherland.”
“And why is that exactly? What possible reason could you have not to like me?”
“Because this isn’t really you.”
It wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. “But it is. This is who I am, now.”
Meredith shook her head. “It’s not at all who you are. You seem to have forgotten that I knew you long before you adopted this . . .” She waved a hand over the length of him. “. . . ridiculous persona.”
He felt a pang in his chest, which only served to irk him further. “I’ll have you know that I’ve worked quite hard to become the man I am today, to cultivate this persona. And I object to you calling it ridiculous.”
“Well, it is.” She folded her arms across her chest and arched a pretty brow. “You’re pretending to be something you’re not.”
“How exactly am I pretending?”
“This whole Earl business . . .”
“But I am an Earl.”
“It’s all of it—your clothes and the way you carry yourself.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes? It costs a fortune to look like this.”
“Exactly!” Finally, she was beginning to show a little pep. “When have you ever cared about such things?”
Derek formed a steeple with his hands, bringing the points up to his mouth. “So let me get this straight. You don’t like me because I’ve bettered myself?”
“Bettered?” She snorted. “Your words, not mine.”
He could hardly believe the little hypocrite was faulting him for the very qualities she’d once deemed to be all-important. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
“You’ve changed, Derek.” She spit the words as if they were the worst insult she could muster.
He shrugged. “And why do you care? You didn’t like me before.”
“That’s not true,” she proclaimed without so much as a moment’s hesitation.
She’d spoken too loudly. The two of them looked at each other, the silence of unspoken truths hanging heavy between them.
Clatter coming from the doorway startled them both from their stare. “I’m so sorry!” Ophelia walked in with her brother. “I had no idea Garrett left you two alone. You’ll have to forgive him, he’s socially backward.”
“What’s the harm? I was only gone for a few minutes.” Garrett laughed, suddenly stopping after he’d seen the two of them. “Did I miss something?” He looked from Derek to Meredith, then back to Derek again.
Meredith relaxed a bit, smiling prettily at Mr. Marshall. “Lord Sutherland and I were just reminiscing a bit. We both come from the same village.”
It was an artful smile, well-practiced. He knew how women like her worked now. Beauty was her armor, and her smile was the shield.
Ophelia clasped her hands together. “What a coincidence!”
“And you’ve never met before?” Garrett queried, still not looking too happy.
“Actually, we have.” Derek spoke before Meredith had a chance to answer. She stared him down, her eyes warning him not to reveal just how well they really did know each other.
“But it was a long time ago,” she interjected, her eyes daring him to contradict her.
He didn’t.
The explanation appeared to satisfy everyone, and the two siblings joined them for tea. Every so often Garrett would look up from his cup and eye the two of them, but kept whatever thoughts he had to himself. Miss Marshall remained relatively quiet, content with letting Meredith lead the conversation.
Dear, sweet, Miss Marshall. He’d been intrigued by the young girl upon meeting her in Brussels. She was beautiful, a petite brunette with a face like a doll. She was smarter than any man he’d ever spoken with before and refreshingly genuine, unlike most women he knew.
That’s why a life of travel worked so well for him. He had no expectations of the women he encountered, and vice versa. They knew exactly what their role in his life was to be—a way to pass the time, nothing more.
But he was an Earl now. And with such an exalted title, came equally towering expectations. He needed to find someone to run his household while he was away. And there was that whole business about providing an heir that he couldn’t very well do alone. All things considered, Miss Ophelia Marshall seemed to fit the bill quite nicely.
He watched as she took a dainty nibble from the side of her biscuit.
And then there was Meredith, who was eagerly devouring a piece of lemon cake. She always did have the appetite of a farmhand. The two couldn’t be more different.
“Miss Marshall, do you have any plans for the evening?” Derek asked, making the customary small talk that he hated, but knew was required.
Ophelia set down her biscuit, her face flushing. She was such a timid creature. He felt as if he needed to approach her as one would an injured animal, with a quiet voice and slow movements so not to frighten her.
“Not tonight. And you, Lord Sutherland?”
“My cousin, Lord MacCalistair, was going to introduce me around White’s.”
“You’re joining White’s?” Garrett asked.
Garrett was glaring at him again. It wasn’t the first time Derek had found himself on the receiving end of a peer’s obvious disdain. Even though his title and fortune was a worthy enough invitation into their world, his lack of formal education and proper rearing would always make him an intruder in the closed Society he’d unwittingly become a part of.
“It would appear so,” he declared, gleefully basking in the man’s contempt. “Brayan thought it would benefit me to establish a membership at one of the clubs here in Town.”
“So, you’ve finally decided to stay in London long-term?” Garrett sneered.
What he wouldn’t give to remove that silver spoon from Garrett’s mouth and shove it elsewhere. “I’m not quite certain where the wind will take me, Mr. Marshall. But I do like to make the most of whatever situation I’m in. Apparently, White’s is the place to be.”
“You do know you have to have a current member sponsor you—to vouch for your character?”
Derek swirled his brandy around his glass. “Fortunately, I met a man who’ll do just that. He’s a duke, I believe.”
“You don’t even know his name?” Meredith chimed in. “And he was willing to risk his own membership in support of you?”
He shrugged. “He knew mine well enough, and that’s all that mattered. It turns out he’d already heard quite a bit about me and was so impressed that he was willing to take the risk.”
Garrett was seething now, and Meredith looked equally perturbed.
It would appear as if his job here was done.
Chapter 14
Meredith sat at her vanity, rereading the letter she’d received that morning from her mother.
She wanted a ridiculous sum of money this time. Some of her step-father’s old debts had surfaced and if she didn’t pay them, she’d lose the house in Middlebury.
She’d approached Aunt Cynthia, asking if perhaps she could give her mother a small loan, just enough to get her through this month’s crisis. As usual, Cynthia refused, mentioning something about her limited funds.
When Meredith had received the first of her mother’s many requests, she’d gone to her aunt for assistance. Cynthia told her no
t to consider lending her mother a single pound, explaining that it wasn’t acceptable for a young lady to deal with money. She’d always thought the explanation selfish, and resented her for not making more of an effort to help her poor mother.
She’d done what she could, sending her pin money, and selling off her jewelry. It had been enough . . . until now.
Here she was on the verge of turning four and twenty, at the cusp of losing her ribbon, without a single prospect in mind.
She’d sacrificed everything, and for what?
Seeing Derek again, the pain, the sadness—it had all come flooding back to her. All her efforts had been in vain. And here he was, back in her life, practically gloating about the success he’d become.
And she was a failure.
“Are you ready for your gown?” Lizzie asked, holding up a white dress resembling a toga.
The party—somehow she’d almost forgotten. The invitation indicated the theme would be A Night in Athens, whatever that meant. The Duke of Glastonbury didn’t throw parties, he held events that usually required a costume, fitting whatever outlandish theme he’d chosen. Attendance by the Ribbons wasn’t just encouraged, it was practically required.
“Miss, the dress?”
“Just give me a minute, Lizzie,” she bit back. “I’m not certain I want to go tonight.”
“But the carriage—”
“One minute, please.”
“But your Aunt insists you go—”
“Enough!” Meredith yelled. The look in her maid’s eyes instantly made her regret the outburst. But it had been building, piling on, becoming too much for her.
She needed time—time to think, to get her bearings.
She turned around and looked at the gown strewn across her maid’s arms. There simply wasn’t a moment she could take for herself. She was a Ribbon. She’d be expected to attend the event looking stunning and being her usual, lively self. There was no room in her deliriously happy life for things like worry.
She forced a smile. “I apologize, Lizzie. You’re completely right. We must hurry if I’m to make it there in a timely manner. It’s one thing to be fashionably late—it’s another thing to miss dinner altogether. Besides, everyone will be waiting for me.”
Lizzie curtsied and began flitting about the room.
Meredith stood, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the vanity mirror. She quickly looked away, not wanting to see the person staring back.
Derek and Brayan had met the Duke of Glastonbury after entering White’s that first time. The Duke had declared his support of Derek based solely on his exploits. Later, he’d insisted the two men attend a small soiree at his humble home with just a few of his closest friends. According to the other men about the club, gatherings at Lord Glastonbury’s were quite lavish and often times unforgettable. Derek hadn’t been to a good roux in ages, and thought it wouldn’t hurt to take the evening off from King’s Transport and enjoy a night out with his cousin.
Upon arrival, they were greeted by Lord Glastonbury’s butler, who was wearing a wreath of bay laurels atop his head, but was otherwise outfitted in typical service regalia.
“The guests are gathering in the gardens. Dinner will be served promptly at ten, followed by dancing and other games.”
The men exchanged curious glances before being escorted to the back of the house by a footman dressed in what appeared to be a sheet that barely covered his torso and thighs.
“What’s all this about?” Brayan asked.
“Didn’t Glastonbury say something about the meal being inspired by life in the Mediterranean?”
The servant opened a set of French doors which led to the back gardens.
Both men stood there, rendered speechless by what they saw. It was like stepping back in time. The gardens were lit by torches and people painted as statues were placed throughout the space, only moving occasionally to change poses. Men and women were dressed in togas, and sitting on blankets scattered across the lawn.
Brayan leaned toward Derek. “Did I miss something?”
“Apparently we both did.”
“It would seem that we’ve left Mayfair and landed smack dab in the middle of Ancient Greece. I’m feeling a bit overdressed for the occasion.”
“At least you’re wearing a skirt. I appear to be the only one here wearing pants.”
Brayan’s nostrils flared. “I told ye before, it’s not a skirt. It’s a kilt.”
Derek ignored him, nodding toward a man dressed very much like a goat. “There’s Glastonbury.” The two started walking toward him.
“What’s he supposed to be?”
“I’m guessing Pan.”
“Your Grace.” Derek bowed.
The rather rotund man slapped Derek on the back. “None of that grace business—you’ll call me Glastonbury and I’ll call you Sutherland. You, too, MacCalistair.”
“Agreed. Now, about tonight.” Derek gestured toward the garden. “I may have missed the part about the required dress for the evening.”
“Or lack thereof.” Glastonbury rubbed his hairy, shirtless belly.
“Are those fur breeches?” Brayan asked in a voice that registered somewhere between fascination and repulsion.
“Authentic, aren’t they? You’re familiar with the story of Pan, aren’t you?”
Derek nodded. He’d left England with very little schooling under his belt. But time spent travelling had allowed him to study subjects he’d never had the chance to before—Greek mythology being one of them. “Satyr? He was one of the more perverse gods if I recall.”
“He had quite the way with the ladies.” Glastonbury nudged Brayan in the side.
“And goats,” Brayan added, crossing his arms over his chest.
Glastonbury cast him a sideways glance, ignoring the remark otherwise. A footman, armed with a carafe and three glasses, offered them wine.
“Have some.” Their host handed each of the men a glass. “I have an estate in the west where this is made. I don’t allow any of that shat from France in my home.”
Brayan took a drink, then started coughing violently. “I’ve tasted whiskey that wasn’t half as strong as this,” he observed when he was once again able to speak. He stared at the glass of red wine again, then took another swig.
Derek looked around the lawn. Here was London’s elite, in all their wanton glory. He’d seen courtesans with more modesty than some of the ladies lounging about the lawn. The guests’ behavior was tame enough for the time being, but after they’d enjoyed a couple glasses of Glastonbury’s private reserve, he had little doubt that the garden would transform itself from Athens to something more closely resembling Sodom and Gomorrah.
Brayan poked him in the arm. “Look over there—near that torch.”
“Is she supposed to be some sort of nymph?” Derek replied nonchalantly, taking his glass and gulping its contents. It felt as if he’d just downed liquid fire.
“I suppose so. And by the looks of it, that nymph isn’t wearing her chemise.”
The sensation of being burned alive was quickly replaced by a sense of euphoria. It was the worst wine he’d ever sampled, and by far the most potent. “Well, then . . .” Derek helped himself to another glass from the tray of a passing servant. “. . . we should go introduce ourselves, shouldn’t we?”
As Derek had suspected, the wine was flowing all too freely. He’d always fancied himself more of a brandy man, but who was he to not play along with the evening’s theme?
Brayan had gotten along famously with the wood nymph, who happened to be a lovely soprano currently touring the continent. He would have pursued her himself had he not been so distracted by a particularly stunning woman calling herself Artemis. He’d hoped she would join him to dine on one of the blankets their host had so graci
ously provided, but apparently she’d needed to get back to her husband.
He smiled to himself. It had been far too long since he’d enjoyed such levels of depravity.
“Do you hear that?” Brayan asked.
“Hear what?” Derek’s head was spinning a bit from all the wine.
“Singing.”
Going Rogue (Ribbons and Rogues Book 1) Page 10