“I have no doubt you will,” Lottie answered with great enthusiasm. “Being masked will make it all the more convenient. It will keep you from being overly formal, help you to be more yourself. You will be wonderful.”
“Wonderful” was not a word in Charles’s vocabulary at present. After all, a suitor would distract Lady Eleanor from Charles and impede his opportunity to become well enough acquainted to beseech her for the journals.
“My mother is delighted with the change she claims she sees in me already,” Lady Eleanor continued, oblivious to his lack of enthusiasm. “She is convinced I’ll be an enormous success and has already secured a time for me to meet with a modiste tomorrow afternoon, to have a new costume fashioned.” Lady Eleanor hesitated and bit her lip in a rare show of nervousness. “Are you quite sure I’ll be ready? I’ve had more failures than successes, and I don’t think I can carry a kitten with me in my reticule.”
Lottie settled a comforting hand on Lady Eleanor’s shoulder. “We have several more lessons before the night of the masquerade, and your mask will help embolden you. Mark my words, you’ll be magnificent.”
“Have you chosen your costume?” Charles asked, more boorishly than he’d intended.
Something rather unpleasant knotted in his stomach, and he didn’t like it any more than he relished the opportunity slipping through his fingers.
Lady Eleanor had distinctly caught his note of disapproval, because her attention fell on him and her brows flinched. “An Ice Queen.”
Lottie clapped in pleasure. Charles drowned a groan with some brandy. He could envision her all too well, sparkling in a wash of white, pale blue and glittering crystal, and giving the brilliant smile that transformed her prettiness into real beauty. Suitors would be crawling about her like ants on a dropped pastry.
Even in his fog of personal misery he couldn’t ignore how clever the costume truly was. After all, what better way to make her entrance into the good graces of the ton than by throwing their own very moniker for her in their face?
“Pray tell, what do you envision for your gown?” Lottie asked, with excitement gleaming on her face.
Charles did not bother to listen to the reply—not when his mind was spinning around the discomfort of his own internalizations. He had several days before the ball. If he pressed his luck the odds might be in his favor. But if he pressed too hard he might ruin his chances.
There was always the option of the truth, of course. Lady Eleanor did not yet know who he was, nor what his identity might mean to her family. He was unsure how Westix’s family regarded his father.
So, either he could tell Lady Eleanor the truth and ask her outright for the journals, while hoping for her compliance.
Or...
Or he could have Thomas find out when Lady Eleanor would be at the modiste and he could go to Westix Place to meet with the Countess. Lady Eleanor need not ever be aware of their meeting.
Once he had what he required, and if the information necessary was indeed in the journals, he would be gone once more and the deception of Lord Charles would be inconsequential.
“Lord Charles, are you well?” Lady Eleanor’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.
“Of course.”
He set his unfinished brandy down. If he was going to call on the Countess of Westix the next day he had to begin preparations. After all, Thomas was good, but even he needed time.
“If you’ll excuse me? I must take my leave.”
Lottie’s mouth fell open. “Now?”
“Yes. There are matters which require my attention. I am unsure if I can make it tomorrow evening. Or the night following that.” Charles straightened the lapels of his jacket rather than allow himself to meet the shocked stares of the two ladies. “Forgive me.”
“Please do stay, Lord Charles.” Lady Eleanor approached him.
The sweet jasmine scent drew his attention. He met her imploring expression.
“I can’t do this without you.” Her smooth forehead furrowed. “I feel as though I’m finally beginning to comprehend what’s expected of me. But I need you.”
She needed him. Such a caress to his ego. But needing him in the flippant way she did would not grant him what he wanted.
“You have been ideal to practice with,” she added. “And I’ve truly appreciated it.”
Part of him wished they had more time, that there might be more of an opportunity to procure her trust and friendship. And yet her father Westix remained lodged in Charles’s mind. Westix and the wrong done to Charles’s own father.
This woman was not for him. Marriage was not for him. Not when the need to explore ran in his blood and the Coeur de Feu still needed to be found. He required those journals with urgency.
Utilizing that thought, Charles steeled himself for what he must do. “Forgive me, Lady Eleanor.” He bowed low, more to break the hold of her gaze than for civility’s sake. “You are in superb care with Lottie, and you will excel at flirtation at the ball. I am certain you will be the Diana of the matrimonial hunt.”
Without another word, he straightened and strode from the room, set on seeing his promise fulfilled.
* * *
Eleanor had developed doubts about attending the modiste appointment that afternoon. Life had been so very different when she hadn’t been aware of their dire financial circumstances. And so, when her mother had fallen prey to the crippling effects of another one of her headaches, Eleanor had been all too eager to cancel the appointment and remain at home with the ailing Countess.
That choice led to a fascinating series of events—beginning with Eleanor taking tea with her mother in the drawing room. Oftentimes taking tea soothed the rougher edges of the Countess’s debilitation.
Their butler, Edmonds, entered the room, with a silver tray perched atop his fingertips. He stopped before the Countess, presenting the tray with his usual grace. Her mother lifted the card from it between the pinch of her fingers and her lips tucked down at the corners.
Eleanor sat higher in her seat, attempting with what she hoped was discretion to read over her mother’s shoulder. Without success. The print on the card was too small from where she sat.
The Countess nodded at Edmonds. “Send him in and tell Bessie to bring in another setting for tea.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
“Someone will be joining us?” Eleanor inquired politely.
The Countess cast a dubious look her way and lifted a brow. “Don’t think I didn’t catch you craning your neck. I appreciate you taking to your new lessons with such sincerity, but please ensure your manners do not suffer.”
Chastened, Eleanor regarded the bits of tea leaf floating about the bottom of her dainty porcelain cup.
“If you must know,” her mother began, “our visitor is His Grace the Duke of Somersville.”
Somersville... The name was familiar.
“He and your father were at university together. They had their...” her mother swept her hand through the air with a disdainful gesture “...their club together. Until they fought like children over some of the items they’d found and ruined the club along with their friendship.”
She sighed and rattled off the details with the ennui of a person reciting a list of tedious daily tasks.
“The Duke died in his sleep several months past. I’d heard his son was out adventuring and has now returned to claim his title, his estate, and most likely the dusty relics from our study.”
The slight roll of the Countess’s eyes was all the explanation Eleanor needed to know what her mother thought of the Duke. She understood now why she recalled the name. Her father’s face had turned purple every time the name Somersville had been mentioned. There had even been an incident when the Duke had paid a visit and shouting had been heard from the study.
Whoever the new Duke of Somersville was, he was not a friend of
the family.
“Why did they quarrel?” Eleanor spoke in a quiet voice to keep their conversation from carrying down the hall, where the Duke might overhear.
Her mother took a careful sip of her tea. “Mummies’ bones, fragments of old pottery and the like. The lot of it is a bunch of dreary rubbish, if you ask me. I gave the previous Duke nearly everything he asked for after your father died, having no purpose for it myself. It would appear his son is under the illusion that I have been inclined to retain some.” She set her cup in the saucer. “The Somersvilles are nothing if not persistent. I know if I decline seeing him now there will be another card tomorrow and another the next day until I finally concede.”
Unwelcome Duke or not, this would be the first person Eleanor had met since she’d begun her specialized edification with Lottie and Lord Charles in earnest. Her nerves disturbed the mirrored surface of her tea with a perceptible tremble. She set her cup down, lest it rattle in its saucer.
Should she use this Duke for practice? A test prior to her grand attempt at Lady Covington’s masquerade ball?
Her father would be appalled if he were alive. And that was the final reason she needed to convince herself it was a good idea.
She ran through the instructions in her head. Be kind, be genuine, make eye contact, smile. Pretend you have a kitten in your lap.
She looked down at her empty lap. For the life of her she could not recall the feelings the kitten had evoked. But she could make out the perfect seedcake on her plate, and had the sudden urge to nibble a piece before the Duke arrived.
Was that the kind of nibbling Lord Charles had alluded to?
The thought popped in her head, unbidden and unexpected. A newly familiar heat rose in her cheeks. It was rather shameful, really, how often the memory of that conversation played itself in her mind, and the curiosity it aroused.
“Eleanor, have you heard a word I’ve said? What ails you, child?”
Her mother’s admonishment sliced through the endless winding of Eleanor’s wayward musing.
“And why in heaven’s name do you keep staring at your lap?”
“I’m looking at the kitten.”
The words slipped from Eleanor’s mouth before she could stop them, and earned her a baffled, reproachful look from her mother. Fortunately it was at that exact moment that the dastardly Duke of Somersville entered their drawing room.
Lottie’s most important words whispered in Eleanor’s mind: Believe in yourself.
She looked up—but the warm smile gliding over her lips froze and swiftly faded.
For it wasn’t the Duke of Somersville at all, standing before her.
The man who strode proudly into the room, with his fathomless blue eyes and immaculately tailored jacket, was none other than Lord Charles.
Chapter Nine
Damn. Charles had not expected to see Lady Eleanor beside her mother, the Countess of Westix. He was, in fact, so surprised he almost asked why she hadn’t gone to the modiste as planned.
He bowed low to cover his shock. “Good afternoon, Your Ladyship.”
Lady Eleanor’s mother was a handsome woman, with a fine bone structure beneath a face almost untouched by age. Her green eyes were sharp with the scrutiny of assessment.
“Allow me to introduce my daughter—Lady Eleanor Murray.”
Her words were hesitant, as if she hadn’t wanted to say them. He might be a duke, but the Countess found him wanting.
Lady Eleanor offered a smile so hard and brittle it made the baring of her teeth in those earlier sessions appear friendly by comparison. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.” And by “pleasure” she unmistakably meant not at all anything remotely pleasant.
Rather remarkably like when Charles had first met her.
“Do sit down.” The Countess indicated the empty place setting for him.
Truth be told, he’d rather take tea in the company of vipers at this point than the ladies of Westix Place. The vipers would doubtless prove less dangerous. But he had arrived with a purpose, and he could not back down simply because events had not transpired as expected.
He gave his thanks and settled himself opposite the ladies on a dainty rose-colored chair. “You’ve added new wall coverings.” He nodded to the spread of saffron-yellow silk along the walls, with painted birds flitting about its glossy expanse.
“Several years ago,” the Countess stated dryly. “It’s been some time since we’ve been graced with your company. Would you have some tea?”
Graced indeed. Charles nodded. “Yes, strong, if you please.”
While the Countess’s attentions were otherwise occupied, Charles chanced a glance in the direction of her daughter. Red stained Lady Eleanor’s cheeks and her eyes glittered with a hidden emotion she would not permit her face to convey. Regardless of her hiding what she was feeling, he knew it was not good.
Forgive me, he mouthed.
She cut her gaze from him.
“Your Grace...” The Countess offered him a cup of black tea.
The Countess of Westix did pour a good cup of tea. So long as it wasn’t laced with poison.
“Thank you. Your tea is always top-notch.”
“You flatter me.” She did not appear flattered. She appeared as though she wished to be anywhere but there. “I presume there is a reason for your visit?”
He ought to ask for the journals and be done with it. It was, after all, why he’d come. A quick glance at Lady Eleanor’s tightly pressed mouth and her blatant attempt to keep from meeting his gaze were evidence enough of her anger at his ruse. Asking for the journals would surely leave her further incensed.
The Countess plucked a lump of sugar with the sugar tongs and lifted her brows with impatient expectation.
Damn it. There was only one thing he might do and possibly retain his budding relationship with Lady Eleanor and get the hell out of this mess.
Charles held his cup and blew at a curl of steam while he gathered his composure. “I intend to court your daughter and came to seek your approval.”
The Countess’s mouth fell open and the lump of sugar splashed into her tea with an indelicate plop. “Surely you jest?”
The skin along the back of his neck prickled with Charles’s awareness of Lady Eleanor’s observation. He glanced in her direction and found her staring at him not like a woman eager to be courted by a duke, but a woman wholly and completely bewildered.
Frustration tightened through him. Why the devil hadn’t she gone to the modiste?
“I do not jest,” he said levelly.
“I was not aware you had even been introduced.” The Countess of Westix stirred her tea, seemingly quite recovered. “You are the son of the Duke of Somersville and a member of the Adventure Club. I have seen the accounts of what transpired within that club.” Her lip curled with censure. “I am well aware that you have begun traveling, as your father once did, and I can assure you that you will never acquire leave to court my daughter.”
Charles’s heart thudded harder in his chest. The Countess of Westix had seen accounts of the club’s adventures. The journals. She did have them.
Her face had gone an unpleasant shade of red and she had folded her lips on themselves in an obvious attempt to stop herself from saying more. “Is that all, Your Grace?” She drew out the last words, making the title seem less of an honor and more of an offense.
“Yes, I believe it is.” Charles set his tea on the table, regrettably untouched, and got to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Your Ladyship.” He let his gaze finally fall on Eleanor and found her staring up at him, her expression unreadable, her cheeks a bright red. He nodded in her direction. “Lady Eleanor.”
He bowed to them both.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.” The Countess of Westix lifted her tea to her mouth, took a sip, and looked out through the window in
to the gardens with an air of clear dismissal.
Charles took his leave, stopping only to gather his hat and coat from the footman, and even those he was sorely tempted to abandon in an attempt to flee all the faster.
Having faced such utter failure in his alternative attempt to collect the journals from the Countess, he was now forced back to his initial idea—to win over Lady Eleanor and convince her to give it to him.
He only hoped he had not pushed her away with the unexpected shock of his offer to court her and with the greatness of his lie. But, more than that, he hated it that this new change in plan might somehow see her hurt.
* * *
After an hour of her mother’s fuming, and far too many seedcakes, Eleanor made her way to her room. No longer was she in shock—she was angry.
How dared Lord Charles—His Grace the Duke—put her in such a position?
She’d had to lie, of course, building on his perfidy in order to protect Lottie, who had doubtless had no part in this. Eleanor could not abide the idea of that sweet woman receiving punishment from the Countess of Westix for Somersville’s deceit. But why had he asked to court Eleanor?
Why not wait until the ball, allow himself to be properly introduced to her, and then ask to court her?
The idea of him doing exactly that swam in her mind. Him impossibly handsome in some roguish costume, her in a glittering gown made for an Ice Queen, taking a turn about the room, dancing, laughing, speaking at length.
It was a whimsical dream. Most likely a foolish one.
A nudge of something uncomfortable crawled into her mind. She’d mentioned she would be at the modiste. How terribly odd that he should arrive unexpectedly to offer courtship when he had known she would be out.
She recalled the look of choked surprise when he first saw her. He had not expected her to be there.
For all his bravado in speaking out to her mother, Eleanor knew one thing for certain: he had not visited in order to ask to court her. He’d been there for something else, and she would find out exactly what he was after.
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