by Lora Darling
Eirene sucked in a breath as heat flooded her face. “It is too early in the morning for inappropriate innuendos, monsieur. You have my permission to take your leave.”
His gaze, which had been tracking the infuriating glide of his finger along her cheekbone, lifted. “I did not ask for your permission, my lady, so I believe I will stay a moment longer so that I might do this.”
He kissed her. In the breakfast room, in full view of the street-facing window and the open door at his back. Surely, this was uncommonly bold behavior even for a rake. In fact, why was the man even awake at such an early hour?
The pressure of his mouth lessened. “You could kiss me back, my lady.”
“Why?”
He smiled. Against her lips. What a truly singular sensation to experience.
To Eirene’s surprise, he straightened and took a step back. “Forgive my intrusion this morning, my lady. I do hope the rest of your day goes as planned.”
She could only stare as he bowed and left the room. After a few moments, she hurried to the window and caught sight of him riding away. The riderless horse trotted obediently alongside, attached to Benoit’s saddle by a lead. She watched until she could no longer see him, then stepped back from the window and lightly touched her lips. Why had he kissed her again?
“My lady?”
She turned to find Hamish hovering in the doorway. “Wipe that downtrodden look off your face, Hamish. You are not fired.” As if she could manage without the man. Besides, he was guilty of nothing more than admiring a fine looking beast belonging to a fine looking man.
Heavens. What was wrong with her? Next, she would be composing poetry about Benoit’s thighs—eyes! Gracious. As if she had looked at the man’s thighs as they cradled the side of his mount. No lady would ever behave in such a fashion, especially one determined to live out her life devoid of male companionship.
“His lordship left without his coat again, my lady.”
Eirene noticed the coat folded over Hamish’s forearm. She was tempted to have it burned so Benoit would have no further excuse to arrive unannounced at her door. “I will have a message in need of being delivered to his lordship later today. You may send the coat along with it.”
She would also send out the cancellation notices to the other candidates. She no longer believed Benoit might change his mind. After all, he had come to her this morning to make an attempt to douse any damage done by the article. And she had behaved horribly in response.
Perhaps she was a bit too prickly. Or perhaps Benoit simply roused her less admirable character traits. He had accused her of doing the same. Perhaps they were simply two people incapable of rubbing along in harmony with one another.
Hamish cleared his throat. “Will that be all, my lady?”
She waved him away, still distracted by her thoughts. Why kiss her if he found her so offensive? It made no sense, though, men generally did not make sense. She really should not spend another moment thinking about the man.
Eirene poured a fresh cup of tea and carried it down the corridor to her study. Throwing open the curtains to allow the morning sun to filter in, she took a seat behind her desk and reached for a clean sheet of paper and her pen. With a bit more force than necessary, she dipped the pen into the ink, then scratched out the first of four cancellation messages. Once that task was complete, she moved on to a much more important matter. That of outlining for the monsieur the details of their rendezvous, as he wished to call it.
After careful deliberation, she had decided upon Lady Palmer’s ball. Originally, she had chosen a different event, one complete with the wished for chaise lounge, but eliminating the other candidates and seeing the article in the morning paper had convinced her to shift her timeframe forward. The sooner she saw to her ruination, the sooner she could quit London and return to the country.
She dipped her pen again. Lady Palmer’s ball was rumored to be the crush of the season. Everyone would be in attendance to enjoy Lady Palmer’s infamous hospitality as well as her unique art collection, which was located in a special gallery. Said gallery would provide the location for Eirene’s ruination. The ball was tomorrow night. She acknowledged the lack of notice, but the monsieur likely planned to attend the ball already, so surely he could take a moment out of his evening to meet her in the gallery and…
Eirene lifted her gaze from the paper and stared unseeing across the room. The man would likely kiss her. Again. The thought drew her gaze to the list she had made following the man’s abrupt departure the previous evening. She pulled it closer.
As per usual, she had split the paper in half in order to illustrate the pros and cons of the current dilemma, that being her decision to choose Benoit to see to her ruination. She had been quite prepared to change her mind if the cons had outweighed the pros, but in the end, the two columns had ended up being identical. The list she now held was the third one she had comprised. The first two had gone into the fire. The outcome had remained the same each time.
For every pro in favor of Benoit was also a con.
Pro: He is no gentleman.
Con: He is no gentleman.
Pro: He is distractingly handsome.
Con: He is distractingly handsome.
Pro: He kissed me.
Con: He kissed me.
Pro: I liked his kiss.
Con: I liked his kiss.
Eirene crumpled the list and threw it across the desk in the direction of the fire. It fell well short, of course, but it did not matter. Burning the evidence would change nothing. She could no longer pretend to find the man objectionable, nor could she pretend to have not spent the entire night lying awake in bed reliving their kiss.
Despite the brevity of said kiss, it had been long enough to alert her to one very important truth; she would not walk away from The Scheme unscathed. Allowing Benoit to do what had to be done in order to ruin her, she would have to allow much more than a fleeting kiss. He would have to put his hands upon her person. Upon her bare flesh.
She sat back in her chair and pressed a hand to the fichu tucked inside her bodice. Her nipples puckered at the memory of Benoit sliding a very similar fichu from her bodice. The sensation had left her feeling burned. In fact, much about the man had left her feeling overheated. His mouth on her neck had made her feel feverish. His lips on hers had nearly caused her to perspire. The sight of his collarbone…
Eirene cut the memory short and waved a hand in front of her face to cool the air. Tomorrow evening, once inside Lady Palmer’s gallery, she would see a great deal more than Benoit’s collarbone.
God willing, the experience would not turn her into a pile of ash.
Chapter Six
Adrien refolded the letter from Lady Rowe-Weston, which had just been handed to him by the club’s doorman. Not surprisingly, the lady had outlined the details of their rendezvous with the exacting attention of a military general planning a campaign. He could not help but smile as he tucked the letter into his waistcoat.
Part of him was tempted to reply with his own planned strategy. A strategy that would begin with a kiss that lasted longer than a fleeting moment before progressing into much deeper, more intimate terrain. Such as his hands upon her luscious curves and her hands upon any part of his person she desired to touch. He had accused her of being prickly, and he was determined to soothe her thorns before their rendezvous concluded.
“Devil take you, Benoit.” Samuel Petley appeared at Adrien’s table without warning, hissing the curse through clenched teeth so as not to draw attention.
Adrien sat back in his chair and gazed up at Cyril’s cousin. “Care to elaborate, Petley?”
Petley took the vacant seat across the table, his movements sharp with poorly restrained anger. He narrowed his dark eyes and leaned forward. “Is it true?”
“I do not read minds, Petley. Is what true?” Though Adrien suspected he knew the motivation behind Petley’s appearance and anger.
“That not so subtle on dit in this mornin
g’s paper. Am I correct in assuming you were the ‘dashing Vicomte seen exiting Lady Rowe-Weston’s home’?”
“I do not see how it concerns you one way or the other.”
If possible, the man’s eyes grew darker than their natural coal black coloring. “It concerns me, you imbecile, because I intend to marry the woman.”
“From what I have heard, the lady will not have you.” And considering the burning intent in Petley’s dark gaze, Adrien vowed to do whatever necessary to keep the cad far away from Lady Rowe-Weston. Hell, he would marry the woman himself if— Whoa! Where had that ridiculous thought come from?
“What difference does that make?” Spoken like a true scoundrel.
Adrien uncrossed his legs under the table in order to lean forward. He pitched his voice low so as not to be overheard by nearby gentlemen. “That sounded an awful lot like a threat.”
Petley’s eyes narrowed. “Why could you not have bowed out gracefully as I requested? Why must you make this a competition between us?”
“You assume there is a competition, Petley.”
Before Petley could reply, a waiter appeared at the table. “This came for you, my lord.” Petley snatched the folded missive from the man’s gloved hand. His expression tightened as he read the contents, and Adrien actually sat back when Petley shifted his gaze across the table.
“Damn you to hell, Benoit.”
“Let me guess. Lady Rowe-Weston no longer begs the pleasure of your—”
“I have tried my damnedest to have a meeting with that woman,” Petley hissed, while balling up the paper. “Now, because of you, my best chance has been cancelled.”
Adrien gestured toward the crinkled note clutched in Sam’s fist. “You cannot blame me for the whims of a lady. I did nothing to convince her to cancel your appointment.”
“You are lying, Benoit.” Petley stood with a loud screech of his chair that drew several curious glances. “In fact, lying is what you do best, is it not?”
Adrien stood as well. “What are you implying, Petley?” There was no way for Petley to know Adrien’s secret. Was there?
Petley threw the balled up paper toward Adrien. It hit his chest and bounced to the table. It was a rather childish act, but it managed to illicit a few shocked gasps from those watching the growing confrontation. No doubt someone would liken it to a glove across the face, but Adrien refused to be baited.
“If you have something to say to me, Petley, be a man and say it.”
“Stay away from Lady Rowe-Weston, Benoit. I am warning you, as a friend, things will get quite unpleasant if you do not.” Petley stalked away before Adrien could respond.
Adrien remained standing after Sam’s departure. He soon became aware of the many sets of eyes watching him. Wonderful, no doubt the rumor mill would be all atwitter with reports of his near fisticuffs with Lord Petley. Well, Cyril had said something would happen to divert the gossips from Adrien’s visit to Lady Rowe-Weston’s house, had he not? Speaking of Cyril. It seemed his friend had some explaining to do if Adrien correctly interpreted Sam’s threat.
Nodding to the gentlemen nearest him, Adrien took his leave, determined to find Cyril and get some answers before meeting Lady Rowe-Weston tomorrow evening at Lady Palmer’s ball.
****
Having had no success locating Cyril the previous evening, Adrien was left with no choice but to rise early and ambush his friend over breakfast.
Before launching his attack, he eyed the half eaten slice of toast placed before Cyril. “Are you unwell, mon ami?”
Cyril glanced up, eyes bright, cheeks rosy. “Unwell? Me? No. I’ve never felt better.” He waved Adrien into the room, then stabbed at the paper with his index finger. “It seems I was correct about the gossips finding a new morsel to sink their fangs into.”
“Let me guess,” Adrien drawled on his way to the side board, “my confrontation with your cousin.”
“Indeed. Care to tell me the actual story?”
In no mood to eat, Adrien carried his coffee cup and the pot to the table. Sitting down, he reached for the paper to see for himself how the gossips had interpreted his tête-à-tête with Sam. No doubt the embellishments would be worthy of a lurid novel.
Dearest Reader,
It seems there was quite the row between a certain dashing Vicomte and Lord P. Rumor has it the argument revolved around a certain Lady of Grand Wealth and nearly escalated into pistols at dawn. It is common knowledge that Lord P wishes to marry the Lady of Great Wealth, and now we must wonder if our dashing Vicomte shares the same goal. It should be noted, said Vicomte was once more seen in the vicinity of said lady’s home, in possession of two horses and a rather disappointed countenance.
Has the lady rejected her French suitor? I vow to flush out the details, dearest readers…
“It is mostly accurate.” He could not help but wonder what Lady Rowe-Weston would think if she saw the piece. Two appearances in the gossip section in as many mornings. It was advantageous Lady Palmer’s ball was that evening, or the gossips might succeed in the task of ruining Lady Rowe-Weston’s reputation before Adrien could.
“What actually occurred?”
Adrien propped his elbows on the table and cradled his cup in both hands. “Sam took offense to yesterday’s gossip about Lady Rowe-Weston and myself. He reiterated his intent to marry her. Things took a nasty turn when he received a letter from the lady cancelling their appointment. He blamed me for the lost opportunity to finally gain entrance to the lady’s private sanctum, then said some rather interesting things in regards to my ability to lie.”
“Oh? Whatever could he have been alluding to?”
Adrien did not answer. He simply stared at Cyril over the rim of his coffee cup and waited. Cyril was an incredibly intelligent individual. It would not take long for him to piece things together. Adrien knew the moment Cyril did so. The bushy, brown brows flew up, his mouth fell open, and his cheeks grew redder.
Adrien saluted Cyril with his cup. “How did Sam learn of my true identity?”
“You cannot believe I told him?” Cyril shook his head with enough force to challenge the hold of his pomade. “I would never betray you, Adrien.”
“And yet, I never told anyone but you.”
“You told Lady Rowe-Weston.”
Adrien employed another steady, silent stare in response to Cyril’s ludicrous suggestion that Lady Rowe-Weston had somehow transferred that knowledge to Sam.
Cyril visibly deflated. “The entire family knew.”
Very slowly, Adrien set his cup upon the table. “Knew? As in from the very beginning?” And no one had ever said a word to him? Why? Why allow him to keep up such a farce?
Cyril nodded. “Yes. Sam’s mother is Adrien Benoit’s aunt.”
Well then. Adrien’s hands began to shake as shock rolled through him.
“The Petleys and Benoits go way back,” Cyril went on, clearly content to oversimplify the matter. “My grandfather was—”
Adrien looked up from his hands as Cyril ceased talking. “What?”
“You are awfully pale of a sudden, Adrien. Are you quite all right?”
“No.” He shook his head then leaned back in his chair. “Why did your parents never tell me they knew? Why allow me to go about behaving as though I outranked them?”
“You might believe you behaved in that fashion, but you did not. As for them telling you they knew, what did it matter? They loved you like a son. Nothing would have changed that.”
He knew Cyril spoke the truth about Sir and Lady Petley feelings for him. No one could replace the parents he had lost in France, but the Petleys had come close. They had treated him as though he and Cyril were brothers, as though he had always been a part of their family, and always would be. It should not matter to him that they allowed him to believe the farce of his identity had to be maintained. But it did matter. He had lived a lie under their roof when he could have simply been himself.
He glanced at Cyril. “It would
have been nice to know the love and affection they offered was for a blacksmith’s son and not a marquis’.” And there it was. He had not known they loved him for him.
“If they were alive today they—”
“Don’t. Please.” A moment of silence fell between them as Adrien gathered his thoughts and emotions and Cyril patiently waited. “Why did Sam’s parents not take me in? Why did it fall to your father?”
“Sam’s parents did not have the money to support another.”
Jesu. The salvos were never ending.
“No money? Sam is many things, but poor is not one of them.”
“Actually, Sam is quite poor. Every pound he wins at the tables or at the track is immediately dumped into the estate, and with his father not long for this world, he has grown desperate to rebuild the family coffers before he inherits so he might be in a better position to provide for his mother and…sister.”
Adrien did not miss the slight hesitation in Cyril’s longwinded explanation. “Cyril, if there is something else, tell me now. I want no more secrets between us.”
Cyril averted his gaze. “Jillian is not Sam’s sister. She is his daughter.”
Adrien allowed that nugget to sink in. “Illegitimate, I presume?”
He pictured the girl, not an easy task, given he’d only laid eyes upon her one time. From what he could recall, she was short of stature, lithe, as dark in coloring as Sam and with features lovely enough to lure many a suitor to her door when the time was right.
“Yes, the by blow of one of Sam’s many mistresses, though only Sam’s mother is aware of the truth. It is my understanding that Lady Petley—”
Adrien held up his hands in surrender. “No. Do not waste your breath or my time attempting to explain the ins and outs of that particular arrangement. Whether or not Sam has a daughter is no concern of mine.” Discovering Sam was in need of funds, however, was very concerning. No wonder the man was so hungry to marry Lady Rowe-Weston.