by Lora Darling
Eirene, left shaken and confused by Adrien’s abrupt departure, stood staring at the open door until a servant, sent by Lady Palmer, asked if she required assistance in locating the exit.
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“Dare I inquire as to how your evening went?”
Adrien, who stood with his forehead pressed against the cool panes of his bedroom window, did not so much as move a muscle at Cyril’s arrival. “I believe I played my part to Lady Rowe-Weston’s satisfaction.” The words fogged up the glass, but he hadn’t been admiring the view, so it did not matter.
“Must I wait to read the details in tomorrow’s paper?”
“Do you believe a person can fall in love after only a brief acquaintance, mon ami?” Silence filled the space at Adrien’s back, a silence so deep and so alarming, he turned to make sure Cyril had not fainted or expired. His friend stood in the center of the room, dressed in his favorite, flowing, emerald green banyan and house slippers, staring at Adrien as though he had sprouted a tail.
“Love?” Cyril managed to croak. “You fancy yourself in love with Lady Rowe-Weston?” He shook his head while raking a hand through his soft, pomade free curls. “Was she that good?” Cyril threw up his hands as Adrien moved away from the window. “Forgive me. That was in poor taste. But love? Are you certain you do not simply fancy this woman?”
“I fancied the butcher’s daughter when I was thirteen.” Adrien looked out over the moonlit garden again. “This does not feel like that.” The aforementioned fascination had lasted the duration of one summer. The object of said fascination had been five years older than he, quick to smile, quicker to flirt, and more than willing to buss a thirteen-year-old lad on the lips a time or two. He had been infatuated with that eighteen year old vixen, and now he could not even recall the color of her hair or her name. No, this did not feel like that.
He had no doubt that in twenty years, if anyone were to ask, he would be able to tell them Eirene possessed dark auburn hair, bright copper eyes, and exactly forty-three freckles on her left cheek. He would also recall the way she smelled. That wildflower fragrance of hers would likely haunt him in his grave. As would the slight weight of her shifting upon his lap. The sight of her breasts straining to be free of her stays. Her taste.
And worst of all. Most tormenting of all. He would never forget the look on her face as she promised to keep his truth a secret as payment.
“Did you confess your feelings to the lady?”
“Not in so many words.” When Adrien turned from the window, it was to find Cyril seated upon the bed with his voluminous banyan gathered around him and his slippered feet dangling a few inches above the floor. “I do not believe she would have taken kindly to such a confession. The lady is quite determined to spend the rest of her days rusticating in solitude out in the country.”
“Really, Adrien, I am shocked to have to state what should be obvious.”
“And that is?”
“Tell her how you feel.”
Adrien shook his head. “She will not have me.”
Cyril hopped off the bed and swept toward Adrien. “For heaven’s sake, you daft fool. If the lost, pathetic, forlorn expression upon your face is that of love, then do whatever you must to change her mind.”
Chapter Ten
Eirene allowed herself to sleep in the next morning. Usually, she was up at dawn, despite the rest of the city’s preference to laze about in bed until noon. But not today. Sleep had eluded her last night, and the mere thought of crawling out of bed made her want to cry and carry on like a petulant child. She blamed Adrien. He had taken hold of her emotions, her sanity, and her ability to reason and thrown all of it into a stinking pile of refuse. Then he had stomped upon it for good measure with his talk of wanting more.
Damn the man to hell for his inability to act like an unscrupulous rogue.
She had been unable to form a single thought that did not involve the vexing man, and even worse, she had relived every moment of their rendezvous over and over again until her body burned with unsatisfied arousal. She hoped he had spent an equally insufferable night. It was the least he deserved after leaving her stranded and alone to face Lady Palmer’s renewed wrath.
The woman had confronted Eirene as she had attempted to leave unnoticed. Again, Lady Palmer had reiterated that her son and his ten thousand a year were off limits. She’d not align her family with a fallen woman. Eirene had said nothing, though she had longed to tell Lady Palmer exactly what she could do with her son’s ten thousand a year and her illogical assumption Eirene would ever wish to have anything to do with the man.
Her bedroom door opened, and Hamish peeked his head in. Upon seeing her awake, he entered bearing a tray consisting of a pot of tea, her favorite cup, the morning paper, and what looked to be a pile of correspondence.
“I would wish you good morning, my lady, but seeing as how it is half noon…” He allowed the censure in his tone to state the rest. Setting the tray atop her vanity, he poured a cup of steaming, fragrant tea and carried it and the paper to the bed.
Eirene sat up against the pillows and accepted the cup with both hands. After a few sips, she reached for the paper. Hamish had folded it open to reveal the Society page. She glanced up at her hovering butler. “Do you now work for a social pariah, Hamish?”
“It would seem so, my lady.” With a bow, he left her to read the accounting of her night.
Dearest readers,
Where do I begin?
Lady P’s annual ball will go down in history. This author has it on good authority, not to mention personal observation, that a certain Lady of Great Wealth was caught in the throes of a passionate embrace with a certain dashing Frenchman. The couple was discovered by none other than Lady P herself and, when confronted, acted in the most shocking way imaginable.
Our dashing Frenchman, displaying masculine attributes that surely belong in a museum, claimed nothing untoward had occurred. He went so far as to confess to the Lady of Great Wealth it was his wish to find an opportunity in the future to enjoy more than just her kiss.
Can you imagine?
When pressed by Lady P to make an honest woman of the wealthy lady, he refused! I tremble at the audacity of such a response. And yet, that, my dearest readers, was not the most shocking turn of events. Oh no, for the Lady of Great Wealth labeled our Dashing Frenchman a cad for leaving her unsatisfied! Faced with such outrageous behavior, Lady P did what any of us would have done. She ordered the shocking creatures to vacate her home with all haste, adding that her son was now off limits to the likes of Lady R-W.
This author must confess no prior knowledge of an understanding between Lady P’s son and Lady R-W and imagines such a match existed only in Lady P’s mind.
Eirene folded the paper and set it aside without finishing the article. She had read enough to conclude The Plan had been a success. She was a fallen woman. Ruined. An outcast. Returning to the country would be expected of her. By next Season, she would be forgotten, replaced by a bevy of debutantes and wealthy widows.
A smile curled her lips as she sipped her tea. Should she send Adrien a note of gratitude? After all, his performance had been worthy of an ovation. Before and after Lady Palmer entered the room.
Blast! She refused to spend another moment dwelling on the moments prior to Lady Palmer’s appearance. She had packing to do and a quiet country life awaiting her return. Allowing the relief to build into a feeling of euphoria, she absentmindedly reached for the pile of correspondence that Hamish had laid upon the bed. There were at least fifty cards. She picked up the first.
It took her a moment to register what she was seeing, but when she did, she threw the card as if it had turned into a large, furry spider.
Hand shaking, she shuffled through the rest, most containing names of gentlemen who had plagued her since her arrival in London. This should not be happening. Had none of them seen the morning paper? Did they not realize she was ruined? The last thing any of them should seek was a moment of
her time. A scrawled note on the back of Lord Crestwald’s card caught her attention. The man claimed to have been captivated by her beauty upon seeing her at Lady Palmer’s ball. He went on to express a willingness to overlook her moment of misguided judgment.
Moment of misguided judgment? Was the man mad? She’d been caught sitting astride a rake’s lap, for pity’s sake. Another moment and it was likely she would have been impaled by said rake. And Lord Crestwald was willing to overlook it because she was beautiful? It seemed he was not alone. Card after card claimed much the same, a willingness to forgive, forget, and protect.
Realization dawned as she stared at the choice of words written on the back of Lord Bristow’s card. He offered his protection. He owned a lovely cottage in the Lake District. She would have carte blanche.
Good God! These men did not wish to marry her. They wished to set her up as their mistress. It seemed her rendezvous with Adrien had only managed to replace one dilemma with another. Twenty-four hours ago, these men coveted her money. Now they coveted her.
What the devil was she to do now?
Dropping the cards, she grabbed her wrap and hurried from her bedroom. Tying the belt as she walked, she headed for her study. She always thought best within the confines of her study. A fire blazed in the hearth, and she sent a silent blessing for the existence of Hamish. Locating a sheet of blank paper, she quickly folded it in half, then flattened it atop the blotter. She did not bother to sit down. Hunched over, unbound hair dangling precariously close to the ink, she dipped her pen and began to outline the pros and cons of a new plan.
A little over an hour later, both sides of the paper were full, neither one boasting more support than the other.
“Blast!” Why was it that, ever since she had come to London, she had not been able to make a definitive decision one way or the other? Setting aside the list, she opened the top drawer and grabbed a single shilling from the stash of random coins. She flipped it into the air, caught it deftly, then slapped it upside down on the top of her other hand. Before uncovering the coin, she decided tails would mean going forth with the new plan.
She took a deep breath and revealed the coin. Tails.
Well, there it was. One could not argue with physics, or so her grandfather always said. Putting the coin back in the desk, she headed to her bedroom to change. She had not a moment to lose, not if she still wished to be sleeping in the country come evening.
A little over an hour later, Eirene stood in Cyril Petley’s foyer suffering the disapproving opinion of the man’s butler. “This is highly improper, my lady.”
The servant glanced over Eirene’s shoulder to the world beyond the still-open, front door. With agitated movements, he reached past her to close the door then turned, holding her card as if it might combust.
“Highly improper,” he repeated, with emphasis.
“Yes, thank you for your unsolicited concern for my reputation.” Removing her bonnet and pelisse, she thrust both at the butler, forcing him to either do his duty or allow the articles to fall to the floor. Thankfully, for the sake of her favorite pelisse, he did his duty. “Now then, is Vicomte Benoit home to callers?”
“Lady Rowe-Weston, I presume?”
Eirene turned to address the query. It came from a man in the process of descending the stairs. Though she did not know him, she assumed he was none other than Cyril Petley. An assumption he confirmed by dismissing the butler with naught but a nod before reaching her and accepting the hand she extended.
“Cyril Petley, at your service, my lady.” He blew a kiss above her knuckles, then straightened with a smile that possessed the power to shine right through his light brown eyes. It was a sight genuine enough to counter the roundness of his features and the girth straining the buttons of his waistcoat. Mister Petley would never make young ladies swoon upon first glance, but if given the chance, he would make their hearts sing.
“I do apologize for invading your home in such an improper fashion, Mister Petley.” Eirene glanced up the staircase, wondering if Adrien was within earshot.
“No need to apologize.”
“I believe your butler would say otherwise.” They shared a smile, but the moment was short lived as Eirene recalled the urgency behind her visit. “I’ve come to see Adrien.”
The name rolled off her tongue as though a part of her vernacular for decades.
Petley, to his credit, did not flinch at the informality. “Might I ask why?”
Had the man suddenly stripped off his clothing and asked her to dance a reel, she could not have been more shocked. While debating whether to respond to the rather invasive question, Petley revealed his true colors. That of a protective ally.
“Permit me to say, my lady, Adrien passed a rather unsettled night.” The statement was instantly recognizable for what it was intended to be, a placement of blame. “I cannot begin to guess whether he will wish to see you or not.”
“I see.” Eirene attempted to ignore the heat that climbed from her neck to her cheeks. She should have chosen a lighter gown, it seemed, one with not so high a collar. “Might I presume upon your hospitality by asking you to inquire directly?”
She could not help but wonder what Petley knew of her rendezvous with Adrien. Something had clearly awoken the guard dog within the man. Something Adrien had said? Or was it simply a case of Petley having decided not to like her? The latter seemed likely. She was well aware of her ability to be off-putting. Hadn’t Adrien, himself, said as much when commending her foresight to avoid marriage?
“Before I decide whether or not to encourage a meeting, will you indulge me by answering a simple question?”
“If I am able, certainly.” She fisted her hands at her sides to avoid rubbing them together in anxious impatience. She was not accustomed to being challenged, and Mister Petley, despite kind looks and smiling eyes, proved a formidable challenger.
“What are your intentions toward Adrien, my lady?”
“My intentions?” What the devil? Petley spoke as though Adrien’s reputation teetered on the brink. How ridiculous. Despite the events of the previous evening, the article in the paper had managed to be rather flattering where Adrien was concerned. He’d not lack female attention when next he ventured into Society, of that she was certain. And if he ever wished to marry, no doubt there would be a long line of willing brides.
The tea she had consumed that morning soured in her stomach. Though why the thought of Adrien walking down the aisle would cause her insides to rebel, she hadn’t a clue. What the man did with his future had nothing to do with her. Well, not beyond the next twenty-four hours, at least.
But first she had to actually see Adrien and lay out her new plan.
“My lady?”
Eirene snapped to attention, determined to have done with Petley’s impromptu interrogation. “You need not worry about the welfare of your friend, Mister Petley. I simply require a brief moment of Adrien’s time in order to make a slight adjustment to our arrangement.”
“I was under the impression said arrangement ended with this morning’s gossip.”
“Yes, well, there has been a slight setback.” She prayed he would not press for details. It would be rather embarrassing to admit to the number of men wishing to set her up in a nice cottage in lieu of luring her down the aisle. Odd for them to suddenly covet her body more than her wealth. Such nonsense only occurred when a woman possessed ethereal beauty, and she knew she did not, never mind the silly declarations to the contrary that had been scribbled upon the calling cards. Since when were freckles fetching? No, it was all ludicrous and in need of a quick resolution.
Petley hooked his thumbs into the waist of his trousers and shifted his impressive weight from one foot to the other. “A setback, you say? My curiosity is almost painful, my lady.” He held up a hand to silence her before she could speak. “No, no, I’ll respect your right to privacy, but do allow me to offer you a small warning, hmm?”
“Of course.” A shiver of forebo
ding chased away the heat that had suffused her face.
“Do not hurt him, my lady. He has suffered enough in this lifetime.”
It took a moment for Eirene to find her voice. “I’ve no desire to make him suffer.”
Petley held her gaze with a searching look. “Sometimes we are not permitted to choose the end result of our actions, my lady.” On that rather cryptic note, he informed her Adrien had yet to emerge from his rooms but had rung for coffee and the valet. “You should find him awake and decent, my lady.” After offering directions to Adrien’s private chambers, he bowed and bid her a pleasant, good day.
Eirene shivered in the wake of Petley’s departure. She had to admire the man for wishing to protect his friend. It spoke well of his character, but the words he had chosen continued to echo in her mind. He has suffered enough in this lifetime. Had some of that suffering been at her hands? Adrien had been angry upon leaving her last night, but had the anger been fueled by pain? Had her rejection hurt him? Had he returned home and confessed as much to Petley?
It seemed incredibly unlikely that she possessed the power to hurt a man of Adrien’s confidence. Did he even like her? Yes, he claimed to want her, but he had never said he liked her. One could not be emotionally hurt by someone they did not care for. In fact, the deeper the affection, the greater the pain. It was obvious Petley assumed there was something more between herself and Adrien, but he was wrong. Their arrangement did not allow for inconvenient emotions, and it certainly did not require an attachment or deep affections.
No, despite Petley’s concern, Adrien’s heart was safe from harm while in her company. Once they parted ways, it would be intact if he wished to offer it to some unknown recipient in the—
Blast! She pressed a hand to her rolling stomach. She would have to ask Hamish if he had accidentally brought her spoiled tea at breakfast.
Back to the matter at hand. As for her own heart, that bothersome organ had not stirred to life since she’d watched her grandfather’s coffin being entombed. It would take a great deal more than practiced kisses, warm hands, and honeyed words to awaken it after all these years.