A Lady's Ruinous Plan

by Lora Darling

  She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “If I were to order you to return me to my country estate and forget about me, you would?”

  “No.” He did not even hesitate for half a heartbeat.

  Eirene managed to wiggle her hand free of his. She could not continue this conversation while gripping his…well! “You claimed you were mine to command, and yet, you say no.”

  “Permit me to clarify, my lady. Oui, I will see to your safe arrival in the country. No, I will not forget about you. For as long as I live.” He did not touch her. He made no move to touch her. He merely held her gaze with a sincerity that clawed at her heart.

  “I see.” She crossed her arms and turned to the window. She needed to escape that pewter gaze. It saw too much. Had always seen too much, from the moment they had first made eye contact in her grandfather’s study.

  “Marry me, Eirene.”

  She closed her eyes. “Adrien—”

  His hands clasped her shoulders, but he did not turn her to face him. “Your turmoil is a palpable presence in this room, and do you know why you are in such turmoil? Hmm?” He went on before she could think to reply. “It is because you are at war, and it is not a war your grandfather prepared you to fight.”

  He finally turned her to face him, and she prayed he could not detect the moisture in her eyes. “Adrien, I am not engaged in any sort of war. I do not wish to marry. Period. Why must you belabor the issue?”

  “Because you cannot see what I see when you speak those words.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  He released one of her shoulders in order to slip a finger beneath her chin to angle her face upward. “Repeat after me. Adrien, I have no wish to marry you.”

  She did not fully see the usefulness of the exercise, but nevertheless, she humored him by repeating the phrase in what she believed to be a steady, non-affected tone.

  “When you lie, your left eye twitches ever so slightly.”

  She pulled free of his grasp. “This is ridiculous.”

  Damn the infuriating man to hell. Her grandfather had warned her many times of just that particular weakness. He had told her, time after time, nothing gives the enemy the advantage faster than a foolish tell. She had believed herself cured of the habit and capable of lying with great aplomb if need be.

  “I possess no such tell, Monsieur Cloutier.”

  “That is a lie.”

  She ground her back teeth together. “Will you or will you not escort me back to the country?”

  “I said I would, and I am not a man to go back upon my word. Much to Cyril’s disgust.”

  Petley chose that moment to expound a great trembling moan of shocking volume.

  Eirene nearly jumped out of her skin, but Adrien merely tossed a glance toward the bed.

  “What are we to do with him?” she asked.

  “Toss him out the window?”

  She could not help but smile at his enthusiastic suggestion. “Tempting, but I believe you will have more than enough to deal with, come morning, without adding murder.”

  Adrien frowned. “Petley informed you of his plan to ruin me?”

  “He did, and with great pride.”

  Petley moaned again, then suddenly sat up and looked around in abject horror. “Where the devil am I? What the devil happened? Where the devil are my bloody clothes?” His gaze found Adrien. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  ****

  Adrien ignored Petley’s scathing question. “You should be on your knees thanking Lady Rowe-Weston for not allowing you to die.”

  Petley’s attention shifted beyond Adrien’s shoulder to rest, no doubt, upon Eirene. “Thank her? The bitch attempted to poison me. I’ll see her hung, I will. Mark my—”

  “I see I should have let you die,” Eirene calmly interjected.

  Adrien sidestepped to block Petley’s view of her. “Everyone in this room knows Lady Rowe-Weston made no attempt to poison you, Petley. Now shut your mouth and listen to the way things are going to be.”

  Petley’s dark eyes narrowed to slits. “How dare you speak to me in such a fashion, peasant.” With a level of dignity that could only be mustered by one born to be noble, he gathered the worn sheet about him and climbed to his feet. The man smelled like an old chamber pot, looked like a freshly unearthed corpse, and swayed like a drunken sailor, but damn if he didn’t glare down his nose at Adrien like the umpteenth generation English lord that he was.

  “Come morning,” Petley snarled, “all of London will know of your deception. There will be no one for you to turn to, not even my kind-hearted cousin is stupid enough to offer shelter or friendship to a fraud. You will be an outcast. An exile. The shame will—”

  “I know Jillian is your daughter.”

  Sam blinked then collapsed onto the bed like he’d been shot in the chest. The arrogance leeched out of his gaze faster than blood from a stuck pig. “She is an innocent.”

  “Oui, and that is why you will do exactly as I say.”

  ****

  “Do you believe Petley will do as you instructed?” Eirene asked the question while staring out the carriage window. The lights of London had just come into view after a very long, very quiet trip from the inn. She had decided against traveling to her country estate, for two reasons. One, she had no wish to prolong Adrien’s obvious physical agony. And two, she had no wish to prolong her own emotional agony, which intensified with each moment she spent in his company. Once away from him, she would be able to think and rationalize. She would make a list to prove her rejection of his proposal made perfect sense. Perhaps she would send him the list.

  “I believe he will wish to keep Jillian’s reputation as untarnished as possible. Besides,” Adrien said while attempting to shift his body on the bench. Each movement caused a gasp of pain, which in turn, caused a most singular sensation in the vicinity of her heart. “Sam is an intelligent, charming scoundrel. I have no doubt he will remake his fortune in America and Jillian will be a belle of Society.”

  “I shall say a prayer each night for the American heiresses.”

  “Indeed.” On that note, Adrien put his head back and closed his eyes.

  Eirene assumed he meant to rest a while longer. One should never assume, her grandfather would always warn. And Adrien proved him right.

  “We did not finish our conversation, Eirene.”

  “Oh?” She twisted her hands together in her lap. “And what conver—”

  “Don’t.” Adrien lifted his head and met her gaze. “Please. Don’t prevaricate. I lack the patience to play games.”

  “Very well. You speak of our conversation regarding the future you wish us to have.”

  “Oui.”

  “It is not a future I wish us to have.” It took every ounce of control she possessed to prevent her left eye from twitching. “There. Conversation concluded.”

  The carriage drew to a halt before her townhome, and a heavy, awkward and rather painful silence fell between them. She reached for the door, but his hand covered hers.

  “Look at me,” he ordered.

  “I would rather—”

  “Look at me, damn you.”

  She schooled her features, or so she prayed, then did as he commanded.

  His fingers tightened atop hers. “Say it again.”

  “What, exactly, is it you wish me to repeat?”

  “Tell me there is no place for me in your future.”

  Eirene’s heart raced, and the blood heated in her veins. She felt rather ill, of a sudden. “There is no future for us.”

  Adrien released her hand and settled back against the squabs. “Go.” He closed his eyes. “Aller. S’il vous plait.”

  She jumped as the door was wrenched from her light grasp. The coachman offered a hand. She hesitated, more confused in that moment than she had ever been in her entire lifetime. She gazed at Adrien, silently begging him to look at her. But he did not. He kept his head back and his eyes closed.

  “My lady?”
>
  She managed a grateful smile for the coachman as she took his hand and stepped down. The door of her home opened to reveal Hamish, visibly shaking with relief. He rushed toward her, breaking every protocol possible between mistress and servant. She stood her ground, aware of a series of little sounds. The coachman mumbling a “Good day.” The carriage door closing. The carriage springs squeaking. The horses shifting.

  “My lady, I am beside myself with relief.” Hamish took both her hands in his, then glanced past her as the carriage rolled away. “And the vicomte? Is he well?”

  “I would very much like to rest, Hamish.” She freed her hands, gathered her skirts, and entered the house without allowing the urge to stare after the carriage to get the better of her. Her grandfather had always said, there is nothing to be gained by looking back.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Adrien sat before the dying fire and slouched deep in his chair with his booted feet upon the fender. A third glass of fine, French cognac rested upon his thigh, the first two having left behind a low buzzing in his head. Cyril, after finally giving up all attempts to convince Adrien to accompany him, had gone out for the night. Sayers had appeared at Adrien’s elbow some time ago to say the servants had gone to bed and to inquire as to whether his lordship required anything. Adrien had replied with a brusque shake of his head while wondering what Sayers’ reaction would be if the butler were to discover he waited upon his equal.

  After returning from his mad dash to rescue Eirene and, of course, explaining what had transpired, Adrien had insisted Cyril tell the servants the truth before they read it in the morning paper. Cyril had refused, saying if he wished the servants to know, he could damn well tell them himself.

  He had said nothing, choosing to hold onto the hope that perhaps Sam had been lying when threatening to expose him.

  But Sam had not been lying. The paper Adrien had barely glanced at, some five hours ago upon waking late, had declared quite boldly that Vicomte Benoit was a fraud.

  Staring into the fire, he sipped his drink, but the flavor he had appreciated only moments before was now as palatable as dust upon his tongue. He could not help but speculate how his friends had reacted to the truth. Kilby, a man with his own secrets, perhaps would understand and sympathize, assuming anyone allowed Adrien a chance to explain the deception. Westhaven, too, had secrets, and Venton… Well, only God knew the full details of that demon’s past. Ha! Perhaps the four of them could form their own exclusive club, a safe haven for any rake with a ruinous skeleton hiding in their wardrobe.

  Adrien laughed around his next sip, realizing Petley would make a fine member as well. Oh, the irony. Hell, every rake in London likely had a damning secret. After all, not everyone could be as upstanding as Cyril.

  The sound of the door opening nearly caused Adrien to groan out loud. He did not check to see who it was, but it could only be Sayers, as he’d not heard Cyril return. “What is it, Sayers? Have you come to toss my no good, common body into the streets before your master returns?”

  He took another long swallow of cognac, wishing it would numb the pain in his chest and erase the scene that played over and over in his head. That of Eirene stepping down from Petley’s carriage and walking into her home without so much as a glance over her shoulder. No doubt, by now, she was safely ensconced within her precious country estate. Did she even think of him? Surely, she would have seen the morning paper. Had she read the article and breathed a sigh of relief to be well rid of him?

  The door closed with a decisive click, followed by the sound of light footsteps moving across the room. His fingers tightened on the glass, and his alcohol riddled senses attempted to focus. There was no way the footsteps belonged to Sayers, and none of the maids had cause to be in the room until dawn.

  Eliminating Sayers and the rest of the servants as owners of the footsteps left Adrien feeling more than a tad vulnerable, and he eased himself forward in the chair to curl his hand around one of the fire pokers. Sam might be on his way to America, but he was also a man who did not tolerate being bested. Adrien would not be surprised if Petley had arranged an assassination attempt before departing.

  After all, his last words to Adrien, before being left behind at the inn, had been, “I suggest you adopt the habit of sleeping with one eye open, peasant. As for your whore—”

  Adrien’s fist had knocked Sam out cold before he could finish his little speech.

  The footsteps stopped, refocusing Adrien’s full attention to the present matter, that of an unknown intruder. He remained as he was, bent forward, cognac in one hand, makeshift weapon in the other. His head buzzed with cognac, and he cursed the quantity he’d consumed.

  “Had I imagined you would arm yourself against me, I would have brought my pistol.”

  In an ungainly mess of spilled drink and clattering iron, Adrien lurched to his feet and swung around to meet Eirene’s gaze over the back of the wing chair. How? Why? What the actual hell was she doing here?

  Before he could find his tongue, she flashed a smile, albeit a cautious one, and continued her journey across the room. The pain in his chest that he’d been attempting to numb intensified as he stared at her. Had she grown more beautiful? Were her freckles darker? More plentiful, perhaps? Hard to tell the farther she moved away from the one lamp Sayers had insisted upon lighting so as “not to leave your lordship wallowing in the dark.”

  She halted behind the chair and laid a hand upon the curved top. He stared at her bare fingers with their rounded nails and recalled the tentative way they had stroked his collarbone. Mon Dieu, it felt like a lifetime since she had touched him. Had it truly only been a mere twenty-four hours or so?

  “Hello, Adrien.” Hearing his name upon her lips was sweeter than anything he could pour into a glass.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” His harsh words made her flinch, but he was too awash in cognac to temper his shock. He had thought never to see her again, yet here she stood, wearing the burgundy gown from their first meeting. Sans fichu. Perhaps he was hallucinating?

  “By, here, do you refer to London or—”

  “My room, Eirene. What the hell are you doing in my room?” He was afraid to move, afraid to blink, lest she vanish. “I believed you to be well away from the unpleasantness of London, yet here you are. Why?”

  She lowered her gaze and idly caressed the curved back of the wing chair. If she meant to drive him mad, the sight of her fingers petting the damn chair was a good start. “If you must know the truth,” she began while looking up at him once more, “I was halfway to the country and instructed the coachman to turn around.”

  Adrien’s breath burned in his lungs. “Why?”

  She licked her lips and visibly swallowed, but she did not break eye contact. “I did not want you to be alone when the news of your identity became public.”

  “Then you have wasted your time. The news is hours old, and as you can see—” He spread his arms to give her a good look at his disheveled person, open collar, wrinkled linen, mussed hair. “—I am none the worse for wear.”

  Sarcasm dripped from his tone, causing her to flinch again. Mon Dieu, why was he acting like such an ass?

  “You are angry with me.” She did not state it as a question, nor did he offer a reply. “Very well.” She nodded once, in a most precise, definitive fashion.

  It bothered Adrien to watch Eirene suffer his attitude, yet he did nothing to ease her agitation. He was angry with her. For a number of reasons. The least of which was how she had walked away without looking back, and he did not give a damn if that made him petty or childish.

  “Would you like me to leave?” she asked while staring into his eyes.

  Damn her. No, he did not want her to leave. He wanted her in his arms. In his bed.

  The silence lengthened and thickened.

  Eirene cleared her throat. “Very well. I see it was a mis—”

  Adrien circled the chair as quick as any hound after a fox. Eirene gasped as he took he
r in his arms and captured her parted lips beneath his mouth.

  “No.” He kissed her. “I do not—” He kissed her again. “—want you to leave.” Another kiss, long and deep this time. She clung to the front of his shirt, her breaths short and quick, exactly like a fox run to ground and cornered.

  Adrien ended the kiss with a shake of his head. He really needed to cease with the bad analogies. Now was neither the time nor the place for such poetic nonsense.

  “Adrien?” She spoke just above a hush, the sound like a seductive swipe of her tongue against his ear.

  Mon Dieu, the woman had a way of addling his brain. Soon, he would be on one knee spouting the romantic drivel of Lord Byron. A display sure to leave the militant Lady Rowe-Weston unmoved.

  Adrien looked into Eirene’s amber eyes. “Tell me the real reason you came back.”

  “I told you. I did not wish for you to be alone—”

  “You are lying.” He ran his thumb along the delicate skin below her left eye as the muscle twitched. “Be honest with me, Eirene. I beg you.”

  ****

  Eirene disengaged herself from Adrien’s embrace and took several steps back. He wanted honesty, did he? Where should she begin? Would he like to hear about the near collapse she had suffered upon entering her home and hearing the carriage drive away? Would he wish to know how panicked Hamish had become upon seeing his lady trembling from head to toe while tears streamed down her face? Would such lurid details make him happy?

  Or perhaps she should share the moment leading to her decision to order the carriage turned about. Could she put into words the pain she had felt in her chest? The shortness of breath or the frantic tone of her voice as she banged on the carriage ceiling to demand the driver turn around with all due haste.

  Or maybe he would like to know about a more recent moment. The moment when she had hesitated upon his front stoop, hand poised over the knocker, stomach in knots, heart in throat, fear causing her palms to perspire within her gloves. Should she detail for him the battle that had ensued between heart and brain? Her brain had demanded a list to outline the reasons she should knock versus the reasons she should not. Her heart had demanded she tell her brain to go to hell.