A Rebel Without a Rogue (39 page)

“Of what, precisely, stand you accused, besides the abuse of perfectly good pens?” He lifted the feather to reveal the top of its shaft tipping over at a drunken angle.

“Why, of encouraging your most unnatural
tendre
for me, of course, dear boy,” Dulcie replied, his lips quirking in amusement. “For what other reason would the ladies of the
ton
believe you would squirrel yourself away in our house, eschewing all their charms?”

Per uttered a silent curse. Dulcie typically took care to keep his liaisons with those of the opposite sex far from the public eye, wary of allowing any whiff of scandal to touch his family. But had Milne’s increasing insistence that his son marry and produce an heir led his son to rebel and deliberately court scandal? And was Per to be sacrificed on the altar of Dulcie’s dramatics?
 

If such rumors—no matter how patently false—were to reach Lord Milne, Per’s dream of sitting in the House of Commons would die a speedy death. And how then would he work toward parliamentary reform, toward giving the people of England a real voice in the running of their own government? How would he ever make restitution for the suffering he had caused?
 

 
“Surely, Dulcie, you didn’t—you haven’t—”

“Of course not. You think I’d share the story of your crushing rejection?” Dulcie gave a dramatic shudder. “Why, no man’s
amour-propre
could withstand such a blow! If only I’d known then how often you frequented whorehouses that first year you came up to town, I’d never have mistaken your true proclivities. You must tell me, why ever did you stop?” The viscount settled in Per’s chair, chin propped on his hands, eyes wide with curiosity.

How the hell had Dulcie caught wind of that old scandal?

For a moment, Per had the urge to give in to temptation and confess his own past mistakes. But if he spilled his budget to a gossip such as Dulcie, the entire
ton
would soon know that he’d haunted London’s brothels and gaming hells during that ghastly year after he had come up from Cambridge for reasons completely unrelated to his own amusement. A rumor of lewd behavior with Dulcie would be nothing to the revelation of those sordid secrets.

If, in fact, such a rumor even existed. . .

He took a step toward Dulcie, frowning as suspicion grew.

“Now, you’ve no need to punish me for bearing bad tidings,” Dulcie said, jumping up from the chair and holding out his hands in supplication. “Indeed, I bring you the means to dispel such scandalous tittle-tattle. All you must do is drag yourself away from this tedious pile of papers and accept the dinner invitation my parents will so kindly extend. Chat amiably with a chit or two, turn a page of music for another, and you’ll quiet the gabblemongers forthwith.”

“One dinner invitation? No balls? No routs? No tedious musicales?”

“Only dinner, Per. Lady Butterbank will be in attendance, so if you snub me, we’re certain to dispel this scurrilous scandalbroth brewing among the gossips. Lord knows that woman loves to tattle.”

“Yes, almost as much as you do.” He retreated to his chair, crossing his arms in disgust.

Dulcie chuckled. “Lady Butterbank does give me a good run for my money. But I see no reason not to throw her a juicy bone now and again. You’ll attend, if only to give her a reason to rise the next morning?”

He found himself unable to maintain a grudge in the face of Dulcie’s good humor. “If I must,” he conceded.

“And, if you would,” Dulcie added in a suspiciously offhand manner, “you might consider a Miss Pennington as one of the recipients of your somewhat dubious charms. Another nobleman’s daughter up from the country, ready to make her bow to the king, my mother tells me. Ill dressed and whey-faced, I’ll wager. And from bucolic Lincolnshire, no less!”

“Dulcie,” he growled, eyes narrowing as he rose from his seat to tower threateningly over the far shorter viscount. “If I discover you’ve created this ridiculous rumor only to extricate yourself from yet another of your father’s matchmaking schemes. . .”

The viscount raised one eyebrow as he backed through the door. “Why the earl thinks I’d have anything to say to a schoolgirl who has spent far more time communing with cows and cabbages than engaging in intelligent conversation, I cannot begin to imagine. But you, Sir Peregrine, should be more than suitable.”

Per lunged, but caught only the sound of laughter as the viscount beat a quick retreat.

In truth, this Pennington girl must be a gorgon if Dulcie required
his
help to free himself from her clutches. Perhaps he would attend the Milnes’ party, if only to watch the sport as the earl tried once again to entice his son into the matrimonial lists. And might he even teach Dulcie not to tease him with false gossip?
 

The corner of his mouth quirked as he tapped his quill against the table. Just what words should he whisper in the ear of the whey-faced Miss Pennington to suggest Viscount Dulcie harbored a
tendre
not for Per, but for her?