My Fair Princess (18 page)

She was taking it better than expected. In fact, she was taking it far better than he had when he'd first heard the ugly name. He'd only managed to contain his rage because he and Stratton had been on a path in Hyde Park, in full view of half the
ton
.

Gillian shook her head. “What a trial I'm turning out to be. At this rate, I'll soon have an entire alphabet of nicknames trailing behind me like a dirty cloak.”

“Good God, I hope not. The entire point of our rustication is to put an end to that sort of gossip.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, now sounding rather distracted.

When they reached the stile, a more conventional configuration of rough steps over a stone fence, Charles extended a hand to help her. Deep in thought, Gillian ignored it, instead laying a hand on top of the wall and launching herself over to land lightly on the other side. Sighing, he followed.

A moment later, she came to an abrupt halt in the laneway beside the wall. “Wait. That doesn't make sense.”

Hell and damnation.
He had been afraid she'd figure it out.

“What doesn't make sense?” he asked, fully prepared to hedge as long as he could.

She peered up at him. “Why would they call me a doxy? It's not as if I've got any suitors to dally with, married or otherwise. You're the only man I spend time with.”

He gestured in the direction of the chapel, further down the lane. “Shall we walk?”

She crossed her arms at her waist, calmly regarding him. “What aren't you telling me, Your Grace?”

“You do know that you don't have to address me so formally. Leverton will do perfectly well.”

“If you think that's going to distract me, you're sadly mistaken. You might as well tell me, since I'll find out sooner or later.”

Gillian would have made an excellent spy for Wellington. Still, Charles tried to think of a way around it.

“It's all right,” she said in a kind voice. “I won't be angry, I promise.”

He took her arm and steered her down the lane. “All right, but let's keep walking, shall we? For some reason it's easier that way.”

“Ah, you're embarrassed, so it must be unpleasant. Well, you needn't spare my feelings. I can take it.”

She'd had to
take
too much in her life, and that infuriated him. It made him all the more determined to protect her going forward.

“People are making assumptions about your character,” he said, “based more on your mother's history, I suspect, than on anything you've done. Your unconventional behavior does complicate the situation, I'm afraid. Those who wish to believe the worst see it as confirmation of what they believe.”

“That's as clear as mud,” she said dryly.

He was still trying to think of a way to soften the blow, when her eyes lit up with understanding. “I see. People think I'm engaged in an affair. How vulgar and predictable of them.” She shook her head with disgust. “And how unfair to Mamma. She made one unfortunate slip when she was very young, and no one will allow her to forget it despite years of fidelity to my stepfather.”

“You are rather a vivid reminder, although I would never refer to you as an unfortunate slip.”

She flashed him a grin. “How kind of you. And who is my apparent amour, if I may ask?”

No point in putting it off any longer. “Me.”

She slid to a halt, her feet kicking up a little puff of dust. “That's . . . that's ridiculous. Why would anyone make so insane an assumption?”

“It's not very flattering to either of us, I'll grant you that.” Charles had to repress the instinct to argue with her. Aside from the fact that he would never take an innocent young woman as his mistress, there were a thousand reasons why he and Gillian would never suit—starting with the fact that they would likely kill each other within a month. Although he had to admit that a month with her in his bed would almost be worth it.

She emphatically shook her head, her cheeks flushing a bright red. “It's the most absurd notion I've ever heard. No one would ever believe that someone like you would wish to . . . you know”—she windmilled her arm—“with someone like me.”

He got her walking again. “As I said, I think your mother's history is at the heart of the matter, along with the fact that you and I spend a great deal of time together. If one were inclined to make such a scurrilous assumption, then I am the easiest target.”

“The whole thing is ridiculous,” she huffed.

He'd never seen her so disconcerted. “I'm sorry, my dear. I would have preferred to spare you this knowledge.”

She waved an impatient hand. “I'd like to kill whoever started that rumor, for my mother's sake. And yours. How beastly of anyone to think you would do such a thing. They clearly know nothing about you.”

He'd been infuriated about that too. His friends would never believe him capable of such shabby behavior, but he'd been surprised by how many members of the
ton
apparently did. He supposed that was as much a comment on his arrogance as it was a reflection on them.

“I share your sentiment,” he said. “Not the murderous intent, though. I hope you won't feel the need to commit mayhem in order to defend our reputations.”

“I'd have to kill half the aristocrats in England before it would make a difference, I suspect. But I do want to know who started the rumor. Was it Mr. Stratton?”

“No, surprisingly. He feels genuinely sorry about it, and is remorseful about his own inadvertent part in the affair.”

“Then who did?”

“It doesn't really matter, does it?”

“Of course it matters,” she snapped. “As does the fact that you're so reluctant to tell me. It leads me to conclude only one thing.”

“Which is?”

“That the troublemaker is Lady Letitia.”

Charles had to swallow a curse. The confounded girl was too smart by half.

“Ah, ha!” she exclaimed. “I thought so.”

He grimaced. “It's most unfair, and I wish I could have sheltered you from such ugliness.”

“I cannot say I'm completely surprised. Grandmamma warned me that something like this might surface sooner or later. I suppose that's why she's always harping on about my behavior.”

“Indeed. The more circumspect your behavior, the less likely you are to be a target. And even if rumors do circulate, people with good sense will ignore them—if, that is, you can manage not to give them additional fodder.”

She shook her head. “I could go around dressed in a nun's habit, spending all my time giving alms to the poor, and I suspect many would still believe the worst. In the eyes of the polite world, I'm a child born of sin. That's what I'm supposed to be. That's what I'm supposed to
do
. It's easier for people to be comfortable with their assumptions than it is for them to see the truth.”

Her clear-eyed pragmatism in the face of so much ill will made him want to throttle every last person who'd ever injured her.

“You never told me you held a degree in philosophy,” Charles said, trying to lighten the mood.

“I'm a practical philosopher, sir. I gain knowledge through observation,” she said, giving him a quick smile. “Which is why I'm puzzled by something.”

“And that is?”

“Why does Lady Letitia hate me enough to start such base rumors? I barely know the woman.”

“It's not you she hates,” he said in a grim tone. “It's me.”

Chapter Sixteen

Gillian's narrow, straight brows pulled together in a skeptical frown. “It seemed the opposite was true. In fact, I can't understand why she didn't marry you all those years ago instead of Mr. Stratton. She clearly prefers you.”

“Not the case,” Charles said.

“At the Barrington ball, Lady Letitia attached herself to you like a leech.”

He could feel heat creep up his neck. “That is a remarkably inelegant way to put it. And inaccurate, I might add.”

She shot him an incredulous look. “If you say so. But there is clearly some degree of intimacy between you.”

“There is no intimacy between us, I assure you,” he said in a stern tone.

“It's such a mystery why people think her so wonderful. If you ask me, she's positively horrid. Why is she being so beastly to you?”

“Because I refused to agree with something she wished me to do.”

Gillian seemed to puzzle over his vague statement for several seconds before clarity dawned. “Oh! The flirtatious Lady Letitia wanted to have an affair with you.”

“Ah . . .”

“But if you said no—”

“Of course I said no.” What a wildly inappropriate discussion to have with an innocent maiden, even if that maiden was Gillian.

“Of course you did,” she said in a soothing tone, as if he were a fractious child. “But if that's the case, then why did she go after me? It's laughable to think that I pose any kind of threat to her.”

It wasn't laughable, though. Letitia knew him better than he liked to admit, and she'd clearly picked up on the fact that he had feelings for Gillian—feelings he must keep to himself.

“Revenge is the simplest answer,” Charles said. “Letitia is angry with me, so she did the most effective thing she could think of, which was to attack someone under my protection.”

“What a hypocrite,” Gillian said. “You turned her down, so she accused me of the behavior she wished to engage in herself. But she's the one who broke off your engagement years ago and married someone else. Why is she still trying to hurt you?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Of course it matters. She's trying to smear both our reputations.” Gillian poked him on the bicep. “You owe me an explanation, Leverton. After all, I'm the one labeled as the Doxy Duchess. Perfect Penley can't even begin to compare.”

He sighed. “You're not going to let this drop, are you?”

“I'll pester you until you run shrieking through the fields to get away from me,” she said. “And just think of the gossip that will cause.”

“You really are the most annoying girl.”

“I know I'm a trial. But at least I'm not falling into hysterics over the whole thing, so you've got to give me credit for that.”

He let out a reluctant laugh. “Very well. Do you know how I got my ridiculous nickname?”

She let her gaze trail over him. “It seems quite obvious.”

He couldn't fail to hear the admiring note to her voice or see the warmth in her eyes. The girl was a menace to his sanity, and she probably didn't even know it. “Perfect Penley was the name bestowed upon me by Lady Letitia after I refused to marry her.”

Gillian jerked to a halt again and gaped up at him. “
You
broke it off? I thought a man never broke off a betrothal, at least not honorably. And you would
never
act dishonorably.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” he said, giving her a slight bow.

“It's the truth. Anyone who knows you would agree.”

Her simple, heartfelt assertion meant more to him than the most fulsome compliments. Charles was beginning to discover that Gillian Dryden's plainly stated admiration held a powerful allure, one much too disturbing to his peace of mind. “I'm honored by your trust and confidence, Miss Dryden.”

“Now that we've engaged in an exchange of compliments, perhaps we can return to the subject at hand—why you broke it off. What went wrong?”

“It was wrong from the beginning. Letitia never truly wanted to marry me. She wanted to be a duchess and a leader of the
ton
, and she saw me as a means to that end.”

Gillian pursed her lips and let out a long, low whistle. “And you fell for that old gambit? You don't seem the type.”

“Thank you for that,” he said sarcastically. “But you might be a tad more charitable if you knew that I was barely twenty years old. Letitia was two years older and already an experienced young woman.” Very experienced, as he was to find out. “And may I point out that young ladies do not whistle.”

“Duly noted, sir. So, Lady Letitia got her hooks into you, which is unfortunate. But why would that even matter? Aristocrats often marry for reasons of status and fortune. Love doesn't seem to enter into it, more often than not. After all, you're all trying to marry me off, regardless of whether I'm in love with the poor fellow.”

“No one would force you to marry anyone you didn't care for.” Charles wouldn't stand for it. In fact, he was beginning to think that he wouldn't stand for her marrying anyone.

She grimaced in sympathy. “Ah, you were in love with her. Sorry. Did she tell you she loved you back?”

“May I just say that this is one of the most embarrassing conversations I've ever had?” he said.

“You may, but I'd still like you to answer the question.”

Charles gazed up at the sky as he wrestled his exasperation under control. “Fine. Yes, she did say she loved me. I was fool enough to believe it, even though I was warned.”

“Who warned you?”

“My father.” The old fellow had considered Letitia grasping and vulgar. He had been correct, of course, but Charles had been too besotted to see it. He and his father had fought mightily over her, with severe consequences for both of them. “Unfortunately, I didn't listen to him.”

“Young people rarely listen to their parents, especially when they think they're in love.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And you know this how?”

Gillian ducked her head. “Just through general observation.”

That was obviously a lie, but he let it pass—even though it just about killed him to do so.

“When did you find out that Lady Letitia didn't love you?” she asked.

He chewed over the gristly memory in silence for a few moments. “When I discovered her in a compromising position with my best friend.”

“Hell and damnation,” she murmured.

For once, he didn't feel inclined to correct her.

“Mr. Stratton?” she guessed.

He nodded. “Letitia had strong feelings for him.”

“I should certainly hope so, since she shagged him.”

Charles shot her a frown. “Must I really point out that, although perfectly accurate, your language is inappropriate to a lady of your standing?”

“I apologize. But I'd like to murder them for hurting you like that,” she said with a quite adorable growl. “What cads, the pair of them. I only wish I'd punched Stratton instead of Lord Andover.”

He couldn't hold back a rueful smile. “Your support overwhelms me. In any event, I made it clear to Lady Letitia that I would not marry her, since her affections lay elsewhere.”

“I'll wager she wasn't happy about that,” Gillian said.

“She was not.”

“How did you get her to agree to break it off? She could have simply refused, and you would have had to ruin her in order to salvage your own reputation.” She flicked her hand, as if waving away a noxious insect. “But of course you would never do that, which she must have known.”

He found Gillian's unquestioning faith in him humbling. “The details are unimportant. Suffice it to say that the three of us reached an agreement. In order to preserve her reputation, we agreed that she would be the one to formally break the betrothal, citing that she had changed her mind and wished to marry Stratton.”

“That was awfully decent of you,” Gillian said earnestly, hugging his arm. “After all, it didn't cast you in a very good light.”

“It's easier for men to recover from that sort of hit.”

She sighed. “Don't I know it. But what does all this have to do with your nickname?”

“That was Letitia's revenge. She told her friends that I was so perfectly correct and boring that she would have gone mad if she'd married me. She took to calling me Perfect Penley, the man who was going to drive her perfectly insane.”

“What a shrew. But you seem to have turned that around. If anything, it now seems to be a compliment.”

“In the aftermath, I tried to conduct myself as a gentleman, hoping the poison from the insult would soon drain away. It turned out I was right.”

“Hmm, I don't think that'll work with the Doxy Duchess.” She didn't sound particularly bothered by the notion.

“You're missing the point. No sensible person responds to deliberate and juvenile attempts to provoke.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “A lesson you might try learning.”

She scrunched her nose up. “The name suits you. You
are
perfect.”

“I wish that were the case.”

“Really? I can't imagine why anyone would want to be perfect. It would be too much work.”

“I feel relatively confident you needn't worry about that.”

Gillian choked out a laugh. “That was a truly splendid insult, Leverton. Well done.”

“I try not to make a habit of it, but you seem to bring out the worst in me.”

She stopped and gave him an extravagant bow, right in the middle of the dusty country lane. It was absurd and utterly charming. “Then my work here is done.”

“You are a ridiculous child,” he said, smiling at her. “Come, the chapel is just ahead.” He nodded toward a quaint seventeenth-century building a few hundred yards down the lane.

“It looks very pretty,” she said politely. “I'm sure I'll enjoy it very much.”

“I doubt it, but I will appreciate the effort.”

Gillian cast him a sideways glance. “May I ask you another question?”

“That depends on the topic.”

“It's about the smugglers. Is there anything afoot to recover our jewels?”

Gillian was dogged, if nothing else. “I rode into Skegness yesterday to discuss with the excise officer what could be done. Unfortunately, there's more than one gang operating in the area, which makes it difficult to identify who attacked us. Although the officer promised to do his best, I think you must resign yourself to the loss.”

“But the smugglers must be local. Could we not launch an investigation ourselves? Speak to people in the village and in the closest town? Surely they will know something.”

“If they do, they're not going to talk to me about it.” A few minutes in the village pub the other day had put the boots to that idea. Everyone had clammed up as soon as he'd walked through the door.

“But—”

“Scunthorpe and I also discussed the issue at some length. He's been managing Fenfield for more than five years and knows the area extremely well. According to him, runs across Penley lands are rare. It was pure bad luck that we happened to stumble across one the other night, and it's unlikely the free traders will make the same mistake again. I suspect it's the end of the matter.”

She stalked along beside him, her head tipped down, her face mostly hidden by the brim of her bonnet. Charles had no doubt she was scowling up a storm.

“I understand,” she said, “but I simply can't accept that our jewels are forever lost.”

He reached down and took her hand. She jerked a bit, but then her fingers closed around his.

“Gillian, I deeply regret that you lost something precious to you,” he said quietly. “And I wish I had better news. But I won't lie to you. The jewels are likely already in Lincoln, or even in London, where they will be broken up and pawned. I'm sorry.”

She clutched his hand like a child, staring up at him. Her amber-colored eyes glittered with anger, but also a sadness that tugged at his heart.

“They took something that can't be replaced, and they must answer for that,” she said in a tight voice. “I must do something about it.”

“Not you,” he said. “Me. I will do my very best to run those men to ground, but you must promise that you will not do something foolish.”

She opened her mouth to object, but he headed her off. “No, Gillian. I will take care of this. You have my word.”

Defiance flickered in her gaze, but then she arranged her winsome features into a polite smile. “Of course, sir. Whatever you say. Now, shall we go look at that chapel?”

Her sudden acquiescence was as artificial as the silk flowers on her bonnet. Clearly, she would bear close watching over the next few weeks.

It occurred to him, and with more than a little dismay, that there were worse ways to spend his time than keeping an eye on Gillian Dryden.

* * *

“Well done, Miss Dryden,” enthused Mr. Hurdly, peering down the range at the target. “It's the first bull's-eye of the afternoon!”

Gillian lowered her bow, critically inspecting her shot. “Thank you, but I just barely nicked the edge.”

“Dear me,” said Miss Farrow. “You shoot as well as the men, which is certainly unusual. I cannot imagine how you do it, especially with such a big bow.” Her tone was not one of admiration.

“It's truly not that difficult,” Gillian said. “Would you like me to show you?” When she gave Miss Farrow a toothy smile, the young woman responded with a haughty lift of the brow. Well, at least Miss Farrow wasn't avoiding her.