The Birthday Scandal (16 page)

“And what do you think?”

Lucien snorted. “
Complaisant
isn’t the word I’d have chosen. You should have heard the way she dressed me down yesterday, when all I’d said was…” He caught Gavin eying him. “I might as well tell you the truth, since it’s pretty clear you’re not of a mind to help us out. Chloe Fletcher is a termagant, and if our father ends up married to her, the match will be everything he deserves.”

“You won’t attempt to seduce her yourself?”

“And end up caught in parson’s mousetrap with that shrew if anything went wrong? Hardly.”

“You think it would be all right for me to take that chance, but not for you.”

“You’re older,” Lucien said reasonably. “Much more ready to settle down. Besides, everyone thinks she’d make a good bride for you.”

“I’m not that much older than you. I’m also not in such a hurry as you’d like to think, and when the time comes, I plan to do my own choosing.”

“I imagine Uncle Josiah will have something to say about that.”

“We’ll see. Besides, you’re the one who said the scheme needn’t go so far as actual seduction, so you can carry out the plan yourself. You must only cause her to be so unhappy with the prospect of the earl that she makes a misstep and shows him the sharp side of her tongue. That must be easy enough—I doubt he’s felt it necessary to woo her with sweet words. You can do that much without compromising yourself.”

Lucien was not convinced, for the plan was seriously flawed. Gavin’s lack of experience with the females of the
ton—
and their mothers—was showing. Someone should take the fellow in hand before he set foot in London, just to keep him safe from himself. Without some serious guidance, Athstone would have acquired a marchioness—or rather, some woman would have acquired
him
—before he recognized what was happening.

But Gavin’s marital arrangements were a matter for another discussion; Lucien would be well advised to keep his attention on their current quandary instead. The trouble was that every other plan that had been brought forward to separate the Earl of Chiswick from his intended bride seemed just as seriously flawed as the one Gavin had proposed, as well as difficult to put into operation. At least this scheme was feasible.

Very well—he’d give it a try. He would sympathize, taking Chloe’s side in any difference of opinion. He would encourage her to openly share her doubts and fears, and agree with them. Hell, he’d toadeat her if it would accomplish the purpose—if only she didn’t set him on fire or push him into the nearest fountain the moment he showed his face.

At least this new resolution meant he could face the evening with something less than complete dread. He even summoned up a smile as they were ushered into the Fletchers’ drawing room.

Before Lucien could put his plan into effect, however, Chloe Fletcher rose from her seat next to her mother and made a severe, correct little curtsey to the group as she greeted each one by name. “I am pleased to see you again, Lord Hartford.” She had left him to the last, and her voice was colorless. Her eyes met his without a hint of the fervor she had shown on the previous day.

Her mother beamed approval.

Lucien was alarmed. He didn’t know how her parents could have learned about her little temper spasm in the garden—had a trusted servant listened on the other side of the hedge when she ripped up at him?—but it seemed she had been sternly rebuked. What had they done to her? Beaten her? Locked her in her room until she yielded? Limited her to bread and water?

While Lucien was absorbed in observing Chloe, Sir George Fletcher had greeted the rest of the party, but finally he advanced on Lucien, beaming. “Hartford—so sorry to miss you yesterday when you called. But you’ll forgive me for being from home, yes? As they say, we’ll all be part of the family soon, so—”

Lady Fletcher went rigid. “Sir George!” she hissed.

The big bluff red-faced man seemed to wilt, and Lucien wondered if Chloe’s father, too, would find himself on a bread-and-water regimen for displeasing Lady Fletcher.

He was still wondering when the Fletchers’ butler announced dinner. As the couples paired off in order of rank, he found himself offering his arm to Chloe to escort her into the dining room. He supposed he should have expected to end up with her, for the room was full of titles more exalted than his. Come to think of it, the only men who were lower in rank than Lucien were Emily’s Mr. Lancaster and their host. And Chloe, as the mere daughter of a baronet, was barely more significant than her mother’s companion—who ended up seated on Lucien’s other side.

If this dinner had been last night, Lucien reflected, he’d have been annoyed at finding himself stuck with Chloe throughout the evening. But this was the perfect opportunity to put his new plan—well, Gavin’s plan—into effect. Their respective unimportance placed them near the center of the table, as far as they could possibly be from Lady Fletcher and Sir George, and from Chiswick, who was seated next to their hostess. With no possibility of being overheard by their respective parents, Lucien would have a couple of hours to plant subtle suggestions about how utterly impossible it would be for Chloe to live in amity with the Earl of Chiswick and how—title or not—she should fee from his offer of marriage.

Subtle
, he reminded himself. The trouble was, now that the opportunity presented itself, he couldn’t think of a thing to say that might convince her.

“If you plan to treat me to another lecture about why I am not ft to be a countess, Lord Hartford, I beg you will spare yourself the effort,” she said quietly as she lifted her spoon to sample the first course.

Lucien turned to stare at her. “Because you’re determined to wear a coronet and nothing will change your mind?”

Her eyes sparkled—with defiance, he thought. So they hadn’t crushed her spirit after all. Then he realized the gleam was caused by candlelight refecting against—tears? Was Chloe Fletcher crying?

“Here, now,” he said hastily. “None of that.”

She was staring at her spoon as if she’d never seen one before, and she had caught her lower lip between her teeth—quite hard, too, he suspected. He wanted to jab her to make her stop. He leaned forward, so his body would block Lady Fletcher’s view of her daughter.

“It wasn’t my intention to scold you, anyway,” he said. “Just to make you understand how miserable you’d be if you married him.”

Chloe’s eyes widened, making her triangular face look even more feline. She was looking at him so intently that Lucien knew exactly how a mouse felt in the moment before the cat pounced.

He hurried on. “What I mean is, being a countess isn’t all sunshine and daisies—not when the earl is Chiswick.”

She blinked, finally. “That is why you oppose the match? Your concern for
me
?”

He nodded, but honesty forced him to go on. “It’s not the only argument, of course. Stands to reason it couldn’t be, for I barely know you.”

“What are your other grounds?”

“My father would look a doddering old fool. And— well… I’d just as soon not have a raft of younger brothers and sisters toddling around.”

“Brothers and sisters who would eventually need to be established with professions and dowries, of course. I am grateful for your honesty, Lord Hartford. Perhaps…”

The footmen began serving the next course and Lady Fletcher’s companion, seated on his other side, claimed Lucien’s attention. Chloe turned to Mr. Lancaster, leaving Lucien wondering exactly what she had started to tell him. He found himself answering the companion almost at random as he tried to eavesdrop on Chloe instead.

By the time the conversation turned again, Chloe had herself well in hand once more, with no evidence of tears. In fact, she looked quite cheerful.

Lucien was startled; he hadn’t thought Lancaster the sort of man a young female would find so amusing. In fact, Lancaster had been no surprise at all—he appeared to be exactly the type of dull stick that Lucien would have expected their father to try to match up with Emily after the debacle of Philip Rivington, just because he was such a contrast.

Lucien would have sworn the man couldn’t hold an original notion in his head. Yet Chloe seemed to have enjoyed their conversation—and a moment later, he heard Emily’s light laugh as Lancaster shifted his attention once more to her. What the devil was the man’s attraction? If
Emily
was flirting with him…

Chloe frowned a little, as if she found the mere sight of Lucien sobering. “It occurs to me, Lord Hartford, that you are my best opportunity.” Her tone was brisk but low.

Lucien felt as if he’d been stabbed in the back with an icicle. No, a whole row of them—for the chill arched the length of his spine. When a young woman spoke of a gentleman as an
opportunity
, there was only one thing she could mean. He could hear bells—wedding bells—ringing in his ears. “Uh…” His voice didn’t seem to work right. “If you have in mind to substitute me for my father…”

“Oh, don’t be such a clodpole. I’m not interested in you—for yourself at least. But I do require assistance, and in that regard you
might
be useful.”

Lucien cut a bite from his slice of beef, just to have something else to look at, and let irony creep into his voice. “What exactly do you want me to help you with, Miss Fletcher?”

“It is hardly something I can discuss in detail here.” She shot a meaningful look past him at the companion and on toward her mother. “I ride early every morning. It is the only time when I am entirely free to come and go—so long as I stay on my father’s land. Meet me as though by accident, tomorrow morning at eight, in the linden grove that marks the boundary between Mallowan and Weybridge. You know where it is?”

“Of course,” he said coolly. “But—”

She gave a little shake of her head, as though bemoaning his lack of understanding. “If you feel in need of a chaperone, I’ll ask a groom to accompany me. But I would prefer not to, so we may speak alone.”

All the sympathy he’d felt for her vanished under a wave of aggravation. First she’d insulted him—since his salad days, Lucien had been considered a handy man to have around in a squabble, so her observation that he
might
be useful struck him as faint praise indeed. Then for her to imply that a man like Lucien Arden needed protection from a slip of a girl like her—!

“Do stop sputtering, Lord Hartford. You’ll be perfectly safe from my wiles.” Chloe sipped her wine and added, so softly that Lucien wasn’t certain he’d heard her correctly, “Just as long as you do what I want.”

After dinner, Lady Fletcher suggested that the company stroll through her conservatory. “To view my orchids, you know,” she murmured. “I have a new and quite unusual specimen, and I should like your opinion of it, Lord Chiswick. But I must not hurry you, gentlemen. Take your time, and join us at your leisure.”

Isabel wanted to chime in and encourage the gentlemen to sit over their port until dawn—for if they stayed in the dining room drinking, she wouldn’t have to deal with Maxwell. Even if she had to listen to Lady Fletcher for the rest of a long evening, the trade seemed to her well worth the cost.

As she meekly followed their hostess out of the dining room, relief surged over her. She’d have a few minutes—an hour if she were lucky—without Maxwell’s gaze fitting over her every time he turned his head. It seemed to Isabel that throughout dinner, he’d looked her way a great deal more than was suitable for a gentleman who was supposed to be paying full attention to his dinner partners.

Not that he’d seemed to be enjoying the sight of her, any more than she had liked being looked at. She hadn’t expected smiles, of course—but the cool appraisal had puzzled her a little.

Emily linked her arm in Isabel’s and said softly, “Since when is our father an authority to be consulted about orchids? The last I knew, the greenhouses at Chiswick grew mainly hothouse grapes.”

“He may have a new pastime.”

“Or Lady Fletcher is determined to defer to him on all matters. I must warn you—if she starts to consult him about new draperies for her drawing room, I shall not be responsible for what I say.”

Isabel was barely listening. The cool air of the hallway washed over her, clearing her head, and the farther she got away from Maxwell the easier it was to laugh at her own foolishness. It must have been her imagination hinting that he was looking at her in a particularly meaningful way. She’d been sitting directly across the table from him; how could he have avoided looking in her direction now and then?

The fact was that the entire day had gone by without a word passing between them—or at least, not a word that couldn’t have been overheard by the entire household without embarrassment. Of course, he
had
gone out with her father and a pair of shotguns and spent most of the day away from the castle.

Almost as though he had wanted to avoid her—and though that possibility did not bother her in the least, it did make her curious.

She did not truly remember when he had left her bed, though she had a vague sense that it had not been long after he had finished with her. She had been too stunned, too exhausted, to calculate the time—but this morning she had noted that the sheets had not been crumpled except around her. So though she had slept, it seemed he had not.