The Birthday Scandal (39 page)

Denial was on the tip of Emily’s tongue—how utterly silly it was to think that Lucien would sneak away with Chloe, of all people—until she remembered the way he had stared at the girl, and how he had stumbled through a dance as though he had something much more important on his mind. Perhaps he still thought he could talk sense into her.

Lancaster nodded. “I see you understand exactly what I mean.”

“Chloe left the ball quite a long time ago.”

“That’s why I thought it best, for the sake of Miss Fletcher’s reputation, to come to you rather than to her mother, or to Chiswick.”

Emily shivered at the idea of her father finding Lucien and Chloe together—no matter how innocent the circumstances.

“If you are the one to find them,” Lancaster went on, “the incident can still be kept quiet. But if anyone else were to stumble across their assignation…”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll go and make a discreet search.”

His brow wrinkled. “Do you think it wise to go alone? With two of us, the search would go faster.”

Emily hesitated, then peeked around the pillar at the dancers. No one seemed to have missed her. “We can go out this way and through a back corridor to the new wing.”

“Lead the way,” Lancaster said.

She quickly checked each room along the corridor, with little hope of finding the wayward couple; this area was too close to the crowd to be truly private. In the new wing of the castle, she methodically worked her way from room to room down one side of the central hall while Lancaster took the other. Just as she was beginning to fear that Lucien might have completely lost his mind and taken Chloe upstairs for a more private chat, Lancaster beckoned to her from outside the door of the smoking room.

Emily turned the knob as quietly as she could. With any luck, she’d be inside with the door closed before there was any outcry.

The room was dim, and she paused just inside the door to let her eyes adjust as well as to listen for telltale noises. But the room felt empty.

Lancaster had followed her in. Puzzled, Emily said, “What made you think they were here?”

“I didn’t,” he said quietly. “But now
you’re
here.”

She took a quick step toward the door, but he was on guard, and he stretched an arm around her and dragged her against him. Unable to keep her footing, she hung off balance, pressed against him so intimately that she was afraid to take a breath.

He chuckled and lifted her slightly off her feet. His erection nestled into the hollow between her legs, held away only by the thin gauze of her skirt and the satin of his knee breeches. “But you mustn’t worry, Lady Emily,” he whispered against her ear. “Just as soon as I’m done, I’ll marry you.”

As the two men loomed over them, Chloe screeched in horror.

Lucien said, as much to himself as to her, “It’ll be all right. Everything will be all right.”

She managed to get her voice back. “Oh? And just
how
is everything going to be all right?”

As Sir George Fletcher alternately sputtered and yelled, Lucien grew ever more certain that Chloe’s headache was more than a convenient fiction, for his own skull was pounding.

The curious thing was that the Earl of Chiswick hadn’t said a word after that flippant greeting. Which was in no way a relief, for—in Lucien’s experience—silence only made Chiswick more deadly.

Or had that strange old gossip Lady Stone been right about this being a love match…at least on the earl’s side? Was it possible Chiswick was truly hurt by the idea that his prospective bride would rather ruin herself by running away than go through with the wedding?

No, Lucien couldn’t believe that—and it didn’t matter much, anyway. If the earl felt such fondness for Chloe, why hadn’t he tried to win her over? Why hadn’t he wooed her, instead of dealing only with her father? Chiswick had lost his opportunity; it was time for someone else to step in.

“I am shocked,” Sir George ranted. “
Shocked
to find my daughter entirely alone with a man in compromising circumstances—”

Lucien cleared his throat, loudly.

“Young lady, your mother is having hysterics all over the castle at finding you gone.”

Lucien said, “Sir—”

“I don’t suppose the earl here would have you after this, unless I were to serve up your head on a platter. And believe me, miss, when I say I am tempted!”

Lucien raised his voice. “Sir George!”

“The only good thing I can say about your judgment is that at least you had enough sense not to elope with that fortune-hunting soldier I forbade you to ever see or communicate with again!”

Lucien stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled, and Chloe clapped her hands over her ears. Sir George stumbled into a confused silence.

The Earl of Chiswick put one foot up on a bench, leaned his elbow on his knee, and—seeming completely at ease—said, “I prefer not to know where you learned to do that, Hartford. I gather you have something to say?”

“I do.” Lucien deliberately stepped between the two men and Chloe, blocking their path to her. “You can stop browbeating right now, both of you. Chloe is not going to become a countess.”

“Certain of that, are you?” Chiswick murmured.

Sir George brightened. “My lord, do you mean you would still—?”

Lucien cut across him. “She will absolutely not marry you, Father. And let’s not pretend that this scandal doesn’t bother you. If Lady Fletcher is having hysterics in the castle—”

“Only quiet ones.” Chiswick didn’t move, but somehow his posture eased. “However, you suppose correctly, Hartford. Miss Fletcher may consider herself entirely free.”

Chloe plopped down on the bench as though her knees had given way.

Sir George looked downcast for a moment, and then his face hardened again. “free? I don’t think so. After this behavior, my girl, you have to marry someone, and you’ll be lucky if even the stable boy will have you!”

“She doesn’t,” Lucien said calmly. “If you were to say that you have been with her the entire time, Sir George, no one would dare contradict you. But if she wants to marry…” Lucien turned to face Chloe. “It would be my honor to wed her myself.”

Maxwell had signed his name—that bold, black, arrogant slash of a name—across three lines on Isabel’s dance card. He had claimed three dances—the maximum that any gentleman, even a husband, could request of a lady in a single evening.

The first, the country dance which opened the ball, had been unavoidable—but at least in the swirling mass of dancers, changing partners every minute or two, she could pretend not to be dancing with him at all.

But the next he had claimed would be a waltz. Isabel did not know if she could bear to swirl around the floor in his arms, on display for the world. Once—during their courtship—she had enjoyed waltzing with him. But now…

What if Maxwell were to treat the dance as some kind of seduction?—which of course he would. To a man who could turn a thorny plant in a conservatory—or even a plateful of kidneys in a breakfast room full of people—into a lovemaking tool, a waltz would be no challenge whatever.

He would enjoy holding her, watching her, tantalizing her, reminding her of intimacies shared. But for her, the dance would be torment. She could not bear being face-to-face with him for endless minutes, looking into his eyes, unable to breathe a word about the subject uppermost in her mind for fear someone might overhear or the ever-vigilant gossips in the crowd might notice that Lady Maxwell was behaving strangely.

She would have to make an excuse—even if it required pretending to sprain her ankle. But she would not pretend any longer than she must. As soon as the ball was over and they were alone, Isabel would bring this game of his to an end—she would challenge him about Miss Lester and her child.

She wondered how Maxwell would act when he found out she knew. He might deny it all and try to bluff his way through. Or he might argue that what had happened in his past had nothing to do with his wife. Or he might actually be relieved to have it out in the open; since he had already admitted to Elspeth Murdoch that he was responsible, perhaps he felt guilty enough to tell his wife as well. He might even expect that a confession would be followed automatically by understanding and forgiveness.

If that was the case, Maxwell would soon learn differently—for understanding and forgiveness were hard to find in a heart that felt like a lump of lead.

The silence in the folly was so thick that Lucien could barely breathe. Still, asserting himself to his father felt good. What was it Chloe had told him, long ago?
No wonder your father gives you no respect, if you never stand up to him.
She might have been right.

Sir George looked suspicious. “I can’t allow the match. Not unless you’re able to show me that you can take care of her.”

“I assure you I can do better than the stable boy could,” Lucien said cheerfully.

“But no better than that soldier fellow. What do you have of your own, anyway? Nothing, I wager, that doesn’t depend on your father’s goodwill.”

Lucien’s sense of well-being vanished with a pop, for Sir George was right. Lucien’s allowance was hardly large enough for him alone; it couldn’t be stretched to support a wife. And he was dependent on his father even for that much. Now that he’d stolen the earl’s bride…

“Damnation,” he said.

“I wondered how long it would take for the drawbacks to strike home,” the earl murmured. “And speaking of home, and your plans to return to Chiswick—where does this leave us?”

Lucien’s head swam. He’d no doubt made a mull of that possibility, too. If he was no longer welcome at Chiswick, if the job of learning to manage the estate was no longer open to him…he had no idea what he would do.

He saw a gleam of anticipation in Chiswick’s eyes. What was it his father expected of him now? Maybe the mess could still be salvaged, if Lucien apologized. Begged. Groveled. Gave up Chloe…

No—never that.

Lucien squared his shoulders and said, “I am still your heir, Father, and I do not believe you wish to see the estate suffer through my ignorance. But if you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me, then I must ask Chloe for her patience while I establish myself. I can learn estate management elsewhere—on some other gentleman’s land, as a steward or…”

Chiswick snorted. “No one else would teach you properly.”

Lucien held his breath.

“I have conditions,” Chiswick said quietly.

“So do I,” Lucien countered.

“Yes, yes—larger allowance, freedom to come and go.”

“No, Father. The most important condition is that my wife be treated well.”

“Are you going to have a wife, Hartford?”

“If she’ll accept me. Surely you cannot object, Father. If you considered Chloe an eligible bride for you, then she is more than good enough for me.”

After a long pause, Chiswick said, “It appears we have a great deal to talk about tomorrow, Hartford—but nothing, I think, that we cannot negotiate. Sir George, you may announce a betrothal.”

Triumphant, Lucien turned to smile at Chloe. She looked lost and scared, and remorse rushed over him. “I’m sorry, my dear. We’re doing everything backward, it seems—but will you marry me?”