The Cheer in Charming an Earl (The Naughty Girls) (4 page)

“We
were
told you’ll likely recover from your ordeal,” Mr. de Winter said, “though your head may ache for some time yet. The physician en route may be delayed by the storm.”

She pressed her lips together and did her best not to cry. What a frightful mess. Even the thought of her brother’s carriage reduced to a tangle was enough to catch a sob into her throat, and she’d
meant
for it to be wrecked!

“The doctor is only a precaution,” Grantham explained quickly, as if pinning her distress on her injury. “No real damage has been done, except to my kitchens. And I did want for a reason to modernize.”

The other man smiled faintly. Mr. de Winter was a handsome fellow, too, taller than Grantham but with a dangerous edge his dark blue superfine couldn’t conceal. “Your optimism is a model to us all, Chelford.”

Grantham shot his friend an exasperated look. Then he cleared his throat. “Well, I think that will be all for now, Miss—?”

He
couldn’t
leave, not yet. She’d dreamed of this introduction for far too long to have it ruined by her mistake. Nevertheless, when she opened her mouth to make a coquettish remark all that came out was, “Miss Elinor Conley. But please, my lord, tell me what has happened to your kitchens?” Gingerly, she touched the bandage again. At least her head didn’t pain her.

He stepped forward. Tobacco smoke, brandy and mint enveloped her again. “Nothing bricks and mortar can’t fix. I’d prefer you rest here rather than worry yourself over the state of my house.”

“Here?” she asked timidly. At Chelford? Please, let that part of her scheme be unspoiled.

“Until the snow lets up, yes. Though I must warn you, my hospitality will be stretched thin, what with my kitchens in disarray. I hope you like soup?” He smiled wanly.

She nodded emphatically. “I adore it.”

De Winter’s eyes narrowed and she wiped the overt eagerness from her face. Grantham didn’t seem to notice. “Good. Your meals will be brought to your bedside, as well as anything additional you require. Simply say the word and it will be delivered to you.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, my lord. I am perfectly able to leave my room—”

“Don’t,” both men said at the same time. They traded a look that made her feel like an imposition that must be managed. But she couldn’t be, not when Grantham had spoken so whimsically of her before.

“You’ll remain here,” he said, looking back to her. “If you find it impossible to stretch your legs in this little room, then you may traipse the corridor. No farther.”

She blinked. That hadn’t been said whimsically at all. And she couldn’t leave her bedchamber? That was a terrible blow to her strategy.

“I’m well enough to go down to dinner, though, don’t you think?” she tried. “I feel quite the thing, now that I’ve got my bearings. And it
is
Christmas Eve.” She couldn’t waste a moment in her room. If she couldn’t see Grantham, then he couldn’t fall in love with her. How many days before her absence from Aunt Mildred’s was discovered?

Grantham swallowed so thickly, he grimaced. “I simply cannot permit it, though you do have my sympathies. Perhaps we should all say a prayer of thanks that you and your driver were not killed, and assume He did not intend for you to miss Christmas permanently. There will be others.”

As Grantham’s words sank in, Elinor stared at the white cotton sheet swaddling her legs.
Permanently.
She’d never dreamed a broken carriage wheel could result in anything but an incapacitated vehicle. Had they really almost been killed?

“Thank you, my lord,” she whispered. “I
am
glad we are here at all.”

“Good.” The gruffly uttered word caused her to look sideways at him. He was as pale as the sheets drawn up around her. “I’ll return shortly, Miss Conley. Do try to get some rest.”

As he and Mr. de Winter turned to leave, she felt Lord Chelford pull away from her, and her belly tightened. Withdrawing was precisely the opposite of what she desired from him.

He’d seemed so warm at first. What had gone wrong?

GRANTHAM RETURNED to the drawing room. His guests had resumed their bacchanalia, and now that he’d had a breath of fresh air, the stench of liquor and smoke wafting through the room almost overpowered him. He paused just inside the door. The thought of entering the hazy chamber physically repulsed him.

De Winter stopped at his back. “They don’t bite,” he murmured low enough for only Grantham to hear.

“Mariah does.” Grantham clapped his hands together to draw the attention of his guests. “My dear friends,” he said loudly, “while I do realize retiring to Chelford has become our annual tradition, and you were each hoping to stay for the Twelve Days of Christmas, it is with heartfelt regret that I must withdraw my invitation. As soon as the storm passes, you must
leave
.” He might have delivered that last with a bit more relish than necessary.

“I say,” protested Lord Scotherby, “my wife won’t have me back
now
. I’ll have to adjourn to my hunting box until the Season starts.”

“Agreed!” Mr. Tewseybury chimed. “This is very badly done of you, Chelford. I haven’t let my rooms in Town yet. I have nowhere to go.”

Lord Steepleton crossed his arms and turned his narrow nose into the air. “How disagreeable of you, Chelford. Surely your servants can manage to cook over an open fire.”

Mariah Fawcett, Becky Bennett, and three of their lightskirt friends whom Grantham didn’t know by name offered him similar looks of annoyance. “Where will
we
go?” the blonde who’d been fondling him half an hour ago asked. Her lips pouted prettily.

“Anywhere we like. We were paid at the start.” Mariah sat back against the couch as if entrenching herself. “I, for one, won’t return a shilling.”

Scotherby gave her a bored once-over. “Enjoy your little mutiny, Mariah, but don’t think I intend to leave without you. I’ve never been one to give up perfectly good coin for no reason.”

She didn’t look as pleased by his reproof as she had at the thought of keeping money she hadn’t earned. Nevertheless, she said nothing. Scotherby had been her protector for years, and she knew better than to argue with the man who kept her in splendor.

Lord Steepleton’s arms were still crossed over his wiry frame. “Where we go is irrelevant. The real question is: why does Chelford want us to leave?”

“Yes, Chelford,” de Winter drawled unhelpfully, “has our company gone stale?”

“You know it has,” Grantham replied through his teeth. Then he opened his arms to the room. “The fact is my kitchens won’t be repaired for weeks. It will be a terrible inconvenience to you to lack hot meals. Is it stew you want? Gruel? Mrs. Calloway is known for a mean porridge. Truly, I have nothing to offer you but slops and cereals.”

Lord Steepleton narrowed his eyes. “Whose carriage crashed? I think
that
is the question we ought to be asking.”

Mariah perked up. As did Becky, who twirled one of her blonde curls thoughtfully. “Indeed, it seems as though we’re being displaced by a mystery person. If it were a man, wouldn’t he simply be welcome to join our numbers?” She leaned toward Mariah, placing her hand on Mr. Tewseybury’s knee as she did so. “It must be a
lady
.”

“She’s not a lady,” Grantham bit out before he could stop himself. He hadn’t meant to give away her sex at all. “She
is
respectable, however, and I won’t be the one to ruin her reputation. For all I know, she’s the vicar’s daughter. I don’t want her fall from grace on my head.”

Given her resemblance to an angel, he wouldn’t be surprised, really, if she were the vicar’s daughter. He’d never set foot inside the nearby church, so how was he to know?

Scotherby and Steepleton shivered at the idea of such innocence among them. Then Steepleton went to the sideboard and began pouring fresh snifters of brandy for everyone. “In any case, it seems much more reasonable for you to remove her from the premises, rather than us,” he observed without turning from his task. “There is only one of her.”

Tewsey leaned to look at Steepleton over the back of the couch. “Perhaps Chelford doesn’t want her gone.” He glanced at Grantham. “You’re what, almost thirty years of age? Time to take a wife.”

It was the Cyprians’ turn to shiver. Strangely, Grantham didn’t. As recently as an hour ago, he hadn’t intended to put an end to his bachelor status anytime soon. But Miss Conley…

She was in his protective care, was what she was. Not ripe for the picking.

Mariah pretended to examine her long fingernails. “Chelford can’t marry yet. I haven’t tupped him.”

Everyone tittered except Grantham and Scotherby. “If you want to court the mystery woman,” her protector said to Grantham, “don’t do it under your roof. If you woo her and then find you don’t suit, she’ll already have unpacked her trunks and made herself quite comfortable. How will you show her the underside of your boot then?”

Grantham put up his palms to stop his friend right there. “I
can’t
make her leave. She’s wounded, you pretty sots, and it’s snowing. She’s not a succubus. I’m not hiding her identity from you. If anything, I’m hiding
you
from
her
.” Although, now that he considered it, it really wouldn’t do for them to know her name. They might spread it about Town, and where would Miss Conley be then?

Scotherby appeared offended. “
I
have nothing to be ashamed of. And Mariah, well, Mrs. Fawcett is a widow. Aren’t you?”

She smiled slyly. “I am whatever my lord desires me to be.”

Grantham tried not to picture that little masquerade too thoroughly. “You can’t claim you are
all
respectable.” The three Cyprians whose names escaped him looked particularly indecent. Becky Bennett had once been a schoolteacher, and continued to look the part. But the others…

He was certain he could see the blonde’s nipple from here.

“Isn’t it Christmas Eve?” that woman said. “I feel sad for her being sealed away on this night, of all nights. Is that what you mean to do to her? Keep her locked in? Poor thing.”

“Yes, be a sport, Chelford,” de Winter murmured behind him. “It’s
Christmas.
”

Grantham spun around. “You know she can’t be seen here. By them.”

De Winter lifted a brow. “They’ll seek her out on their own. Then what will you do?”

Blast these meddlesome friends of his. Grantham turned on his heel. “Is this what you want?” he asked them. “To give up your party in favor of pretending to be the reputable creatures you aren’t? Because I won’t present her to a bunch of lightskirts and dissolutes.”

His friends traded looks of intrigue. The dark-haired Cyprian who’d so far kept silent shrugged. “Secret flirtations, stolen kisses, concealed identities… It does sound delicious.”

He could have groaned with frustration. “Either the dalliances stop now, or she stays in her room. There will be no clandestine activities or degeneration of any sort that she might witness.”

He received identical looks of perfect innocence.

“Chelford!” Mariah chastised him when he pulled a face. “Of course we will end our party for her. Go, now, and give her the good news. Christmas at Chelford is not to be missed, not by anyone.”

“Not even a bunch of lightskirts and dissolutes,” the dark-haired beauty murmured.

Grantham felt a pang of remorse for his hasty appellations. Just a pang, mind, as he was entirely in the right. “A game of respectability now, and when the snow melts, you’ll leave?” he verified skeptically.

Steepleton rolled his eyes. “We said nothing of the sort, but never mind it. By that time, you’ll be begging us to stay. Your Miss Mystery is going to remind you why we don’t dawdle with innocents.”

Grantham shook his head. Would she? He wasn’t so sure.

ELINOR ROSE on her tiptoes to peer through the frozen windowpane set high on the wall. Given its height from the floor, the room’s Spartan accommodations, and her own lack of consequence, she had to assume she’d been placed on the servants’ floor. Only a minor setback.