The Cheer in Charming an Earl (The Naughty Girls) (6 page)

She paled enough to make him think she wouldn’t risk his head on purpose. “I’ll just be Miss Pearson, then.”

“Good.” He offered his arm to her so that he might escort her around to meet the women. As he’d expected, Mariah and Becky did their best to make her uncomfortable, he forgot the two middle girls’ names, and “Cousin Fanny” rattled off some unintelligible cockney greeting that Miss Conley politely smiled through.

When he had her alone again, he leaned in so he wouldn’t be overheard. “I’d excuse their oddness by saying they’re kindhearted people, but I’m afraid that doesn’t apply in this case. Are you overwhelmed?”

Her eyes shined up at him. “I’ve never met such fine ladies before. And you gentlemen! So handsome, I feel prettier just standing next to you.”

“You are. Quite pretty, actually.” He bit his tongue and turned away. Fell right into that trap, hadn’t he?

She ducked her head, and he couldn’t help but be enthralled by the way her ivory skin glowed beneath the candlelight. He’d guessed correctly about her bosom. It pressed against the tight, low bodice of her gown and—

A quick glance around the room confirmed what he’d just realized. She was the only woman with a plunging neckline. In fact, now that he looked closer, his Cyprian friends had
overdone
their fichus into comical billows that vied with the starched waterfall cravats the men sported.

He coughed into the side of one fist and tried not to stare at the brimming décolletage of Miss Conley’s otherwise proper frock. There was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t very well call out her nakedness whilst maintaining his reputation as a gentleman.
Miss Conley, would you mind very much putting those away?

A commotion by the door rescued him from needing to say anything at all. “Kiss her,” Steepleton directed Lord Scotherby, pointing at Cousin Fanny. “Mariah—that is,
Mrs. Fawcett
—will understand.”

Mariah troubled herself to glance over her shoulder. She instantly dismissed the sight of her paramour and Cousin Fanny pressed together in the doorframe, preferring to slide her eyes in cat-like fascination toward Grantham. “Christmas cheer comes once a year,” she drawled, “and I have my sights set on Chelford.”

ELINOR COULD barely control her excitement as she walked through the long, wainscoted hallway on Grantham’s arm. Sconces burned brightly every few feet, casting more than enough light to reflect off Mrs. Fawcett’s emerald silk gown and catch in Miss Bennett’s lustrous crown of curls. Elinor had never dreamed of such splendidly turned-out ladies. Even Cousin Fanny, with her funny cockney phrases, swayed serenely on Lord de Winter’s arm.

They were
all
a delight, and she was enchanted. “How do you know them?” she asked Grantham. But then, wasn’t that a silly question? He’d been born into their glittering, haughty world.

“I should have expected you to ask that. Curious little thing, aren’t you?”

She eyed him from beneath her lashes. “It’s just that I’ve never seen such grandeur as their gowns. Was Mrs. Fawcett’s husband terribly rich?”

“Mrs. Fawcett has her own money. Not that we should speak of such things.” He slanted a glance at Elinor.

Her face heated. Of course it was ill-mannered to speculate on a dead man’s fortune. Or anyone’s fortune.

Suddenly she remembered Grantham had twenty thousand a year. Good heavens. Given her indelicate interest in Mrs. Fawcett’s wealth, he could easily suspect her to be a fortune hunter, when in truth she’d had no idea of his riches until today.

“I envy Mrs. Fawcett, then,” Elinor said with a wistful sigh, attempting to refashion Grantham’s opinion of her character. “Secure in her own means, no one can ever call her an opportunist.”

Grantham coughed hoarsely. He thumped his chest a few times then wiped at his eyes, which had gone watery. When he tried to talk, his voice rasped out.

She reached with her free hand as if to touch his brow. “Are you feeling unwell?”

He jerked away from her fingertips. “Just a tickle.” He coughed again. “Mrs. Fawcett wasn’t precisely pleasant to you earlier. Why the admiration?”

Elinor drew back sharply. “Wasn’t she, though?”

He gave her a thoughtful once-over. “I think you must be wonderfully naïve, Miss Conley.”

He looked as if he’d say more, but the double doors of the dining room stood open before them. Everyone else had already taken their seats.

When she realized she was to be placed beside him near the head of the table, she almost swooned. But as the salads were brought out and the wine poured liberally into goblets set amid boughs of holly, it became clear there would be no more private talk between them.

There were simply too many others to address. All at once, it seemed. “Miss Pearson, where are you from?” she was asked from down the length of the table.

“Have you any money?” someone fired across.

“Will you be searched for?” another wondered aloud.

They hardly left her time to think, let alone answer. As her head became muddled with wine, the questions became more personal, and she struggled to keep up with the swiftly changing stream of conversation.

“Have you been to London?”

“Do you know any reels?”

“Are you engaged?”

“May I see you under the kissing ball?”

She blinked. That nonsense was from Lord Steepleton, the last man she’d consider setting her lips to. But as she narrowed her eyes on him, he only laughed and leaned to whisper something in Mrs. Eells’s ear.

The red-haired woman glanced at Elinor. Then she laughed, too.

Elinor folded her hands in her lap and tried
not
to look “wonderfully naïve.” Only then did she notice the courses had been cleared and the men were at their port. How Bohemian! Not at all what she expected of an earl. It wasn’t that she’d never stayed on after dinner with a man; at home, Gavin often took his port and tobacco while she and her sisters remained in the room. But that was because they were family. Gavin seemed to enjoy passing a quarter hour or so asking after their day and reassuring himself they had all they required for the morrow. Really, there wasn’t much point to formality in a house as small as theirs, anyway. But here, in this grand mansion, Grantham must have a dozen rooms where she and the ladies might have retired. Instead he chose to relax in their company.

She looked around to see if any of the other females were as charmed as she was and realized Mrs. Fawcett and Cousin Fanny were smoking thin paper cheroots, just like the men. Good heavens, these women were quite fast! Could she be allowed to join them?

Mr. Tewseybury caught the direction of her gaze. He extended his cheroot toward her. Before she could reach for it, Grantham batted it away. “Let her alone.”

“Just doing the chivalrous thing.” Mr. Tewseybury drew on the cheroot until the end glowed red, then expelled the smoke in a fragrant, impressive O.

“Good heavens! Teach me to do that!” She leaned forward too fast. Her head spun. The combination of wine, smoke and her earlier megrim threatened to undo her dinner, and she clutched the edge of the table.

“Amateur little pet.” Mrs. Fawcett’s voice held a hint of amusement. She reminded Elinor of a cat, one sated and ready to stretch her paws. “Yet I can see you’re fascinated, Chelford.”

“Someone ought to help her to bed.” Grantham’s hand settled on Elinor’s upper arm and she jumped at the contact. “Miss Pearson, I think that will be all for tonight.”

“No!” she cried. “It’s Christmas Eve. We need presents.”

“We’re not children.” Lord Steepleton smirked. “At least, most of us aren’t.”

She stood abruptly. “I have presents.” The room did a pirouette around her. Nevertheless, she was determined. She made a beeline for the door and was halfway to the servants’ hall before anyone got himself together enough to try to stop her.

Or mayhap no one intended to stop her. She reached her room without incident and knelt beside her trunk. Buried in the bottom of the box was a metal locket with a tendril of her hair curled carefully into it. Only her sweetest smile had convinced her brother’s apprentice to forge it for her in secret; the tendril she’d trimmed herself. She withdrew the adornment and a pink kerchief with her initials embroidered in one corner. Then, thinking quickly, she fished around in her portmanteau until she found a container filled with Georgiana’s famous biscuits.

Aunt Millie would never know the treats had been meant for her.

Voices drifted from the open dining room doors as she returned to the party. She caught only a few words at first.

“…suspects nothing...”

“…in rare form, Mariah…”

The next she heard clearly. “You ought to kiss her, Grantham, just to see what she does.”

“I vow, that
would
be very diverting for the lot of us.”

Her heart leapt at the excellent idea. She edged closer to the door.

“You blockheads, I’m not going to touch her. The only reason she hasn’t seen through your horrific acting is because she’s too inexperienced to recognize your dreadful performances. She has no notion of what she’s looking at.”

Elinor stepped into the room. “What am I looking at?”

Grantham’s ears turned pink. Then he glared at the lot of his friends. “See what you’ve made me do?”

Lord Steepleton crushed his cheroot out. “And I thought this entertaining
before
.”

A nagging sensation twisted her belly. Something was very wrong. Her box of biscuits weighed nothing compared to the locket she clutched in one hand;
its
weight felt leaden. Here she was, about to present Grantham with the special gift she’d had worked just for him, and it seemed she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought. “What is he talking about? Grantham?”

He stood and came toward her. Her feet wouldn’t move, leaving her powerless to retreat from unpleasantness she didn’t fully understand. “Miss Pearson, don’t listen to them. They’re rotters, I told you so myself. I—”

“You hear that?” Lord Scotherby protested. “First he’s embarrassed by us, then we’re dissolutes, now we’re rotters. How do you like that?”

“Enough!” Grantham commanded over his shoulder. He reached for her box.

She snatched it away. As if she’d give him one of her sister’s delicious biscuits
now
. His gaze fell to the ribbon-tied package clutched to her breast. “Miss Pearson, I meant what I said in the nicest way. You’re far too innocent for this crowd.” Then, in a quieter voice, he added, “For me.”

She tried to lose herself again in those honest gray eyes but she couldn’t. Even though she didn’t understand what treachery was afoot, it was clear from Lord Chelford’s distress that she’d overheard something she wasn’t meant to hear.
“What am I looking at?”
she whispered.

“Blast, Grantham. Just tell her. She’s already put out with you.”

Oh, good heavens, she
wanted
to be strong. She wanted to snap her head up and make fire dance in her eyes, but it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears. Subtly, so that no one would see it, she crushed the kerchief containing the locket tightly into the palm of her hand. She never wanted Grantham to know what a silly girl she’d been when it came to him.

“Miss Pearson,” he said, just when she was sure she was about to drop through the floor for the gravity of her humiliation, “the truth is, these gentlemen are notorious rakes.” He grimaced. “And these ladies…”

“We’s Covent Garden nuns,” Cousin Fanny called from behind a low-burning candelabra set on the table. “Right prostitutes.”

GRANTHAM GLARED at Fanny. “Wot?” she replied, as if she had no notion why he might be put out with her. “I did you a feyva, I did.”

“I was working
up
to it,” he ground out. Then he turned back to Miss Conley. One look at the pretty farrier’s daughter, however, and it was clear there was no good way to have broken the news. Her creamy skin had gone white. Those blue, blue eyes were round as saucers.

Worse, they were filled with tears.