A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (16 page)

Light pressed against Colin's eyelids, bringing with it searing pain. No,
searing
wasn't the right word. Stabbing? Better. He groaned and covered his eyes with his hand.
Brilliant, Farleigh. Exactly what you should do when you set out to kill a man: get so stinking drunk you can't stand up straight
.

He hadn't killed Foyle. He remembered that much. Most of the evening was excessively hazy, but he remembered the interruption. And what an interruption.

He rolled over and squinted. He had a companion in the bed. Her hair was still up, baring those lovely shoulders. Over the curve of her cheek he could see the mask she'd worn the night before, resting on the table beside the bed. He supposed in a moment he'd see her properly, and any resemblance to Elinor would flee.

Just as well. Such sinful fantasies did not deserve to survive in daylight. The way he'd fallen on her—he would never have treated Elinor like that, not even if she would have him. He'd acted like a beast. And he'd . . .

He frowned. Damn the drink. He remembered her smooth skin, remembered tearing off her dress, but everything went dark after that. Just punishment, he decided. He should not have indulged his base desires so. Let the
memory of pleasure be denied him, then, and leave only the shame.

The woman stirred in her sleep. He supposed he should apologize to her. Or perhaps it was better to slip out now, and pretend it had never happened.

She turned, brushing the back of her hand against her face as her eyes began to open.

His heart stopped.

She looked up at him through dark lashes. Her face was sleep-creased and her eyes bleary, but there was no mistaking that face.

“Elinor?” he said, voice a strangled croak.

She yawned and sat up, tucking strands of hair behind her ears. “Oh good, you're alive. I thought you might have drowned yourself,” she said.

Her chemise clung to her curves. He could see the dark outline of her nipples beneath the thin fabric. There was a tear at the sleeve. He'd done that. He'd . . .

“You can't be here,” he said. “You can't be you. She was . . . she wasn't . . .”

“Relax, Lord Farleigh,” she said, in a tone that banished all hope that this might be some lingering effect of alcohol. He thrashed his way out of the bed and stood, the room tilting around him.

“No,” he said. “God. Martin will kill me. Kitty will kill me. Joan will kill me twice.”

“Sit back down before you fall,” Elinor snapped.

“I'm a dead man,” he said. If he had any decency at all, he'd off himself and spare them the trouble. He'd ravished Elinor Hargrove. “I am so, so sorry,” he said. She raised an eyebrow. “I am the worst of men. I had no idea . . . you were wearing the mask, and . . .”

“I didn't tell you not to,” she said reasonably.

“But it wasn't
you
,” he said desperately. “You realize what this means? I'll have to break the engagement, of course. I'll apply for a special license. We can take care of it before we even speak to Martin; that will be best. He's less likely to gut me if we're already married.”

“We don't have to get married,” Elinor said impatiently.

He paused. “Of course we do. I . . . you could be with child.” A not insignificant part of him was rather thrilled at the idea. But he didn't want her that way. Didn't want a marriage of necessity or regret, even if it would mean he had
her
.

She seemed on the verge of saying something. Then she shut her mouth with a soft click of teeth and narrowed her eyes. “You were going to kill Edward Foyle, weren't you?”

“How . . . how do you know about that? Hang on. What are you doing here?” Reality seemed to catch up to him all at once. He looked around, as if an explanation were hiding in a corner somewhere. The light from the window lanced across his eyes again, and he shut them with a wince. “You were a courtesan. Last night. Why?”

“Because this is where Edward Foyle could be found, and being a courtesan is how I could get in,” Elinor said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “Your sister—”

“Dear God, is Phoebe here?”

She laughed at that. “Heavens, no. It's only me, Lord Farleigh. But she wanted information from Foyle, and I volunteered to get it for her. She doesn't know I'm here; she thinks I sent a courtesan. A real one, I mean. I intended to get Foyle alone, and find out from him what he has on your family.”

He stared at her. “That's not a bad plan,” he said. “
Apart from the fact that you had to pretend to be a courtesan
. What were you thinking?”

“That I was bored, I suppose,” Elinor said. “And that it was worth trying. It is a good thing I was here, too, or you would be dead or brought up on charges by now. What on earth were
you
thinking, going after him like that?”

“I wanted revenge,” he said darkly.

“For what?”

“For—what happened.”

“Which is?”

“I don't know the details. But I know enough.”

“Then you still intend to kill him.”

“Of course I do.”

She sat back, examining him with the intense scrutiny she
so often employed. He felt dissected under her gaze. “What if there were a chance to find out exactly what had happened? To make sure that the right men pay for what happened, and that your family is protected? And to do it without resorting to murder?”

“I know who is responsible. Foyle is the only one I can reach. It will be enough.”

“As you have mentioned, you are engaged. Do you intend to leave your fiancée so stained? No. And have you thought of what damage Foyle could do? He surely has arrangements in the case of his demise, regarding whatever materials he has on Marie. You are a smarter man than that, when you are not drunk.” She stood. The chemise shifted over her skin. The light pierced through the fabric with the same insistence as his muddled mind, lighting every curve of her body. His own body responded despite him.

“I should take you home,” he said.

“You will do no such thing. I had a conversation with an associate of Foyle's last night that has left me no doubt that there is far more to the story of Marie's death than your sisters know. More than you know, as well. It is obvious that you will not be content until some form of justice is delivered. Your approach is unacceptable. Therefore, I insist on mine.”

“Why do you care? She wasn't your sister.”

“She was family,” she said. “And so are you, as a consequence. It's obvious that this is killing you. Marie would be heartbroken to see it. And so I won't allow it.”

He came around the bed. She stood her ground, glaring up at him. There was such fire in her eyes. He had never seen her like that.

“I could throw you into a carriage,” he said. “I could tie you up, if I had to. God knows there are enough ropes in this place.” She gave a shiver. He clenched a hand, desire spiking through him.
Degenerate
, he berated himself. “I will not allow you to stay here.”

Her eyes hardened. “What do you supposed would happen if I told my brother that you bedded me?” she said. “I could tell your future father-in-law.”

“It would ruin you.”

“I would bear it,” she said. “I have no prospects to damage, and God knows my family would not throw me out.”

“Then we'd marry,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

She turned up her chin. “I would refuse you.”

That stopped him in his tracks. For it to be known, and for her to turn him away—it would be the end of his friendship with Martin. His sisters would never forgive him. And neither would Levenbane. It was one thing to take a mistress quietly, after the wedding. Another to humiliate his bride-to-be.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“I am in need of assistance and protection,” Elinor said. “And you cannot get close to Foyle. We can help each other. Claim me.”

Oh, God.
He watched her lips form the words, and found himself compelled forward another step.

“If you claim me, the other men here will leave me be,” she said. “I can focus on Foyle.”

“Not if you are claimed.”

“I can if you are the sort who enjoys seeing his woman with other men,” she pointed out.

“I am not,” he ground out. He did not want to picture her with another man. Any other man. To picture her with Foyle was an abomination.

“And I am not a prostitute,” she said. “We play our parts. And at the end of it, perhaps we will know enough to offer some peace to your sister's memory.”

She was right. At least, if she had been anyone else she would have been right. But he couldn't let her do this. Martin—

“Don't think about my brother,” she said sharply.

“Has anyone ever accused you of witchcraft?” he asked.

“It does not take a witch to guess where your mind is going. Especially as I imagine it is operating quite slowly this morning,” she said. “That's another thing. You will stop drinking.”

“You are setting terms now?”

“I'm blackmailing you,” she said plainly. “For your own good, mind you.”

“And what about my terms?”

“I was not aware that you had any.”

He had to talk her out of this idiotic notion. The only thing worse than leaving and accepting the ensuing scandal would be to stay and have Elinor discovered. The loss of her virginity might not destroy her, but word of this surely would.

“Elinor,” he began.

She raised an eyebrow. “Lord Farleigh, I would like you to contemplate history for a moment. When have you ever won an argument with me?”

“I'm usually smart enough not to start one,” Colin said.

“I have made the decision to stay. You can either help me, or leave me on my own in this place. That is the decision before you. Make it wisely.”

He had the sudden urge to shake her, as if the foolish notion would rattle right out of her skull and onto the floor. He ground his teeth together. His fist clenched at his side. “I cannot allow you to ruin yourself further.”

“I wasn't the one who did the ruining,” she shot back.

He blanched. He was definitely going to hell. And Martin was going to send him there. Well. Perhaps there was still a way to dissuade her from this madness.

“Fine,” he said. “I agree. On one condition.”

*   *   *

“And what, precisely, is that condition?” Elinor asked.

Elinor was impressed with how level her voice remained. One might imagine, observing her without the advantage of hearing her thoughts, that she was calm and composed. In truth, she could barely believe half of what she was saying.

Sometime last night she had decided quite definitively that come the morning, she would leave the chateau, taking Lord Farleigh with her. The plan had begun to fracture when she witnessed the level of horror in Lord Farleigh's eyes at discovering her in his bed. The truth was, she was still rather irritated with him for interfering with what had been a perfectly serviceable scheme.

Not to mention for his failure to make that interference a pleasurable diversion.

She ought to have simply told him that he had passed out, leaving her virtue—such as it was—intact. Failing to tell him was unconscionable. Except that she was absolutely certain that the moment she did tell him, he would make good on his threat to toss her in a carriage headed back toward London. And then he would kill Foyle, because he was the most idiotically stubborn man she knew.

“Your condition,” Elinor prompted him.

“It's a very simple one,” Lord Farleigh said. “But I'm afraid that it is not negotiable.” He walked to the chair where she had folded his clothes and began to rummage through them.

“And what is it?” she asked. She supposed she ought to afford him
some
concession. He was looking thoroughly browbeaten. She was only protecting him from himself, of course. He could not be allowed to take irrevocable action against Foyle.

Lord Farleigh straightened, turning back to her. “You are asking me to shield you. To
claim
you. And you offer nothing in return. I am not a weapon to be wielded,
Lady
Elinor. I am not your tool. And when I claim a woman, I do it thoroughly.” His gaze pierced her. Her mouth felt dry; she wetted her lips. He paced forward, and suddenly she was aware of just how little she was wearing.

“What exactly do you mean?” she asked. Her voice bordered on hoarse. She knew exactly what he meant, and it made her skin flush with the unfulfilled promise of the night before. He could not be saying what she knew he was—and yet she wanted him to say it.

“If I claim you, you are mine,” he said. “For as long as we are here. For as long as you wear that mask.” Another step, and he was nearly to her. He opened his hand, letting the silver egret drop, dangling from its black ribbon. “Mine to do with as I wish, as long as we are inside this room. Out there, I will obey your rules. Here the rules are mine to set.”