For the Earl's Pleasure (2 page)

His dark eyes went black at her reminder of their intertwined pasts, secrets, and the moment their paths had unraveled beyond control.

“You will never achieve that goal,” he called out as she started to walk away, shattering his rule of publicly ignoring her. His voice was far more calm than his eyes had indicated.

She turned, walking a few steps backward once more. “Don’t bet against it, Lord Rainewood. Our tally is still in my favor, I believe.”

“That tally was wiped away.”

She tilted her head. “Perhaps by your arrogance, but not by my account. You destroyed it, not I.”

A loaded statement that meant far more than just the implication that at one time they had kept friendly running bets. The hurt, dulled, but still there, crept under her skin and she turned, unwilling to let him see it creep into her eyes. He always could read her. There was too much ammunition between them.

To her surprise, he didn’t follow. Didn’t try to score the last taunt. Didn’t publicly ruin her with the secrets that would close every door to her.

A
bigail descended the stairs and skirted the slim path between the chatty groups collected around the edges of the floor and the whirling dancers. A ribbon loosened from a young woman’s dress as she twirled to the music. The thin thread lifted and snaked through the air toward Abigail. She caught the supple blue satin and continued forward, threading it through her fingers. The woman had already disappeared into the throng with her partner, not noticing that the hem of her dress contained one less accoutrement.

Abigail gripped the freed ribbon tightly in her hand. Freed like she would never be.

She resolutely moved to her mother’s side. It was not her favorite place to be in the middle of a crowded ballroom, but far safer than other options. Such as walking the rope with the devil.

“Abigail, chin up. And do fix your collar.” She could see her mother’s fingers itching to touch the lace.

She stepped back to free her mother from the temptation. Mrs. Gerald Smart practiced the social graces religiously, but she sometimes forgot herself in her zealous need to ascend. Her mother wanted the end result too badly, fought the battles too aggressively, and missed the subtle, internal steps it took to win the war.

“And your hair. It looks dreadful. What did you do?”

Abigail touched the lock that never quite stayed in place no matter how many pins she or her maid used. She caught the sharp eye of their companion, Mrs. Browning, who was observing them from the matrons’ chairs with a tight, disapproving crease to the sides of her mouth, as usual.

“Oh, never mind now,” her mother said. “Here comes Mr. Brockwell. Pleasant. A thousand pounds per year. Healthy stock. Look smart.” Her mother chuckled at her own joke, and Abigail withheld a flinch. She could never quite hide what an avid social climber she really was, with communication skills that at times hearkened back to a past life.

Sometimes Abigail wished with all her might that her present life was a dream, and the past could become possible once more. No
Lord
Rainewood, no
special
gifts, no fear of discovery.

Phillip Brockwell ambled over, all spindly legs and awkward motion.

“Mr. Brockwell,” her mother said with a quick head-to-toe perusal. “What a pleasant evening for your company.”

“Mrs. Smart, yours is by far the lovelier. And Miss Smart’s too.”

Her mother nodded and Abigail smiled at Phillip’s aplomb. He was not the most graceful or grace-filled man, but he tried quite hard.

“How kind of you, Mr. Brockwell,” her mother said. “Abigail was just speaking of you and saying how much she enjoyed your conversation and company.”

With difficulty Abigail kept her own smile firmly on her face as Phillip went pink.

“A lovely evening to enjoy both,” her mother pronounced, obviously satisfied. “Oh, I say, I do think our hostess is waving me over. Do pardon me.”

She waved a hand, bequeathed Phillip with one last bright smile, said “Stay sharp, Abigail,” in a voice that was embarrassingly above a whisper, and walked to the other side of the room, far from their hostess.

Abigail wondered if there was a way to shackle her mother to a wardrobe later.

Without a murmur of protest, Abigail had gone along with the entire plan to firmly plant themselves within the belly of the ton. But sometimes her mother made that difficult.

Phillip shuffled his feet, cheeks still pink. “How are you, Miss Smart?”

“I am well, Mr. Brockwell. And you? Have you tried the punch?” She lifted her cup, trying to put him back at ease. “I was told it was a new recipe Lady Malcolm brought back from her last visit to the islands.”

He gave her a wry, crooked smile, his shoulders loosening from their tight hold. “Twice.” His shoulders suddenly tightened back up.

Abigail turned to see Edwina Penshard hurrying toward them. “Miss Smart, Mr. Brockwell,” she said brightly, blowing out a breath as she jolted to a stop. Edwina was like the bright full tulips in her lovingly tended garden—all golden curls, red cheeks, and plump frame. She never failed to brighten Abigail’s evening.

Edwina’s brother, Gregory, a fair-haired man with sharp green eyes and a rapier tongue, strolled after her, greeting them as well. The Penshards had the distinct displeasure of being related to Rainewood and the two men got on like tigers circling the same food source.

Gregory gave her a tight smile and nod. He had been acting peculiarly for the last week. She wasn’t naïve enough not to realize that he possibly had some intentions in her direction. The question was whether she should encourage the attention. There had always been something about Gregory that had reminded her of Rainewood’s deceased older brother. And that was something to be avoided.

Rainewood had neatly filled his brother’s shoes after his death. And the ton could only stand one absolute ruler.

Edwina’s naturally joyful smile widened, and Phillip’s face pinkened in reaction. Poor smitten Phillip.

“Lovely party,” Edwina gushed. “I do so hope to catch our host at some point this evening. He spoke at the gardening society about how plant growth can be enhanced by the benevolent wishes a gardener harbors. Fascinating.”

Phillip tugged his cravat away from his increasingly sweaty neck under Edwina’s bright regard. “He spoke on the topic to the Young Scientist’s Society as well. I thought of you and your benevolence.” Poor Phillip.

“Oh, how lovely, Mr. Brockwell.” Edwina smiled happily. “And you joined the Society! That is excellent!”

Phillip’s face flushed in pleasure, then pinched as he looked at something over Abigail’s shoulder. “Yes. Though there is a faction that is trying to change the society into something else entirely.”

Abigail followed his gaze to the group prominently on display at the other edge of the floor. The most fashionable of the younger set—clustered around their star.

Donkey.

“Has one of them been giving you trouble, Brockwell?” Gregory asked.

“It’s nothing,” Phillip responded, a mite too quickly.

Across the room, Rainewood whipped his head to the left, a strand of hair falling
just so
across his haughty brow, showing his best side as he shared in a joke with one of his cronies. Abigail pushed against the pull and tried to focus on the delinquent faces of the white-gowned, dreamy women also looking in his direction.

A cold prince each young, unmarried woman hoped would bestow his blessing upon her, and her alone, as if his attention would ensure her success and self-esteem. The problem was that in most cases, it would.

Abigail turned back, irritated. “Don’t let them bully you or the society, Mr. Brockwell. Who gives a thought to what they think?”

Phillip gave her a disbelieving look. Gregory’s eyebrows raised in dark humor.

“Well,
I
don’t,” she said a mite defensively.

“Me neither,” Edwina said loyally. “And I think you make a grand addition to the society, Mr. Brockwell.”

“And it is only a matter of time before one of the instigators drops,” Gregory said in his dismissive manner. “With all the talk today, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Edwina sighed. “I would that we’d never heard of the corruption list. Such a negative thing.”

“The corruption list?” Abigail asked.

“You haven’t heard?” Gregory raised a brow. “It’s been scorching the room like wildfire.”

She had been too busy creating her own blaze with Rainewood. She shook her head.

Phillip glowered. “Came out this afternoon during our Society meeting.”

“It would have come out anyway, Brockwell,” Gregory said.

“But that was the most inappropriate place for it. Another example of how they are trying to change the scientific forum into another betting club. Gossipmongers attempting to be fashionably interested in mechanics. They should take their indulgences to White’s or Boodles where they belong.”

“Yes, well, I heard there have been some heavy bets placed. One of them is sure to be ruined in the crossfire.” Gregory smiled unpleasantly. “I can’t wait to see which one. I hope it is Rainewood himself.”

“Now, Gregory—” Edwina started.

“A comeuppance on par with perfection,” he said with relish.

“Gregory, that is hardly kind,” Edwina said chidingly. “Lord Rainewood has done nothing to deserve that type of venom.”

As the heir to a duke, Rainewood had inherent social power. As a clever ass, he knew exactly how to use that power to his best advantage. Being born with superior looks and a wealth of charm—should he choose to employ it—made him unstoppable socially. And completely in control of whatever he desired. The serpent toying with its prey.

One had to play with the serpent in order to be placed in Eden’s garden though.

“Are you defending him? He is a complete waste of human material, and you know it, Ed. How many times do you have to be struck by one of that group, meant to feel beneath their regard, before you will fight back?”

Abigail had been crushed by the king snake long, long ago and hadn’t even attempted to enter the popular group upon her debut. Following Rainewood’s lead, as always, the group had firmly and neatly placed her beneath their notice from the outset. A move that just made her determined to prove them all wrong.

“But Lord Rainewood is not responsible.”

“You are delusional, Ed. He could stop them with a word. Why he doesn’t participate in their antics is the question you should be asking.” Gregory’s eyes turned to Abigail. If the ton took no notice of Rainewood’s attention to her, Gregory was not included in the group—his past knowledge combined with his keen observation gave him an edge.

His eyes constantly mocked, but his lips stayed sealed.

“Oh, Gregory, he is your cousin,” Edwina said.

“Distant,
distant
cousin.”

“Not so very distant in ton terms,” Edwina pointed out. Gregory was sixth in line. “You are far too interested in old grudges. You should try to extend an olive branch.”

“And you are far too kind. I’d as soon extend a pitchfork, tines forward.”

Edwina opened her mouth, but Abigail quickly jumped in. “The list?”

Edwina shook her head. “Oh, some crazy notion of a secret dialogue that lists those with insanity in their heritage, scandals not previously acknowledged, and impostors in the ton.”

“Impostors?”

“People claiming to be who they are not,” Gregory said unhelpfully.

Abigail frowned. “I know what an impostor is. Someone has a list of these things written somewhere? How would they have discovered such a wide variety of information?”

“Who knows.” Gregory shrugged, but his eyes were pinched at the corners. “All the rage though. The ton loves a good scandal. The juicier the gossip, the more the rage, of course.”

“Well, I think it absurd,” Edwina said. “That all of this energy is being expended to stir the pot.”

“Please, Ed. Where have you been hiding? You were born to this.”

“I don’t have to acknowledge it.” She sniffed. “Mother is completely consumed by it, of course. Anxious to ‘expel’ those on the list from society.”

“As if you are surprised. Mother is insufferable. She loves a good witch-hunt. Don’t be foolish.”

Phillip looked fairly ill as he anxiously glanced between the squabbling siblings. He always shied from conflict.

Edwina sniffed again. “I only hope Lord Rainewood does right by his knowledge and destroys the thing so that she doesn’t have a chance.”

Abigail stiffened. “Lord Rainewood?”

“He is said to have purchased the list. Keeps it on him at all times, or so they say,” Gregory said. There was something dark in his eyes as he looked Rainewood’s way.

“There is a lot of damage that can be done with such an item.” Edwina tutted. “When father returns from his trip I hope that he will have a positive impact on turning things around.”

Gregory didn’t respond, but his eyes darkened further.

“Yes, when is your father planning to return?” Abigail was eager to change the conversation. Their father had been visiting his plantation in Ceylon for over a year.

“He didn’t say, just that things were going well. I wish he would let me visit,” Edwina said a little wistfully.

Phillip shot her another anxious look. “Surely there are things to amuse you here, Miss Penshard.”

“Oh, of course, Mr. Brockwell. But I do miss father, and I’ve always wanted to visit the islands.”

Gregory’s fists knotted and Abigail shot him a questioning look. He smiled tightly and turned his head away.

The orchestra struck up a new piece.

“Oh. I
would
miss London though.” Edwina’s face took on a dreamy cast. “I love this reel.”

Phillip shuffled his feet. “Would, um, would you care to step to it, Miss Penshard?”

She brightened. “I would, Mr. Brockwell. Thank you.” She held out a hand and Phillip nervously wiped his gloved hand against his trousers before offering his arm.

Abigail watched them take to the floor, Edwina bobbing and Phillip awkwardly moving them into the first form.

Gregory watched them with his usual mocking expression. “Brockwell better do well by my sister.”

“He will be a most loyal beau.” Abigail smiled. She couldn’t imagine a couple better suited. Phillip but needed to make his intentions known. “He just needs to snag her before she takes off to faraway lands,” she joked.

Gregory’s eyes tightened. “No need to worry about that. Edwina isn’t going anywhere.”

“You can hardly keep her here if your father approves.”

“He won’t.” Gregory brushed a forceful hand over his trouser leg. “Would you care to take a turn about the room. I find myself suddenly in need of movement.”

“Of course.” She held out her hand, uncertain as always about Gregory’s mercurial changes.

They passed by a group of women chattering.

“I can’t wait to see who is listed,” one said, waving her fan.

“Oh, but what if there is a mistake?”

“Are you worried about your lineage, Lettie?”

“I’m just stating the fact that we don’t know how this list was generated.”