One Whisper Away (11 page)

“Why weren’t you?”

The forthright question took him by surprise, but then again, at least she was interested enough to ask. Jonathan shrugged. “I was not quite two years of age when my mother died. My father didn’t want me reared by nannies and governesses and tutors. He also wanted me to appreciate my heritage, and that would never happen in England. My mother’s younger sister wanted me, and once he remarried, his new wife did not. He divided his time between his two families.”

And having experienced the sting of rejection on that level, he vowed that Adela would not.

Ever.

“I understand.” Cecily glanced down at her clasped hands. “I was also very young when my mother died. We have a lot in common.”

A half-breed with an illegitimate daughter and a beautiful debutante who was the darling of the
ton
? He almost laughed, but stopped himself. It was odd, but he thought she seemed sincere. Then again, maybe he was blinded by her graceful, tempting form and those topaz eyes. That susceptibility was what had him in such a tenuous position in the first place.
A respectable earl should not abscond with a young lady during the middle of a ball
, he reminded himself; though respectability was a new concept. He had his own set of morals, of course, but his way of thinking did not adhere to the English system that applied to polite society.

If he didn’t put too fine a point on it, he’d reacted in a visceral fashion when she approached him, not a logical one, and that was the power of just the touch of her gloved hand on his arm. He was not the one in charge, and it bothered him. He said in a level tone, “Thank you for the empathy, but I am still unclear as to why we are having this discussion.”

She nodded as if the answer was what she wanted. “You are very eligible, my lord.”

Jonathan had absolutely no answer for that frank declaration. He finally managed, “I don’t think so.”

“You are an earl.”

To that he was able to give a brief nod. Whether he wanted to be or not, that was true. It wasn’t that he was unaware that his title and fortune made some ladies of the
ton
overlook his mixed blood. He just had had no idea that Lady Cecily thought along those lines.

“So,” the young lady across from him said as if addressing a courtroom, “I assume you must be under a great deal of duress to choose a wife? My brother is a ducal heir and a marquess, and I know he is being pressured already to find a suitable young lady and produce a son.”

Not that Jonathan would mind going through the process required to conceive a child with the delectable woman currently racketing about the streets of London with him, but he had to admit he was unsettled by her matter-of-fact approach to what seemed to be a very outrageous proposal so far. He found his voice. “I am afraid I don’t waste a lot of time worrying over other people’s expectations of me, my lady.”

“No.” Her smile was faint and trembled a little. “I would guess you do not. But, still, hear me out, if you will, my lord.”

“I admit I am fascinated by this conversation. It would be difficult to tear me away. Go on.”

The carriage took a corner and she braced her hand on the seat. Jonathan did his best to ignore the subtle sway of her breasts under the bodice of her fashionable gown, but he didn’t succeed very well.

“Is it possible we could invent an engagement and benefit both of us by having our families retreat in their quest to marry us off?” She added quietly, “This is very important to me.”

Who knows what he might have said, but at that moment there was a horrible crack, the vehicle lurched sideways, and in an unconscious reaction, he lunged forward, caught her, and enfolded her in his arms before the carriage listed to its side and nearly toppled over.

E
leanor Francis sat very upright, her hands properly locked in her lap, her expression hopefully composed.

There was nothing quite like being a wallflower, she decided, though truthfully, she knew part of her solitude was self-inflicted. No, she probably wasn’t as pretty as her sister—this she acknowledged, though they did still look quite alike. To start with, she’d always been more . . . buxom, but gentlemen actually seemed to appreciate that, and all along she’d recognized that neither her face nor her form was the problem. Almost from the beginning of her first season she’d realized the gentlemen who asked her to dance didn’t often ask again. She’d done her best this year to stay poised and keep quiet, making only polite small talk, but it wasn’t working.

Especially with the very handsome, elegant, intelligent, congenial—the list went on—Viscount Drury.

Oh, yes, he’d waltzed with her twice this evening, but she knew it was mainly to wheedle out of her information about Cecily, and quite frankly, that stung more than a little. He often played the gentleman and asked her to dance, which was kind of him, but his pity over her patent unpopularity wasn’t at all what she wanted. Still, every time he asked she agreed because it was . . .
something
. Not to mention he was a gifted dancer, whereas it wasn’t her forte, so she managed to look acceptably graceful when they took the floor together.

He wasn’t interested even though she was also the daughter of a duke and had exactly the same dowry. It was
her
. Not her looks, or her background—and that rankled more than anything. It was one matter to be disregarded because one was too stout, or too thin, or had an overlarge nose, but quite frankly, she found it even more mortifying to be perfectly acceptable as far as physical appearance went, but not desirable in other ways.

So, she decided as the slow swirl of dancers went by and laughter—from other people—rang in her ears, she was a pariah of her own making. What gentlemen found unattractive about her was her personality.

A humiliating reality.

She would suggest
social failure
as the epitaph to be engraved on her headstone, which might be needed quite soon, for if she had to stay in the corner with the dowagers for another moment, she’d just toss herself off the nearest convenient balcony. Eleanor rose, smiled as politely as possible at the assembled company, and excused herself, ignoring her grandmother’s disapproving look over her leaving in the middle of a conversation.

There were times when a young lady just needed a stiff glass of tepid champagne.

Where the devil is Cecily anyway?
she thought as she moved toward the drinks table. Being stuck in the Purgatory of this ball would be much, much easier if she could at least have someone to talk to. Later she would sneak away and then send the carriage back once she was home.

Snatching a drink from a footman passing by with a tray, she wondered how she was going to stand her sister’s engagement party. Just the thought of that miserable upcoming event made her take a convulsive swallow from her glass. No doubt Lord Drury would be every inch the besotted fiancé and . . .

“Lady Eleanor.”

The voice of the subject of her thoughts made her jump, and unforgivably, she spilled a dash of champagne on his shoe as she whirled around. As if to punctuate her faux pas, the music came to a theatrical halt just then and a throng of milling couples left the floor. “I’m—I’m terribly sorry,” she stammered.

“I startled you. I beg your pardon. The fault is entirely mine.” His smile was gracious and he didn’t even glance downward at the now soiled toe of his formerly perfectly polished Hessian. “I was wondering if you had seen your sister.”

“Yes, indeed. She’s a little taller, her coloring fairer, though the family resemblance is definitely there between us, I’m told.” The tart words came out before she could stop them . . . and it was
unfortunate
.

But really, having to sit most of the evening with her grandmother and her friends, and
then
the man she thought about almost every waking moment of the day—but who wanted to marry her sister—had materialized right in front of her. How poised was she expected to be?

The viscount merely laughed. The amusement lit his blue eyes and made him even more handsome—if that was possible. “You have a quick tongue and I sometimes forget it. Let me rephrase. Have you seen your sister recently, and if so, would you be so kind as to steer me in her direction?”

At least she could honestly say she had no idea of Cecily’s whereabouts. “I’m sorry, but I have not seen her in a while, my lord.”

He scanned the room, his affable smile fading. “How interesting . . . I don’t see Augustine either. He was just in the card room but seems to have disappeared.”

At his height, he probably did have a decent view of the crowd, and Lord Augustine was maybe even a little taller, so he would be easy to spot. No, Eleanor told herself, taking another gulp of champagne, Cecily was anything but stupid and she would never leave with the earl and risk her reputation.

Would she?

Not normally, but her sister had been very quiet in the carriage ride to the ball.

Or had Eleanor been the brooding one? It was hard to say. She certainly had been miserable enough . . . and while she was happy to find she wasn’t so selfish as to resent her sister receiving an offer of marriage from one of the most eligible bachelors of the
ton
, she hadn’t noticed Cecily brimming over with joy at the prospect of becoming Lady Drury.

Why did life have to be so blasted
complicated
?

“I am sure she is just in the ladies’ retiring room,” she said, and then immediately wished she could take it back, because, really, she shouldn’t have mentioned such an indelicate matter as having to relieve your bladder. It was a fact of life, but one never
talked
about it. She amended hastily, “I’ll go look for her if you’d like.”

“Thank you, but don’t bother yourself, my lady.” Viscount Drury’s voice had taken on a telltale grimness in contrast with his usual glib good humor. “Perhaps you’d like to waltz with me again instead.”

A third time? Well, she wasn’t overrun with partners and it wasn’t like she wanted to return to the dowagers, and besides, it might distract him from watching for Cecily, just in case her sister
had
done something reckless.

“It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

Three waltzes. At least, she thought with an inner sigh as she handed her glass off to a passing servant with a tray, the evening would not be a total loss.

 

She was sprawled like a common trollop on top of the Earl of Augustine. It was shocking to be resting on the hard plane of his chest, his arm like an iron band around her waist and his warm breath against her temple.

More disturbing than that realization, it felt rather nice, which was an odd sensation, since Cecily had no idea exactly what had just happened to put them in such a position.

It was clarified in the next moment when the man holding her against him said succinctly, “Broken wheel.”

He somehow levered himself up against the slanted seat and, still holding her, with seeming effortless ease pushed open the door and climbed out. When he gently set her on her feet in the street, he peered down at her. “Are you injured?”

“No.” She was slightly shaken, Cecily decided, standing by the side of the elegant equipage, which at the moment was listing dangerously to the side on the cobbled street, but her state had little to do with the accident. Wheels occasionally broke—it happened. However, it would have been best if it hadn’t happened while she was clandestinely meeting with the infamous Earl Savage.

Life, Eleanor would have pointed out in her forthright manner, did not run along predictable lines and she would be a damned fool to expect it to.

“You are certain you are uninjured?” the earl demanded.

“I’m fine,” she assured him.

The driver, a young man who looked much more upset than his lordship over the accident, said, “I swear, milord, Mr. Bourne likes things just so. I looked her over just this morning and there wasn’t as much as a crack.”

“It happens.” Jonathan actually touched the man on the shoulder in a gesture of reassurance “Find someone to repair it and tell James to send me the bill.”

Muttering, obviously chagrined, the young man nodded and crouched down to inspect the damage.

“You look a little pale.”

“It’s just the moonlight,” Cecily reassured him, her voice sounding thin to her ears as she recalled how he’d caught her in his arms to protect her from the potential crash. In her life, she had never before been quite that close to a man. She cleared her throat. “But I am not sure our arrival back will be as unremarked as we hoped.”

“Freddy could find a hack before he gets one of the other coachmen to help him repair the wheel.” Casually in command, unruffled except for his cravat being slightly askew, he seemed every inch the aristocrat, no matter what he might think of his background. “Luckily, we haven’t gone far. We could walk back, though an arrival in tandem will be noticed. However, it might take young Freddy some time to get back to us.”

Either he was remarkably unfazed by their current predicament or he handled every situation with such an air of competent authority. “Which would not,” Cecily pointed out, “be quite such a disaster if we were affianced. Let’s walk. It’s a pleasant evening and the longer we are gone, the more potential for disaster.”

His disordered hair framed his face, emphasizing the stark masculine beauty of his bone structure, and thick lashes framed those dark, dark eyes as he stared down at her. Then he politely offered his arm. “You seem quite intently focused on this unorthodox proposition.”

She’d done nothing but think about how she could possibly prevent her upcoming engagement since her meeting with her father, and yet she could come up with no other solution. He wanted her properly married, and Lord Drury was a bit more determined than she had first realized. She had denied to her father that Jonathan was really interested, but she thought she could get around that by explaining she hadn’t known at the time how the Earl of Augustine felt about her. In light of the gossip surrounding them, she believed her family would not be all that surprised.