One Whisper Away (7 page)

A shrug lifted her shoulders. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Tonight he attempted to apologize to you.” Her sister seemed disinclined to accept the dismissal. “Up until then, I thought you were telling the truth. That he’d simply blundered with protocol like any colonial ignorant of proper behavior, but truthfully, he doesn’t seem unintelligent and neither would I think him a man to bestir himself if there wasn’t a need for it. Whatever he said to you at the ball was very
outré
, wasn’t it? Otherwise I can’t see him offering any kind of apology.”

As usual, her sister was disconcertingly perceptive.

Evasively, Cecily murmured, “He seems to at least regret the resulting gossip.”

“Which he did
not
help this evening. If anything, he made it all worse.”

No, Cecily acknowledged with an inner sigh, Lord Augustine hadn’t helped matters in the least. When he’d sat next to her, she could feel his power, the heat from his body . . . and it was different. Intriguingly so. She wasn’t used to having such a reaction to a man merely taking the adjoining chair, and his being the target of everyone’s gaze made his every move even more conspicuous. Their brief conversation had been duly noted, and she’d been the recipient of curious stares for the rest of the evening, probably because of her telling blush.

“He obviously is still learning his way around London society.”

“He’s interested in you.”

Eleanor had a unique way of stating her thoughts. Not that Cecily wasn’t capable of speaking her mind also, but not with such forthright determination. She had opinions. Unlike her sister, she just exercised the option of keeping them to herself now and then.

“No doubt speculating on any interest he might or might not have is a waste of time. I am more debating just what he can do to make this all die down. I never answered his question. Truthfully, I wouldn’t mind at all if people stopped whispering about it.”

“I think the odds of society not noticing what Augustine does are fairly low.”

That was true enough. His arrival in London had sparked an interest that splattered the scandal sheets almost on a daily basis, and somehow, through that chance encounter, she’d become embroiled in his mystique.

“Speaking of whispers, it appeared to me he whispered something else to you just before he left to go sit with his sisters. What was it?” Eleanor didn’t dissemble. Ever.

However, Cecily hedged. “Do you feel obligated to repeat all your private conversations?”

Her sister tossed her long braid over her shoulder and gave her a very assessing look. “It was something very scandalous again, wasn’t it? Even before he repeated his previous offense you had turned a very becoming shade of pink just from his arrival. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I am the only one who noticed either. I sense the betting books at White’s filling up again even as we speak. What did he say?”

. . .
while I admire that particular shade of rose on you, I am certain you would look even better unadorned
. . .

Had Cecily not had some very shocking thoughts of her own, she might be more outraged.

Good heavens, they had imagined each other naked. No wonder she had blushed. And it was not fair either, for while she only had a vague idea of what he might look like, he no doubt had done a much better job of picturing her without a stitch on.

At least
she
hadn’t admitted it out loud.

“This evening he told me he liked the color of my gown,” Cecily said, a half-truth at best. “But then intimated he might like me more without it.”

Her sister’s eyes widened slightly in shock, and she took a moment before she said, “Good heavens, Ci. What are you going to do about the deliciously handsome but not so predictable Lord Augustine? You cannot let him continue such behavior.”

Cecily shrugged. “What is there to do? Two extremely brief conversations do not merit much contemplation. He’s done nothing wrong and neither have I. Besides, I cannot keep him from doing as he pleases.”

“Maybe not.” Eleanor glanced down at her clasped hands, the movement brief but telling before her chin came up. “At least Lord Drury was not there this evening. I have a feeling he would have been most horribly jealous.”

Precisely the subject Cecily didn’t want to arise. Had Eleanor been a different kind of person, she might have been able to just ask her about her infatuation with the viscount, but her sister was guarded about her emotions, if not her opinions, and Cecily knew better than to intrude. It was touchy, also, because his lordship was openly courting
her
instead of her sister, never mind that she didn’t reciprocate his interest. She wasn’t even sure why she had no romantic inclinations for Lord Drury, for he was charming, well mannered, and quite witty—all good reasons for Eleanor to be so taken with him.

“I hardly think his lordship would notice my extremely brief and public conversation with Augustine.”

“You are wrong. He’s quite in love with you. One can hardly blame him, for you are the true beauty of the family.”

Had she not known Eleanor so well, she would have interpreted her comment as self-pity, but that was not her sister. “How superficial you make it sound, but that aside, I don’t agree with you over Drury’s affection for me. How do you know? Did he say so?”

“To me? No, of course not.” Eleanor drew herself up. “But Roderick told me some time ago the viscount was enamored of you, and I believe it is true.”

“Why?” Almost as soon as she asked it, Cecily regretted it, for the answer was obvious. Because Eleanor watched him.

“I can tell.”

“You can tell he admires my looks? While that is flattering, I suppose, it is hardly a basis for marriage.”

Her sister had the grace to flush. “You have more to recommend you than just your looks. I’m sorry if it seemed I implied otherwise. You are very lovely, but also articulate and poised and demure. I am not surprised that men flock to you. He is only one of your many admirers. You’ve been a brilliant success this season. I was not in mine, and unfortunately I am not surprised at
that
either. I am neither demure nor poised.”

“Elle.” Impulsively, Cecily rose and went over to sit next to her sister on the bed, taking both her hands. “You are wonderful. Just because you did not find the right man your first season does not mean you were a failure. I count it as a success you did not settle for Lord Flannigan, who, if I recall correctly, was most determined to marry you.”

“Marry my dowry.” Eleanor gave a small, inelegant snort. “His intentions were no secret and I told him I knew well enough where his true interest lay. My marriage portion and my bosom. I don’t believe the man could tell you the color of my eyes to this day, for his gaze was continuously focused below my neck.”

There was no way to stifle a bout of laughter and Cecily didn’t try. “Please tell me you did not accuse his lordship of staring at your bosom.”

Eleanor shrugged and grinned. “I am afraid I did.” “Oh, Elle!” Cecily burst out in mirth again. “I confess I would have loved to be there for that moment.”

“His lordship’s expression was rather priceless. He decided then and there I would not be a suitable wife anyway. I think the words he used were ‘unfashionably candid.’ ”

“I would call it splendidly honest,” Cecily said loyally.

“But you are quite used to me.” Her sister’s fingers curled around hers tighter. Then the moment passed, for Eleanor was not one to wallow in sentiment. She let go and said crisply, “Rest assured, if Earl Savage has developed a penchant for you, I will keep an eye on him.”

And I,
Cecily thought,
will help you with your penchant for Lord Drury
.

 

It was very dark, a bit cold, and the thin sheets of rain felt good on his bare chest.

This—this—he understood. It wasn’t at all the same, of course. For one thing, it was dank, the streets splashed with noxious mud, and the clatter of Seneca’s hooves rang out through the night, but it still was what he craved.

A wild night ride, the wind in his hair, and if a footpad chose to accost him, Jonathan would welcome the encounter.

Maybe a part of him
was
barbaric. At least it was action, and in London he was . . . stifled. He wasn’t one to court danger, but neither did he shy away from it. The country estate with its stately elms and lush green park was much more preferable, but even there the river bordering the gardens was wide and slow-moving, pretty but placid, unlike the rushing rivers of his native land. Everything in England, he’d decided, was settled, cultivated, cultured.

Except himself, of course, he thought wryly, pulling up his horse to a more reasonable pace and urging the animal toward the alley where the stables were maintained behind the fashionable town house. How many rich earls went out riding in the middle of a rainy night attired only in their breeches and not bothering to saddle their horses? But he’d be damned if he was going to wear a cravat for a midnight gallop, and the wet and cold never bothered him anyway. A ride had seemed the best course to soothe his current state of restlessness.

Perhaps he should have taken up the blatant offer from the very beautiful ebony-haired countess earlier in the evening. Lady Irving had not so subtly pressed into his hand a perfumed slip of vellum with an address and time written in a flowing script as he waited for his carriage to be brought around after the musicale. He hadn’t been all that surprised because he’d been seated next to her at a dinner the week before and she had shamelessly flirted throughout the entire seven courses, to the point that even he had been taken aback—and he did not embarrass easily. Since the woman’s husband had been at the table, Jonathan had done his best to stay polite and yet cool in the face of her heated pursuit.

As he’d mentioned to the duke’s memorable young daughter, he didn’t understand the aristocracy. To allow your wife to have clandestine—and not so clandestine—affairs simply because she’d already given you a son and therefore served her purpose, was far more barbaric in his eyes than the customs of his mother’s people. To them, heritage was traced through the maternal side of the family. Though his aunt had raised him mostly in Boston—where his parents had met—she very firmly kept him in touch with his Iroquois legacy.

Something whizzed past, grazing his arm, and it broke his reverie, especially when there was a sound from the shadows and he was sure that even with the patter of the persistent rain he heard the scrape of running feet on the wet cobblestones.

In any other case he might even have given chase, but Seneca was winded from his run and Jonathan was soaked, and he had no illusions about the London streets at night. Even fashionable neighborhoods were unsafe.

He slid off Seneca, walked him around the small enclosure to cool him off, and then rubbed the big stallion down, enjoying the work, before putting him back in his stall. He let himself into the house through the back servants’ entrance, careful to remove his muddy boots, and padded in bare feet through the dark hallway. At this hour it was quiet, shadowed, and he moved silently, going up the staircase to his suite of rooms. The earl’s bedchamber was a bit grand for his tastes, but since he was in England to fulfill his duty and everyone expected he would take his father’s rooms, he had moved in, albeit a little reluctantly.

So, he discovered when he opened the door, had someone else, but
reluctant
didn’t apply to her presence.
Eager
was more applicable and
brazen
worked even better.

He stopped, arrested by this unexpected development to his evening, and uttered an inner curse.

From his bed, her lush nude body superimposed upon the linens, Valerie Dushane, Lady Irving, smiled. Her long dark hair was loose, her full breasts tipped with dusky nipples, and her legs just slightly, suggestively, parted. The neat triangle of dark hair at the apex of her thighs was trimmed close enough that he could see the definition of her sex. She murmured, “There you are, my lord. I was wondering if I was going to have to go looking for you.”

Get yourself out of this . . . now
.

“Your attire—or lack of—might have caused a bit of comment.” He closed the door. Not because he wished to be alone with her, but what if the sound of their conversation carried and disturbed Lillian, for instance, whose bedroom was closest? He doubted they would be overheard, but then again, the house was very quiet and Lady Irving was apparently quite determined. It didn’t happen often, but occasionally Adela had a bad dream and he was needed, and he hardly wanted that scenario either.

Explanations at this hour in particular would be difficult at best, especially since he doubted anyone would believe the naked woman lounging against the pillows with her body in flagrant display was uninvited.

The countess’s effrontery aside, he had to somehow deal with this in a diplomatic way and get her out of the house without anyone ever knowing she’d been there. Obviously Lady Irving was used to getting what she wanted. Jonathan was wet and chilled, and what mud the rain hadn’t washed away still clung to his skin. He moved toward the screen in the corner where a basin and towel sat ready. “How the devil did you get in?”

He should probably be more polite, but the truth was, she shouldn’t be lying naked in his bed without an invitation either. She had set the rules.

“It wasn’t complicated. My maid had a few words with your valet and he let me in the house, very discreetly, of course. When you didn’t arrive at the time specified on my invitation, I waited an hour and decided to change your mind. Oh . . . you’re bleeding.”

The breathy observation registered and Jonathan glanced down to note that indeed there was a fine line of red from a cut on his upper biceps, the seep of blood mingling with the water on his skin.

“It’s nothing,” he said, wondering now just what had been hurled his direction in the darkness. Whoever had run away had apparently not just flung a rock, which had been his first impression. “I should probably wash it.”