The Birthday Scandal (12 page)

On those occasions Chloe Fletcher had been a much younger pest who insisted on tagging along after his sisters, who in turn had insisted on tagging along after him. That was all he remembered, but he recognized Chloe’s face.

She looked just short of fragile, and she appeared even younger than he knew she must be. Her face was small and triangular—he’d have known her anywhere just from that, for how many females had such a marked resemblance to a cat? Enormous and almost luminous green eyes; a pointed chin; high, classic cheekbones—yes, she was definitely feline in nature.

She was no longer the skinny and awkward girl he remembered, the one who regularly fell over her own feet—or over a blade of grass or a ray of sunlight. She was taller than either of his sisters, and in another contrast she was very fair, with golden hair and pale skin that showed up dramatically next to Isabel’s and Emily’s darker coloring. Though Chloe was still slender, she had filled out nicely—her muslin morning dress, though modestly cut, was stylish, and it hinted at intriguing curves underneath. Her clumsiness had gone as well; her curtseys were perfect.

If Chloe’s mother had groomed her daughter to win a title—as she no doubt had, Lucien thought irritably— Lady Fletcher couldn’t have done a better job. No wonder the Earl of Chiswick thought Chloe would make a perfect second wife.

At least, she seemed flawless on the surface. But if someone were to scratch that elegant surface, what would he find? Was it only Lucien’s imagination that said she was not attending to the earl but instead stealing looks under her lashes at Cousin Gavin?

“What a shame Sir George is not at home, Lord Chiswick,” Lady Fletcher murmured. “His responsibilities as a justice of the peace often take him away, I’m afraid.”

“And Mr. Lancaster?” the earl asked smoothly.

“He rode with Sir George, saying he would like to observe the proceedings.”

Lancaster? Lucien caught the look on Emily’s face and recalled the plain mister that the earl had most recently tried to match her up with.

He strolled across to her and muttered, “He’s running for his life, I suppose.”

“I should prefer to think he is showing sensitivity to a woman who rejected him by not forcing a meeting,” Emily said under her breath.

Well, that was barely possible, Lucien supposed—though if it had been him, he’d have made himself scarce in fear that the lady might change her mind.

“But I have a most excellent notion,” Lady Fletcher exclaimed. “You must all come back to Mallowan to dine with us tomorrow—and the dear duke, too, of course, if he is able. We are nearing the full moon, so it should be a wonderful night for a drive. We cannot offer a great deal in the way of entertainment, but we can manage cards and a little music for dancing.”

Lucien tuned out the nonsense in favor of closely watching Chloe. She sat near her mother, exchanging a few words now and then with Isabel and Emily. But he noted that her gaze wandered over the group. Maxwell she dismissed with a glance, and so far as he could see she barely acknowledged that the Earl of Chiswick was present.

He thought her pretense of disinterest a little overdone—just a bit too ingenuous to be real.

Only once did she look directly at Lucien, and for a moment her eyes seemed to flash with a challenge. But most often, he noted, she looked at Gavin.

“Miss Fletcher might show us your gardens, ma’am,” Maxwell suggested smoothly. “I understand Mallowan has quite an interesting maze.”

Lucien could have cheered. But his effort to steer Gavin to Chloe’s side went awry when Isabel claimed their cousin instead. Maxwell offered his arm to Emily, leaving Lucien with no option but to escort Chloe.

But that, too, might work out better in the end, he assured himself. If the duke’s heir had walked off with Miss Fletcher, Chiswick might have been stirred to jealousy and come along. As it was, the earl agreed with their hostess that a long ride was quite enough exercise for a morning, and he settled next to her on the settee to chat while the young people wandered about.

Though the manor house was nothing special, Maxwell was right; Mallowan’s gardens were remarkable. Mostly, Lucien thought, because it would be possible to get lost in them, even without venturing into the maze—where well-maintained old boxwoods had been allowed to grow more than head-high. But the rest of the garden offered private little nooks as well, full of flowers and sculptures and here and there a fountain, with rows of neatly trimmed shrubs screening off each section. What a boon that would be to lovers!

Deliberately, Lucien let their pace lag a little, until they were far enough behind Gavin and Isabel that they could not be overheard. “He’ll be looking for a wife soon. Athstone, I mean.”

Chloe sucked in a tiny breath that almost sounded like a gasp.

She’s startled that I was so direct.
But there was no time to delay; once Chiswick concluded his marriage negotiations, no one could back out of the arrangement and it would be too late for them all.

Despite her momentary surprise, Chloe spoke calmly. “Lord Athstone’s plan to marry is a matter that is entirely immaterial to me.”

“Indeed? I wonder if you’ve set your heart on a countess’s coronet or if—even with all your confidence—you think that’s the highest you dare aspire. Is it all arranged, then?”

She did not look up at him, and her voice was wooden. “The matter is far from decided. It would be immodest of me to talk of—or even to know about—what arrangements my father is contemplating for my future.”

Lucien started to laugh. “Now there’s the biggest fara-diddle I’ve heard in all my days! Females
always
know—at least my sisters did. And they had a few things to say about the choices, too.”

Chloe shot a look up at him, her eyes suddenly shimmering with irritation. “And how well
that
turned out for Lady Emily!”

So the girl had a spark of spirit, did she? Lucien looked at her with new interest. “It makes no sense for you to cling to the notion of being a countess when there’s a duke to be had—especially one who’s not so well-placed that he can demand a bride of his own rank. Still, there’s nothing wrong with Gavin that an ambitious wife couldn’t fix.”
And you would be the most ambitious wife in England,
he almost added.

“Then I hope for his sake that he does not wed an ambitious wife—for I cannot think it would be pleasant for him to be
fixed
.”

Lucien pursed his lips in a soundless whistle and wondered if his father had ever been allowed to see this side of Chloe Fletcher. Doubtful, for she seemed well able to control herself. And a pity it was if she had shown herself only as meek and mild, for this spark of defiance might have given Chiswick second thoughts before it was too late to change his mind.

She added, in dulcet tones, “Lord Hartford, would you like to admire this particularly fine young
senecio jacobaea
?”

“Can’t say that I would. Not that it isn’t a very good example of its breed,” he added hastily, “but I’m not much of a gardener.”

“Nothing could be clearer than that, since what I have just pointed out is common ragwort—a weed that has unaccountably escaped my mother’s notice.” Chloe let go of his arm, wrapped both hands around the offending plant, and tugged it out of the soil with a quick jerk. “There. Now that I have destroyed something, I feel better—but we should hasten to rejoin the others before I am tempted to release my destructive impulses on you for the foolish suggestions you have made today.”

Females
, Lucien thought irritably. He’d only been trying to do her a favor. Surely there was no call to threaten him with violence!

I
f it hadn’t been Maxwell who suggested walking in the Fletchers’ garden, Isabel might not have been so quick to turn to Gavin for companionship. But her husband had been playing cat and mouse with her all morning—ever since that incredible moment among the roses at Weybridge Castle when he had agreed to her terms. All through their ride he had been just behind her, and she had felt his gaze every second of the way. He had been the one at her side to help her dismount. He had chosen a seat in the Fletchers’ drawing room that was so close to her it made Isabel’s skin itch.

He was toying with her. He had agreed to conditions no sane gentleman would have contemplated for a moment. He couldn’t have truly meant it, for he had agreed far too easily. If only she understood why, and what his game was, she could counter his moves.

She barely saw Mallowan’s gardens. The soft caress of an autumn breeze against her face reminded her of the way Maxwell had touched her cheek last night, how his lips had barely brushed hers. The soft rumble of his voice behind her, as he walked and talked with Emily, echoed along her nerves.

What did the two of them have to talk about, anyway? Emily had never been particularly close to Maxwell; in the days leading up to Isabel’s wedding, Emily had been busy with her own friends, her own romances, her own budding betrothal. Since then, she had been hidden away in her village. Isabel would have said the two of them were scarcely acquainted. Yet there seemed to be no uncomfortable lapses, no awkward hesitations in their conversation. And once, Emily even laughed.

Isabel wondered if she had made the right choice a year ago, when she had held back from telling Emily about the role Maxwell had played in the disaster.

“Lady Isabel?”

She had the uncomfortable sensation it was not the first time Cousin Gavin had said her name. “I was woolgathering, I’m afraid. Such a beautiful day.” How foolish she was, able to think of nothing but sheer nonsense.

She was grateful Gavin didn’t push for more, and even more glad when Lucien and Chloe came up to them a few minutes later. Chloe’s cheeks looked pinker than usual—with annoyance rather than pleasure, Isabel concluded. Had Lucien done something he shouldn’t—or had he not done something Chloe expected? Or was the bride-to-be simply annoyed because she hadn’t received the warm welcome from any of the earl’s children that she had hoped for? More fool she, if she’d expected them to be pleased!

“The tradition of the Mallowan maze,” Chloe said, “has always been for the ladies to go in first, one at a time, and the gentlemen to wait five minutes before they follow. Of course, tradition assumes that the ladies will need—and want—to be rescued, but if you would prefer to stay in a group…”

“What a lovely custom,” Maxwell said.

“We must investigate the maze some other day,” Isabel said hastily. “It is past time to go, for it is a long ride. We will have another opportunity tomorrow to get better acquainted.”

“Very wise, my dear. We do not want you to be exhausted.” Maxwell surveyed the others. “I trust you will not take it amiss if my wife and I leave the group and ride back together?” Isabel felt his gaze come to rest warmly upon her as he went on, “I find myself feeling tiresomely romantic.”

Emily dawdled as long as she could, not eager to get back into the saddle, and by the time one of the Fletchers’ grooms led her mare out and helped her to mount once more, Gavin was the only one still in the stable yard. Lucien had been first away, and their father had followed closely behind—something Lucien must not have anticipated, or he’d have been more careful. Though Isabel had lingered, trying to stick close to her sister’s side, Emily had watched in bemusement as Maxwell cut his wife off as neatly as if he’d been cornering a fox. Which left only her and Gavin.

Emily adjusted her reins and touched her heel to the mare’s side, and Gavin pulled his rangy gelding in alongside her.

They were barely out of sight of the Fletchers’ manor house when she realized that the other riders had pulled well ahead. Gavin noticed as well, for he said, “You are setting a slower pace than before, Lady Emily.”

“My horse seems a bit tired.”

His voice was dry. “I didn’t deceive myself that you were enjoying my company so much that you were attempting to draw out our time together. I was merely suggesting that if you are as tired as your mare is, I will escort you back to Mallowan and ask Lady Fletcher to send you home in their carriage.”