The Birthday Scandal (23 page)

“Let me help you to kidneys,” Maxwell murmured. “They are said to be very healthy for you.”

Had there been the smallest hesitation in his voice before that last word—as though it was not Isabel’s welfare he was commenting on, but that of the child he was so determined to create?

But of course he was thinking only of his child.

She told herself she was not shocked at the realization; she wasn’t even surprised. And she definitely was not disappointed to have it made clear that her own health was a concern for him only as it might affect a child she carried.

In fact, she was almost pleased to have the solid reminder of what was important—particularly since a child was just as important to her, now, as it was to him. Once she had embarked on this course, there was no way out but through—so the sooner she was provably pregnant, the sooner this farce would be over, and the sooner she would be free.

Maxwell laid a hand on the back of the chair next to his, as if to pull it out for her, but Isabel shook her head. “I shall sit with my uncle,” she said, and took a chair between her father and the duke. Odd, however, that even though she was three seats away from her husband, she could feel him next to her, as though he was still cupping her wrist to hold her plate steady as he spooned kidneys onto it. She could smell his cologne as clearly as if his scent had soaked into the sleeve of her morning dress where he’d brushed against the fabric.

She half listened to the conversation as she pushed the kidneys around on her plate, and thought that Emily, sitting across from her, was being unusually chatty this morning. Her sister was sitting next to Gavin and paying not a whit of attention to him. What a shame that was. If only Emily could see their new cousin as Isabel herself did…

Emily paused midsentence as her gaze came to rest on Isabel. “My dear, what did you do to your hand?”

Isabel glanced down at the shadow of a bruise. “Bumped it, I suppose,” she said and prayed that Emily would let the subject drop.

Chiswick turned a page in his newspaper. “Is Hartford still abed? One must wonder what sort of dissipation he could possibly have found to indulge himself in, not to be able to arise at a decent hour of the morning. Not that the rest of you are exactly early birds today.”

Isabel felt her face warm. Dissipation—yes, that would be an accurate way to describe a good deal of what had gone on between her and Maxwell last night. She tried not to look at her husband, but she knew that his gaze was resting on her.

“You must have been quite deeply asleep last night, Emily,” Chiswick went on, “since Hartford couldn’t rouse you.”

“Country air,” Emily said promptly. “It always makes me rest so well.”

Gavin chuckled. The duke looked askance at him, and Gavin added, “A castle was never my idea of the country. If you’d seen some of the small farms around Baltimore—”

“Spare us, Athstone,” the duke said. “If I wanted to see agriculture in the heathenish new world, I’d have gone there. Take yourself off and study your ancestors for a while. Surveying the portrait gallery will give you a better understanding of the value of history and family, and help you forget about farms.”

“Of course, sir,” Gavin said respectfully. He bowed to the company and went out.

Emily pushed her chair back. “The seamstresses will be waiting. If you’ll excuse me, Uncle Josiah?”

Isabel stopped stirring her food. “Wait just a moment, Emily, and I’ll go with you.”

Maxwell intervened. “But you have not yet finished your breakfast. Let me get you a fresh, hot plate, because your food must have gone cold. You must keep up your strength, for the sake of—”

Isabel’s face flooded with color.

“—the seamstresses,” Maxwell finished gently as he set a plate before her. “You want to be able to stand still long enough that your ball gown will fit properly—don’t you, my dear Isabel?”

Though Gavin never seemed to be in any hurry, he could obviously move quickly when he wanted to—for by the time Emily followed him from the breakfast room he was out of sight, and it took her a few minutes to run him to earth in the portrait gallery which spanned the width of the second floor of the castle’s oldest section.

He was standing halfway down the gallery, contemplating a full-length portrait of a long-dead Duke of Weybridge and idly scratching the ears of Uncle Josiah’s favorite dog, when she caught up with him. “Well, I must say this is the last place I thought of searching for you, Gavin—exactly where Uncle Josiah suggested you go.”

He smiled a little but didn’t take his gaze off the portrait. “A right old tartar
he
looks, doesn’t he?”

Emily spared no more than a glance at the old duke in his stiffly whaleboned brocade coat and long, cascading curls before turning back to Gavin. “What were you
thinking
? Laughing at me in front of the entire family for saying I slept soundly!”

“You
do
sleep soundly—and a good thing it is
I
didn’t or you’d have still been in my bed when Benson came in with tea this morning.”

Emily bit her lip and said reluctantly, “I suppose I owe you thanks for that much. I seem to have been more tired last night than I thought.”

The corner of Gavin’s mouth twitched. “All that fresh air, no doubt.”

“There you go again,” Emily accused, “laughing at me. You
must
be more circumspect or someone will guess that we…that we…”

“You mean someone like your father? I should warn you that before you came down this morning, he admonished me to have a care with your reputation.”

Emily’s heart dropped to her toes. “But how could he possibly suspect—?”

“He told me that after our moonlight drive last night, he is concerned I may not fully appreciate the need to treat an English lady’s good name with delicacy.”

She could breathe again. “I’d almost forgotten that.”

“My heart breaks,” he murmured.

“A moonlight drive, in company, is nothing. It’s done all the time in the
ton
. And stop trying to distract me. You can’t go around laughing at me when—”

“Whenever you tell some gigantic bouncer? Is your behavior at breakfast what you consider being circumspect—chattering at random so no one else could get a word in, and never once looking at me? If that is an example of you being discreet—”

“More discreet than you were,” she accused. “And you must have let something slip to Benson.”

“I swear on my honor I did not. What makes you think I did?”

“Because he was in the gallery when I came down this morning, and he looked at me in such an impertinent way—”

“That would have been your own guilty conscience speaking, Emily. Benson is only impertinent to people who insult me.”

“Me? I haven’t—”

He raised an eyebrow.

“All right,” she said reluctantly. “Perhaps I have. But—”

“There’s an easy solution to all of this, you know. Just don’t come back to my room.”

Emily was startled. “What?”

“Surely last night provided the answer to your questions. If the possibility of being discovered troubles you so much, and if you feel you cannot trust me to maintain the proper respectful attitude, then you should thank your good fortune that last night is safely past—and not take further chances of discovery.”

“Oh.” Emily was surprised for a moment that he was being so calm, so straightforward, so clear of vision. She wondered if Gavin had found himself in this sort of situation before—facing down a woman’s kinfolk just hours after making love to her.

And his suggestion was quite sensible, she had to admit. Emily had, in her inexperience, underestimated the difficulty of carrying on an intrigue directly under the noses of her entire family. How, she wondered, did the ladies and gentlemen of the
ton
ever manage? But house parties were generally made up of friends, not families—and if all of the guests were following the same set of rules, they would not ask uncomfortable questions of their fellows.

There was no reason to feel irritated at how easily Gavin seemed to have given up the idea of another night together. In fact, it would have been quite embarrassing if he had insisted, or pleaded, or begged, or bargained. She was glad he was being sensible.

“Quite a simple solution,” Gavin said.

Emily tried to smother her aggravation. Did he need to sound so pleased that their
affaire
was already finished?

The silence stretched out awkwardly as she considered ways to excuse herself without looking as though she were running away or flouncing off in disappointment.

Gavin gestured toward the nearest oil painting. “Would you care to explain to me who all these worthy ladies and gentlemen are, and how they’re related? I’m reasonably certain the duke intends to quiz me.”

Emily darted a look at him, suspicious that he was changing the subject in an effort to spare her feelings. But he seemed perfectly earnest. “That’s the fourth duke you’re looking at,” she began. “The artist is said to be Sir Peter Lely, who also painted Charles the Second. His duchess is just over there.”

“The one who looks as if her stays are pinching?”

Emily tried not to giggle. Most of the gentlemen of her acquaintance wouldn’t admit to knowing what stays were—at least not in a young lady’s hearing.

Gavin offered his arm, and Emily slipped her hand into his elbow.

“Standing at her right is her son, the marquess. If you look closely you’ll see your signet ring.” She pointed.

Gavin twisted the signet on his finger.

“And the next portrait is her daughter,” she went on. “That artist is said to have fallen in love with his subject and flattered her greatly.”

“She looks like you,” Gavin said softly.

And it was a long time and a good many portraits later when Emily remembered that she’d been meant to spend the morning with the seamstresses.

Chloe Fletcher’s demand had been nothing short of blackmail, and as his mount steadily clipped away the miles that lay between the linden grove at Mallowan and the army barracks at Peterborough, Lucien could scarcely believe that he’d surrendered to her demands. He was not only being held hostage by a pert little miss who probably weighed less than any one of the duke’s favorite hounds, but she had used a threat that any fool would know she couldn’t possibly mean to carry out.
Run my errand or I’ll marry your father after all.

What had he been thinking of, to cave in to something so foolish?

He whiled away a few miles thinking about what would happen if she acted on her threat. Lucien wouldn’t mind watching the fireworks if the Earl of Chiswick came up against someone just as determined as he was.

No wonder your father gives you no respect, if you never stand up to him.

That terse assessment still stung, but it didn’t mean she was right. Easy enough for her to make judgments when she was safely on the outside. In the end, however, determined though Chloe Fletcher might be, the Earl of Chiswick would stand for no nonsense from a mere wife. He’d crush her like a grape.

It would be a shame for that to happen—for that spirit of hers to be smashed out of existence. Lucien supposed that was why he had given in to her demands and why he was riding off on this mad errand.

The scent of roasting meat drifted from a wayside inn as he passed, and Lucien’s belly rumbled. The horse needed rest, he told himself, so he turned the animal over to the ostlers and went into the taproom for a pint of ale and to check out the innkeeper’s wife’s skill with a hearty breakfast.

Exactly how mad the errand—and Chloe herself—might be, Lucien wasn’t certain. Obviously he was helping to arrange an elopement; there was no room for doubt about that. Captain Hopkins must be more than just a friend, because Chloe had colored a bit when she spoke of him, and there had been that telltale softness in her voice when she said his name.

Equally obviously, Sir George and Lady Fletcher did not approve of Captain Hopkins as a suitor for their daughter. They probably had an inkling of Chloe’s feelings—thus her need for complete privacy to ask the favor. The captain’s mere existence might help explain why they were so quick to agree to marry off their only daughter to a much older man, earl or not. If Chloe Fletcher had tumbled into an attachment with a soldier who had no family or connections to speak of, her parents would have done everything in their power to stand in the young lovers’ way. No doubt they thought that once married, she would be safe from foolish thoughts about a soldier in a bright red uniform.