A Sham Engagement (The Mismatched Lovers #1)

Chapter Three

“B ut, Mama, Lord Broxbourne asked me to dance so politely. Wasn’t it a little rude to lie to him about my dance card?”

Mama seized Elenora’s hand as she hurried her away, Aunt Penelope and Petunia trailing in their wake. “There are some gentlemen it isn’t wise to dance with, Elenora. You are too young and na?ve to understand.”

“It’s only a dance. And he does have a title. I thought that was what you wanted for me.” The impulse to provoke her mother was proving too strong.

“Have I taught you nothing? It’s not only a dance. Nothing like it. This is the marriage mart and, as I’ve repeatedly told you until I was blue in the face, all the young unattached ladies are here for one thing only. And they won’t be finding it with Viscount Broxbourne, even if he is as rich as Croesus.”

Her interest more than piqued now, although not in a way Mama would have liked, Elenora persisted. “Mama, you’re rather presuming that, aren’t you? He seemed perfectly pleasant when he was talking to me as we danced the cotillion.” Not quite true, but what did a little white lie matter? And as for the way he’d danced with the disreputable Lady Raby… the way watching them move together had made her feel…

Mama turned to Aunt Penelope. “You see, Penelope, what it is I have to put up with. And I have four more of them I have to deal with after this one. The thought’s enough to put me into a decline. You are so lucky to have just the one daughter.”

Aunt Penelope nodded sagely, and, it had to be said, a tad smugly, while Petunia stood beside her endeavoring to look like the sort of perfect daughter Mama obviously thought she was, but at the same time trying not to giggle.

“It’s no good, Penelope.” Mama heaved a heartfelt sigh. “You go on. Elenora and I need to have words . Again. We’ll join you in a little while.”

As Petunia pulled a commiserating face, Mama drew Elenora into a curtained alcove by a window and they both sat down on a cushioned bench. Outside on the terrace, lanterns shimmered in the darkness, casting pools of golden light across the paving. Chill air, a reminder that it was still winter, filtered in around the edges of the window in little eddies, and Elenora shivered.

Mama shook her head as if in despair. Mama was always doing this for reasons Elenora couldn’t fathom, but what was she supposed to have done now?

“Oh, you are such an innocent, Elenora. I don’t know how I’m going to get you married off successfully. Men like Broxbourne ask pretty girls with no fortunes to dance because they’re after one thing only. And it is not marriage.” Mama lowered her voice to a hushed whisper. “You saw that dreadful Lady Raby he was with, in that shameless scarlet gown, no less—rumor has it she’s his mistress. That’s the sort of man he is. Flaunting his affairs in public. No shame at all. And neither has she.”

Was there a cuckolded Lord Raby somewhere? Elenora’s mind spun off for a moment down a rabbit hole of enquiry, but common sense prevented her from sharing this with her mother in case it caused a fainting fit. Long years of experience had taught her that neither Mama nor her sisters, nor her brothers either, thought the same way she did. She folded her arms. “Well, as I don’t wish to marry him, I’m unlikely to come to any harm if I dance with him, am I? And as he clearly has a mistress already, he’s not going to be on the look out for another one, surely?”

Now she’d done it. Mama’s face achieved a shade of puce that rivaled poor Mr. Brightwell’s. “Elenora Wetherby! Stop talking in such an unladylike manner. Thank goodness your father’s in the card room and can’t hear you. His toes would curl.”

As Papa’s own language, frequently to be heard around Penworthy, was far more toe-curling, Elenora just compressed her lips and frowned at Mama. She loved her dearly, but she could be so frustrating. In fact, her whole family could be frustrating.

“And there’s no point in dancing with young men like your brother’s friends,” Mama went on, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “They have as little money to their names as he does. And that goes for Jolyon’s friends as well. All of his friends are hardened gamblers and what money they do have they fritter at cards or on the horses. You are not to dance with young men like that.”

As this was precisely why she would have chosen these young men as dancing partners, Elenora forbore from answering. Coming out during the London season was turning out to be more of a minefield than she’d expected, and she’d not entered into it blindfolded. Even though Mama had given her that long lecture before they’d come up to London after the New Year celebrations at Penworthy, she hadn’t really absorbed exactly what it would be like, nor how much Mama might try to control her choices. Being nineteen might make her feel like an adult, but in Mama’s mind she was clearly still a child to be told what to do. And that included whom to marry. She’d made up her mind back then that she wouldn’t just knuckle under and obey, and she had no intention of wavering. Mama could present her with as many eligible men as she wanted; she wasn’t going to be marrying any of them.

Mama took her arm. “Now, let’s go and introduce you to some much more suitable young men. We won’t meet any sitting here. We need to find your Aunt Penelope and Petunia again and circulate. No need to bother with anyone we’re not considering for marriage.” She drew Elenora out of the alcove. “The more people who know we’re here, the more invitations you’re likely to get to other balls and parties and the more likely you are to meet someone you could like as a husband.”

Oh no. That was just what Elenora didn’t want.

Jack Deveril relinquished the charming Lady Raby’s company at the earnest request of his friend Lord Thomas Mayhew, who whisked her off onto the dance floor, leaving Jack with a thirst that required quenching. The ballroom at Amberley House was more than warm, despite the chill of winter prevailing out of doors, and sweat stood out on his forehead after the vigor of the cotillion.

His eyes followed the intriguing blonde girl, Miss Wetherby, as her mother hurried her away, waiting for her to look back at him over her elegant shoulder. When she didn’t, he experienced a sag of disappointment. He must be losing his touch. She was the prettiest girl here tonight and it would have been fun to have squired her out onto the dance floor. Not to mention she had a direct attitude about her that fascinated him. Purely from the point of view of liking the company of women in general, that was. Nothing else. Of course.

She and her battleaxe of a mama disappeared into one of the curtained alcoves along the right hand side of the room. Perfect for a gentleman’s rendezvous with a lady, but as they’d both gone in there, their tête-à-tête must be for a quite different purpose. In all probability, Lady Wetherby was outlining to her delightful daughter the many reasons why she shouldn’t dance with a man like Jack. He smiled to himself. It would be fun to pursue the young lady, if only to annoy her ambitious mother.

And besides, used as he was to young ladies setting their caps at him, her apparent lack of interest piqued him. He liked to think he could have any young lady he fancied with a click of his fingers. God hadn’t blessed him with this countenance and this physique for nothing. It might also be fun to make her want him, something at which he considered himself gifted.

He frowned. Perhaps not. Of course, her dance card wasn’t full. Her mother just didn’t want the girl to dance with him. Unsurprising really, although a lot of mamas seemed to see him as some sort of challenge they were sure their daughters could conquer. The frown softened into a smile again. No. He wasn’t interested enough to put himself out. After all, he had Louise, didn’t he? And wasn’t she the most accommodating mistress he’d had so far? Just thinking about her lying naked in her silk sheets had him uncomfortable in his breeches. He’d have to go and find an alcove or a quiet corner himself if he couldn’t get his body under control.

Anyway, he’d only wanted to dance with the girl to make Louise jealous. Because she was such a pretty girl, and he’d seen Louise’s face when she’d spotted him talking to her during the changes. And because he liked to tease. He had to admit, though, that at ten years his senior, Louise’s looks were beginning to fade, the contrast made more noticeable when he’d looked at her beside Miss Wetherby. He shrugged. Miss Wetherby was a pretty girl whom he might have wanted to seduce had she not such a ferocious guard dog of a mother. Just for the fun of making her want him when she so clearly didn’t.

Shrugging off thoughts of the annoyingly disinterested Miss Wetherby, Jack strolled through into the refreshments room and secured himself a glass of lemonade. Whisky was on offer, of course, but his thirst kept him away from it. And besides which, if he was going into the card room he’d need his wits about him. Only a fool played cards while drunk, and Jack was no fool.

In the card room several tables had already been set up and a fair number of gentlemen were playing. The scent of fine whisky filled the air. No one should notice that he wasn’t drinking, a fact he was adept at hiding. At a table over by one of the windows, Sir Nicholas Wetherby was playing loo, an unwise, half-full glass of whisky by his right hand. Jack knew him by name only, although he’d seen him a number of times at White’s and Almack’s, always seated at a gaming table with a hand of cards in his grip. He was a tall, rather willowy gentleman with a shock of blonde hair just going gray and startlingly blue eyes. Too much of a coincidence for the fair Elenora not to be his daughter.

Jack ambled over and stood watching for a minute or two while Sir Nicholas lost again. Unwise to gamble what you didn’t have, and if rumor was correct, Sir Nicholas was dished up. Why was it men who’d lost everything persisted in the fallacy that their luck was about to change if they kept on digging deeper? He almost felt sorry for the girl, as clearly her mama was out to snare a rich husband for her, something she might succeed at thanks to Miss Wetherby’s looks, and turn about the family fortunes. A man would have to be desperate to choose to end up leg-shackled to a girl with a family like hers.

“Jack, old chap.” An arm was slung around Jack’s broad shoulders. “Found you at last. I might’ve guessed you’d have hidden yourself away in here, away from all the predatory mamas. Come and sit over here—we’re just starting a bank for a game of Faro. Sssh. Don’t tell anyone, or we’ll be in trouble.” The encircling arm of the Honorable Oliver Fairley, one of Jack’s closest friends, guided him away from his contemplation of Wetherby’s table and toward a fresh one that was just being set up. “Westlake and Dugdale are going to join us when they’re back from the refreshment room.”

Jack sat down on a seat richly upholstered in deep pink velvet. “I wondered if I’d see you in here.”

Fairley grinned. “Can’t keep me away from the card room, which means you can’t keep me away from any ball I’m invited to. I think the matchmaking mamas still believe their daughters can catch me.” He chuckled. “Good luck to them on that. Why would I swap a new mistress every few years for being leg-shackled to one woman for life?”

Jack chuckled back. “I suppose marrying wouldn’t necessarily mean you’d have to give up your mistress. A lot of men have both, keep each apart from the other, and live in perfect harmony.”

Fairley snorted. “Would you give up the joys of a mistress for a missish girl ruling your household and a nursery full of squalling brats?”

Jack shook his head. “Not for a moment.” Not even if the wife in question resembled the beautiful Miss Wetherby. Definitely not.

Fairley leaned closer. “Which reminds me—do I hear you’ve been escorting the exquisite Lady Raby about town?” He waggled his eyebrows up and down a few times, something he clearly thought suggestive of intent.

Jack tapped his nose. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Fairley laughed out loud. “Not just me but the gossipy old harridans who rule over the Ton. They’d all like to know if you’ve breached the walls there.”

“And I suppose if I told you, you’d rush off and spread the story to everyone here.” Jack lowered his voice to an urgent whisper. “Hey, did you hear, Broxbourne’s scaled the heights of Raby.” He finished with a laugh.

“Damn you, Jack, I can never tell if you’re gulling me or not.”

Jack shrugged. “Take it whichever way you wish.”

Fairley’s eyes lit up. “Does she? Take it whatever way you wish?” He licked his lips. “I’ve always had a fancy to broach that lady’s defenses. Such as they are. I hear she doesn’t fight hard to defend her virtue.”

“Lord Raby might have something to say about that, as you’re not the most discreet of lovers, even though he keeps to his country estate nowadays. We can all tell which lady you’re trailing after, every time. And so can their husbands.”

“Probably why I’ve never tried.” Fairley paused. “But you’re hardly the soul of discretion yourself, so don’t tell me off for my inability to hide how happy I am each time I find a new light o’ love. And we all know Raby won’t come up to Town and doesn’t give a fig what his wife gets up to as long as he has his hounds to ride to.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of Sir Simon Westlake and Lord Arthur Dugdale, each bearing two glasses of lemonade. They sat down.

“I’m determined not to drink while I play this time.” Dugdale, a sturdy man whose carefully upswept sandy hair hid a growing bald spot, handed a glass to Jack. “Or I’ll be lured into playing too deep and you’ll fleece me again. No one with your breeding has a right to be so damned lucky at cards. You’re meant to lose sometimes, you know.”

Westlake, a lugubrious fellow with the visage of a disappointed undertaker, snorted with laughter. “Staying sober won’t help you any, Arthur. Playing you is like taking money from an old lady. In fact, you play like an old lady at an afternoon tea party.”

Dugdale huffed. “It’s a jolly good thing you and I are old friends or I’d have to call you out for that. At the very least plant you a facer.”

Westlake pulled a disbelieving but good-natured face and turned to Jack. “I say, didn’t I see you dancing with the most gorgeous girl in the room just now?”

“Did you?” Fairley asked, ears pricking. “What girl was that?”

“Not one to interest any of you,” Jack said. “I only managed to dance a few steps with her in the cotillion. She has a bulldog of a mother who refused to allow her to dance with me and a father who’s on his uppers, so her face is her only fortune. I suspect the mother knew quite well who I was, and that she’s relying on the girl’s looks to snare her a rich husband.”

“A diamond of the first water, I’d say, by the look of her,” Westlake said. “Prettiest girl here tonight. If I were a bit younger and not hog tied to Amelia’s apron strings, I’d be out there pressing her for a dance.” Eyes suddenly furtive, he glanced at the door. “Amelia’s not there, is she, spying on me to make sure I behave myself?”

His three friends laughed in unison, and Jack picked up the new pack of cards that had been left ready on the table by their hosts. “No, she’s not, but if it keeps you out of trouble, let’s keep the bets to below five guineas.”

“Oh, the ignominy of always having to do as my wife says,” Westlake moaned, turning back to the table. “You three are wise to steer clear of tying yourselves down to a chit.” He paused. “Well, I thought that was what I was doing when I asked Amelia’s papa for her hand in marriage, but it turned out that what I was really marrying was a hard-nosed accountant.”

Dugdale poked him in the arm. “Methinks you protest too much. You know you like being married to Amelia.” He reached into an inner pocket of his frock coat and drew out a snuff box. Having taken a pinch himself and snorted it, he offered the box to his friends.

Jack, who rarely indulged, shook his head, his gaze wandering back to where, from the sound of it, Sir Nicholas was losing heavily. Again. His thoughts returned unbidden to Miss Wetherby and her termagant of a mother. He’d seen that look in the eyes of enough mothers of daughters to recognize it when he saw it—she was a woman for whom only the most advantageous match would do. To his surprise, a tiny pang of pity rose in his breast for Miss Elenora Wetherby. Too many mothers were willing to sacrifice the happiness of their daughters for the cachet of saying they’d snared a title for them. He glanced about the room. How many of the men here possessed unhappy wives? The relief that he would never be father to a daughter washed over him. “Shall I be banker?”