Chapter 5 #2
“Lady Louisa, I thought you’d want to hear it from me first…”
“Hear what?” Louisa yawned, rubbing her face.
The maid pressed her lips together, as if to suppress a shriek. “They’re saying you are to be married, milady. To Lord Foxmere. They say it’s all but official.”
Louisa’s mind needed a moment to process this. Then the memories crashed over her. The music room, the dare, Foxmere’s voice—‘I’ll marry you if you dare me to’—and her own reply, ‘Very well. Propose. I dare you.’ The image of him kneeling and the absurdity of his words flooded back.
Surely, she thought, even the wildest gossip couldn’t have survived that degree of farce. And who could have seen them?
The maid continued, her voice low but urgent, “The parlor is all abuzz. Some say you accepted. Others say there will be a formal announcement at luncheon. There’s even talk of a ring—”
“A ring?” Louisa nearly choked on her tea. “I have nothing to do with any ring. The man could barely stand upright, let alone procure jewelry.”
The maid leaned in. “I heard it from one of the footmen, who heard it from…well, never mind. But Lady Honoria says the proposal was witnessed. In the music room. Last night.”
Louisa cringed. “Who. Saw.”
The maid hesitated, then muttered, “Could be anyone, milady. They say he was very loud.”
Louisa flopped back against the pillow, glaring at the ceiling.
She could already envision the chain reaction.
A single careless moment spun into a web that would ensnare half the county.
It was a truth universally acknowledged that a gentleman with a fortune, a title, and a complete lack of discretion was always in need of a rumor.
She dressed quickly, cinching her stays so tight she could barely breathe, then swept downstairs to face the gossip.
The corridors were alive with whispers and the rustle of servants moving at triple speed.
No fewer than three maids curtsied as she passed, all casting identical, sidelong glances at her.
In the breakfast room, Lady Featherstone greeted her with a smile so artificial it might have been painted on. “Dearest Louisa! What delightful news. Lord Foxmere is quite the catch. Oh, I know he is a bit… spirited, but all the best men are.”
Louisa poured herself coffee with a steady hand. “You must be misinformed, madam. There is no news. Merely a misunderstanding.”
The woman tittered. “Of course, of course. But the young men do so love to dramatize. My own husband proposed during a footrace, you know. Everyone swore he was drunk, but I chose to believe it was passion.”
Louisa considered pouring the coffee directly into her own lap.
Lady Honoria swept in next, trailed by her usual entourage. Her gown, a fierce buttercup yellow, was designed to upstage even the sun. She took a seat directly opposite Louisa, propped her chin on one lace-gloved hand, and regarded her with intense curiosity.
“Lady Louisa,” she purred. “Do tell us when the banns are to be read. It’s all anyone can talk about.”
Louisa smiled sweetly. “I hear you are already rehearsing your role as bridesmaid, Lady Honoria. Shall we begin fittings this afternoon?”
Nervous giggles rippled among the other ladies, but Honoria was undeterred. “I do hope Lord Foxmere recovers quickly from his celebrations. He seemed quite… exhausted this morning.”
Louisa’s cup rattled in its saucer. “He is remarkably resilient. Or so I am told.”
As if summoned, Niall, Lord Foxmere, strolled into the room, embodying the debauched earl.
His hair a shade too wild, eyes bloodshot but alert, and cravat knotted with careless defiance.
He strode straight to the sideboard, loaded his plate with toast and bacon, and flopped into a chair three places down from Louisa.
He did not look at her.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said, his voice rough but civil. “Lovely day, is it not?”
Lady Featherstone clapped her hands. “Lord Foxmere! We were just congratulating Lady Louisa on her excellent match. I trust you will join us for the announcement at luncheon?”
Niall blinked, then shot Louisa a glance so brief and fraught with apology it might have gone unnoticed—except that Lady Honoria noticed everything.
He managed a strained smile. “I hate to disappoint, Lady Featherstone, but I believe you may be the victim of a cruel hoax. Lady Louisa has, to my knowledge, received no such proposal from me.”
The silence that followed was thick. Louisa felt all eyes pivot to her, waiting for confirmation or denial.
She chose honesty, mostly for the novelty. “It was a jest,” she said. “A very poor one, undertaken at an unseemly hour. I am not, nor shall I ever be, engaged to Lord Foxmere.”
A footman, entering with a fresh pot of tea, nearly tripped over the carpet in his eagerness.
Lady Honoria leaned in, her voice syrupy. “But my dear, I heard it from three separate sources. You were seen in the music room together, and I am told there was an exchange of vows.”
Louisa set her cup down. “The only exchange was of insults, I assure you.”
Niall cleared his throat, as if to signal agreement, then added, “She did dare me, Lady Honoria. It was not, however, a binding contract.”
Lady Honoria’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “What a shame. The entire house is on tenterhooks.”
Louisa ground her molars together, fighting the urge to upend the sugar bowl onto Honoria’s head.
Instead, she turned to Lady Featherstone.
“Might I request that no further mention of this ‘engagement’ be made? It is a matter of reputation, and I would not wish to damage Lord Foxmere’s standing with such a foolish story. ”
Niall snorted, almost a laugh. “If my reputation is not already irreparable, it soon will be.”
Lady Featherstone nodded, but with the helpless air of someone who knows a rumor is already outpacing the truth. “Of course, dear. Discretion is key, least you yourself be ruined.”
Louisa pushed back from the table, excused herself, and stalked out into the hall, head high and shoulders squared. Behind her, the hum of speculation resumed, louder than ever.
It was only as she turned the corner toward the library that she caught the whispered exchange of two footmen in the shadowed anteroom.
“They say he proposed right there in the music room—on one knee and everything!”
Louisa’s face burned, but a rueful smile tugged at her mouth. In the end, she supposed, it was almost romantic.
If only it weren’t her own life being affected by it.
She drew in a breath and continued down the hall, determined to find an escape from the brewing scandal. She stopped in the library before continuing to the drawing room.
There was a belief endorsed by saints, philosophers, and certain English matrons, that literature could solve anything.
Louisa had always been skeptical. But on this particular morning, with the world closing in on her and her reputation under scrutiny, she clutched her battered novel like a lifeline.
She curled in an armchair by the drawing room window, sunlight streamed through the glass just as her brother entered, looking troubled.
Lord Lucas Pembroke, Viscount Winthrop, was not typically dramatic, but the expression on his face as he closed the door suggested that something had gone seriously wrong.
“Louisa,” he said, barely keeping his voice even.
She looked up, marked her place with a finger, and responded, “You’re out of sorts.”
Lucas paced to the fireplace, turned, then paced back, as if measuring a confinement. “I have received, in the last hour, no fewer than seven notes of congratulation on your engagement to Foxmere. One of them—from Aunt Eugenia—includes a hand-copied recipe for ‘matrimonial pudding.’”
Louisa snorted, but Lucas did not share her amusement.
He turned, face flushed, hands braced on the back of a settee. “Is it true?”
She set the book aside and folded her hands, determined to project calm. “No. Absolutely not. The entire story is a farce. Someone overheard a foolish conversation and embellished it.”
Lucas’s jaw tightened. “That is not what the staff are saying. That is not what Lady Honoria Worthington is saying. And I daresay the village is now sharing the news.”
Louisa lifted her chin. “When has Lady Honoria ever let facts interfere with a good story?”
He shook his head, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You have to see it from my position, Louisa. You are my only sister. Our name—”
“Our name is already in the mud, Lucas. I merely added my own touch.”
He fell silent, brow furrowed, as if searching for the right response among the remnants of familial affection.
In the sudden hush, the door swung open. Lord Foxmere entered, coat slung over his arm and sunlight cutting across his face. He looked at Louisa, then at Lucas, surveying the scene with one of his signature, irreverent bows.
“Am I interrupting a domestic tragedy, or is it merely the comedy hour?” he asked.
Lucas straightened, preparing for a confrontation. “You,” he said, “are the cause of this entire mess. Explain yourself.”
Foxmere regarded Lucas with the bemused detachment of a man who had been called worse by better people. “Which particular mess do you mean, Lord Winthrop? I understand there are at least three circulating at present.”
Louisa wanted to interject, to offer herself as a shield or scapegoat, but the words caught in her throat.
Lucas advanced, voice shaking with restrained anger. “You made a mockery of my sister. You ruined her standing—”
“That,” Niall interrupted, suddenly serious, “was not my intention.” He fixed Lucas with a steady gaze. “If anyone’s reputation is to suffer, it should be mine alone. I take full responsibility.”
The room fell silent. Even the clock seemed to pause.
Lucas closed the distance between them. “You take full responsibility?” he repeated, incredulous. “You? You think a clever phrase and a bow will settle matters?”
“If it would,” Niall said, “I’d add a curtsy and a round of applause. But I know it will not.”
A blur of movement, a fist arcing through the air, connected with Niall’s jaw in a sickening crack. Niall reeled, staggered, and caught himself on the edge of the armchair. For a moment, Louisa thought he might retaliate, but he gripped the fabric, steadied himself, and let out a dry laugh.
Lucas shook his hand, surprised by its own violence.
“Lucas!” Louisa shouted, her outrage a shield for her own confusion.
But Niall raised a hand. “No, Lady Louisa. He is right. I have wronged you.”
He straightened, his cheek red, and looked Lucas in the eye. “If it matters,” he said, voice slightly slurred from the impact, “I never meant to harm her. She is the first person in years to treat me as if I am worthy of compassion.”
Lucas stepped back, breathing hard, and said, “You will make this right.”
Niall inclined his head, gingerly testing his jaw. “I shall try, Lord Winthrop. But you have met her—she makes it difficult to obey.”
Lucas glared, then stormed from the room, slamming the door so hard that the windows rattled.
The silence that followed was unlike any Louisa had ever experienced. She stared at Niall, who was dabbing at a trickle of blood with his handkerchief.
He caught her gaze, and for a moment neither of them spoke.
“You could have defended yourself,” she said at last, her voice a strange mix of anger and, though she would never admit it, admiration.
He shrugged, lips twisted in a half-smile, half-grimace. “I have never won a fight with a Pembroke, and I saw no reason to break the pattern now.”
She watched him, her heart doing unsettling things.
He offered the handkerchief, stained bright red. “A memento of our engagement?”
She took it, fingers brushing his. A tremor passed between them. Whether from him or from her, she could not say.
“Thank you,” she said, the words falling short of what she meant.
He looked at her, face bruised and swelling, but eyes still bright. “Anytime, Primrose.”
She wanted to say more. She wanted to apologize, to rage, to laugh. Instead she did the worst possible thing. Her hand lifted, unbidden, and she reached for his face.
She stopped just short of the bruise. Instead, she pressed the handkerchief into his palm.
“Next time,” she said, “try to avoid scandal before breakfast.”
He smiled, wincing. “No promises.” Then bowed, bloodied and bruised, and strode from the room.
Louisa watched him go, her heart racing. She looked down at her hands—one streaked with his blood, the other clenched into a fist.
She had no idea what to do next, but she was certain whatever she did would only make things worse.