Chapter Four
A s the evening wore on, Elenora found it increasingly difficult to hold her tongue with her mother. She’d already had the argument she envisioned repeating itself here several times prior to this, her first ball, and on every occasion she had come off the loser. Only this kept her from voicing her objections to this cattle market of a ball.
The argument had begun at home in Penworthy when Mama had announced she’d decided it was high time for Elenora to come out. She’d clearly been expecting her oldest daughter to be ecstatic and had been less than impressed at the reaction she’d received. Elenora, wondering how her mother had lived with her for nearly twenty years yet still didn’t know her, had expressed her ardent desire, in rather too explicit terms, to forego such an ordeal.
Mama, in high dudgeon and appealing to Papa for support, had pointed out all the reasons why it would be advantageous not just to her but to the whole family if she acquiesced meekly and found herself a rich husband. Mama had been frustrated and sadly disappointed at what she called Elenora’s “selfish obduracy,” quickly followed by anger, and had demanded that Papa inform Elenora of her duty with a capital D. Papa had done this with reluctance and retreated into his study, the door of which he’d locked behind him.
The fact that Augusta, three years her junior, and Frances, only one year below that, had been present had not helped Elenora’s argument. Both of her sisters had been not just green with envy but also wildly enthusiastic for her prospective debut on the London social scene. Because, with her married off, they could see it would soon be their turns to be presented and for both of them, perplexingly, this seemed to be their one aim in life. Empty-headed feather-brains that they both were.
So no support had come from either of them. In fact, they’d acted as though they couldn’t wait to see the back of her, which had seemed a little unfair. All that had resulted from that first, heated confrontation was that Mama had come down with a megrim and taken to her bed with her much-used smelling salts and Elenora had been left feeling guilty. She hadn’t wanted to, because she felt it was Papa’s fault she needed to be married off advantageously, and if he hadn’t had such an addiction to gambling, she could have remained happily at home in the country forever.
On arrival in London, any hopes Elenora had cherished of appealing to Aunt Penelope had come to nothing, as Papa’s only sister was overjoyed to be bringing out not just her own daughter, but her prettiest niece as well, especially as both girls were so similar in appearance. Well, Petunia had inherited her late father’s sturdy figure whereas Elenora was more like her tall and slender father, but they were alike in coloring at least, a fact which Aunt Penelope was wont to repeat ad infinitum to anyone who would listen and even those who didn’t want to.
Aunt Penelope had been left a rich widow three years ago, something which seemed to rankle with Mama. She had been overjoyed that she could, for a second time, as Petunia already had her wardrobe assembled, traipse around London’s best couturiers and mantua makers and shoemakers and hat shops and all the other establishments Mama swore were necessary for a girl making her debut with the Ton. After all, as Mama pointed out more than once, dressing a girl as rewarding as Elenora was delightful.
Elenora had tried again at every opportunity to put forward her reasons for not wishing to come out, especially the amount of money they were spending on gowns and gloves and spencers and cloaks and slippers and hats and… well, too many clothes for one girl, especially one who preferred messing about in the country and shooting with her brothers. And, of course, Mama had to have new gowns as well. Her protesting was to no avail. Aunt Penelope, unfortunately for Elenora, had already offered to help Papa pay for Elenora’s gowns, so there was to be no argument.
She’d tried again that very evening, before Aunt Penelope’s carriage had arrived at the front door, ready to take them to the Amberley House Ball. Mama had already been in an ecstasy of anticipation. “We’re so lucky dear Penelope lives in London for most of the year. She knows everyone who’s everyone and we’ll reap the benefit of that with invitations from all her friends and acquaintances.”
Elenora hadn’t shared Mama’s enthusiasm and made the mistake of airing her thoughts. Mama had not been amused. And here they were, after midnight now and an excruciating supper in the company of the tubby and middle-aged Lord Shinfield, the recently widowed heir to a dukedom. He featured high on Mama’s list of suitable gentlemen, despite his pot belly and nascent bald spot, and the fact that he was three inches shorter than Elenora. She was sure she’d heard Aunt Penelope whisper her congratulations to Mama when he’d edged his way across the ballroom to request a dance.
Elenora had been quite relieved when, as they emerged from the supper room, a younger gentleman arrived to claim the next dance with her. Lord Shinfield, who had regaled Elenora with tales of his seemingly numerous motherless children, and not once asked her a question about herself, glowered at the newcomer, but etiquette required him to stand back and cede the day.
However, this young man had proved no more interesting a conversation maker than his predecessor—did no one in London have anything worthwhile to talk about? As the dance ended, Elenora wished him a brusque good evening and slunk away into the mêlée of people around the refreshments before Mama could pounce. Surely there must be somewhere she could get away from this crowd of noisy, tipsy if not outright drunk gentlemen and their imperious ladies.
She found herself almost bundled to the side of the room, where a closed oak door beckoned her. Glancing around in case the young man to whom she’d been consigned for the next dance might be approaching, she opened the door and slipped inside.
The oasis of peace that was the room she found herself in surprised her. Only a faint buzz of noise managed to penetrate the heavy door and paneled walls of a large library. Of all the places in Amberley House, this was the one she would have most wanted to find herself in if she’d been asked. What luck. A little sigh escaped her as she surveyed the floor to ceiling shelves of leather-bound books. Heaven on Earth. And nobody knew she was here. Perhaps she could hide in a quiet corner until it was time to return home. With a book.
A coal fire burned with enthusiasm in the large fireplace on the far side of the room, in front of which stood two large wingbacked chairs, facing the heat. If she sat in one of them, with a book of her choice, no one would even see her from the doorway, and in her somewhat limited experience, most people were not fond of the actual books in libraries so wouldn’t linger even if they found their way here. Perfect. Now to choose a book.
No easy task. Whoever owned this library had the books ordered by subject, so that was a great help. She navigated her way down the shelves to the right of the door, searching for the history section, if there was one. History was a subject that had always interested her, but she’d long since exhausted the small supply of such books in the library at Penworthy. A library that had been purchased by Papa’s father by the linear foot, for the way it looked and not for its content. A library only she and Papa frequented.
The pleasingly large and well-stocked history section resided on the mahogany shelves on the right side of the room. Elenora perused the spines, reading off title after title in an awed whisper as she went, as spoilt for choice as Mama had been last week in the couturiers when choosing the fabric for her new gowns.
She paused, her breath catching in her throat. Antiquities of Athens Measured and Delineated by James Stuart and Nicholas Revett. All three volumes, the last published in 1794, when she’d been a little girl, just starting out with an obsession for history the rest of her family couldn’t understand. She let her fingers run over the embossed leather of the books’ spines. How often had she begged Papa to purchase a copy of these books, offering to forego new gowns for several years should he be so kind as to agree. An easy thing to offer, but all to no avail. And now here were all three, and she had time only to skim their surface. Better not waste any time and start with the first one.
She pulled the first volume from the shelf, and, hugging it to her breast like a beloved child, headed for the leather wingbacked chairs by the fire. It would be so cozy to sit in silence with her feet up on the fender, warming her toes, with the book she’d longed to read for so long in her lap.
She rounded the seats and stopped in her tracks. A man already occupied one of them, and he wasn’t discreetly asleep, or even feigning sleep, which would have been polite. Instead, he was looking at her with one dark eyebrow raised in open enquiry and a sleek, sardonic smile on his lips.
Jack Deveril, Lord Broxbourne. The man with the reputation.
“Oh,” was all she could think of to say.
He steepled his fingers. “I was wondering whether you intended to purloin that book or come and sit with me before the fire to read it.”
“Sit with you? Good heavens, no.” Shock made her more honest than she would have liked. “I shall put it back forthwith and leave you to your thoughts, Lord Broxbourne.” Damn it. How dare he be here spoiling her escape from the ball? Spoiling her chance to read this book. She made to turn away, but he shot out a hand and caught hold of her gown.
“Pray don’t depart on my account. If you wish to read that book, then please do so.”
Oh no. She pulled away from him, expecting him to let go of her gown, as any gentleman would. He didn’t. The delicate, and eye-wateringly expensive, fabric tore.
She did stop then, in case the gown tore even more, which would be a disaster and take a lot of explaining. “Please release your hold on me. I must return to the ballroom. You may have the book back and return it to the shelf yourself.” She held out the book.
He ignored her.
The book was heavy and holding it out made her arms ache. She drew the book back to her breasts again, holding it like a shield between her and this ridiculous man who seemed to think he could tell her what to do. Just like Mama. Just like everybody she knew. “At least, my lord, unhand me so that I may return the book myself.”
He nodded his head at the other chair. “Nonsense. I’m bored and you interest me. Sit down and tell me why you chose that particular book, when there are others of a more feminine taste over there. Novels. I never met a woman yet who didn’t like a romantic novel.”
Well, he’d met one now. She didn’t say so though.
She didn’t move. “That is really none of your business. Now please let me go before someone comes.”
He didn’t let go, a rather wicked smile lighting up his face, as though he were finding this whole thing entertaining. “Afraid of the consequences, are you? You know you like me. I could tell from the look on your face when your erstwhile mother lied to me that your dance card was full.”
On sounder ground now, Elenora could answer this one. “You mistake me, my lord. I was not pleased you’d asked for a dance because I liked you, but because you are so unsuitable a partner. And if you had secured a dance with me, that would have been one less dance for me with someone my mother sees as a possible son-in-law.”
He had unusually dark eyes, in which the dancing flames of the fire flickered, giving him an undoubtedly devilish appearance. Hadn’t Mr. Brightwell said his nickname was Satan? Lord Satan, would that be? And his family name, Deveril, was close enough to the word ‘devil’ to be more than a coincidence. Perhaps.
He laughed. “Are you telling me you wanted to dance with me because I’m considered an unsuitable match? Don’t you want to be married to some scion of a noble house?” His laugh hardened. “To save your family from ruin?”
Indignation surged up through Elenora’s body at his insinuation, and she took another step, tugging at her gown. More worrying ripping followed. “My family is not ruined, and it is very rude of you to imply that.” Lying didn’t come easily to her.
Broxbourne’s lips curled in a mirthless smile. “Your father is in the card room now trying to win back everything he’s lost, writing vowels out to those he owes money to. And your brothers are no better, if smaller losers. Don’t think this has gone unnoticed.”
Heat washed up Elenora, flushing her from her breasts to her cheeks, and with it, anger. “I must point out that it is very ill bred of you to draw this to my attention. It is not the done thing to speak of such things in public. You might be a lord, but you are clearly not a gentleman… my lord.” Obnoxious man. How dare he speak to her like this?
She looked back down at her gown, rage bubbling inside her. What she would have liked to have done was punch him. Matthew had taught her how to box a few summers since, and she’d once knocked him out. How she’d relish doing that to this dreadfully rude man. How she’d like to wipe that smug, self-satisfied, I’m-cleverer-than-you look off his face.
However, she had other things to think of, like how she was going to hide this rip in her lovely gown from Mama. From everyone in the ballroom who would really have something to stare at if she emerged like this. Then she remembered that, in her reticule, thanks to Mama, she had a needle and thread, a hussif, for just such an incident. Well, not an incident of this actual sort, more perhaps a catching of a gown on something sharp. She could mend it herself with a few stitches.
She looked down. A lot of stitches. And stitches were not her forté. “None of this is any of your business. You ask far too many questions about things that have nothing to do with you. And you need to release your hold on my gown, my lord, or… or I’ll scream.”
“And have people rush in here and find you in such a compromising position?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her, so she shut it again. How it pained her to admit he was right. She shouldn’t be alone in a room with a strange man, still less one who had ripped her gown and didn’t seem to care. Mama would say she was ruined which was most unfair as apart from the rip, nothing at all had happened.
His eyes narrowed. “You are a strange girl indeed. Not wanting to be married, and choosing this particular book.” Here he pointed his free hand at her book, still clasped in defense against her breast. “Out of all the books you could have selected you chose one on the antiquities of Greece.”
“That’s because I haven’t read it.”
“Nor have most girls your age. No, I doubt any girl your age has. In fact, I’d wager I could count the number of women of any age who have read it on the fingers of one hand. What makes you want to read it? It’s hard going, you know.”
“You’ve read it?” Elenora’s limited experience of young men, which mainly meant of her two older brothers and their friends, had not led her to assume any of them read any books at all. Not even those up at Oxford, as Matthew had been until recently. Her surprise at his claim to have read it distracted her from his slur on womankind for the moment.
He nodded. “Of course. My father bought me this particular volume when I was twelve. I’ve read them all.”
“Oh.”
A smile curled his lips. “No need to look so surprised. You can’t be as surprised as me, finding a girl as pretty as you are raiding my father’s library and choosing a book describing in great detail the antiquities of Athens and beyond.”
“Your father?” If this was his father’s library it must also be his father’s house, and his father must be the intimidating white haired old gentleman who had greeted them on their arrival. Lord Amberley. The Earl of Amberley in fact.
As he nodded, she managed to gather her wits. “I can see, my lord, that you have fallen into the trap of assuming all young ladies have the same shallow aims in life—namely playing the pianoforté, painting and finding themselves a rich husband.”
“And you do not aim for any of that?”
She shook her head with more than necessary vehemence. “Not at all. My mama and sisters will tell you that my musical skills are appalling. I cannot even sing in tune. And as for my artistic abilities—well, if I have to draw something historic, then I can do it, but young ladies aren’t schooled for anything more than demure watercolors, which I abhor. And I do not wish to be married—ever.”
“Why don’t you sit down?” He gestured to the seat opposite his. “That was what you had in mind when you came in here, was it not?”
She compressed her lips. “You are right. It was. But I did not for a moment think I would be sharing this room with anyone else.”
“It is my father’s library. Where else would you like me to sit?”
She perched herself on the edge of the second seat and he at last released her torn skirt. “In the card room, I think. Yes, that would be perfect. Perhaps you might go there now and we can forget we ever met?”
He leaned toward her and out of instinct she drew back. “How can I possibly forget I’ve met you, Miss Wetherby? I don’t think I’ve ever met a young lady quite like you before. One so charmingly pretty, but with no intention of marrying and a penchant for dusty books.”
She frowned. Was he referring to her blonde good looks, the bane of her life? Best to ignore this remark. “If you don’t mind then,” she said, opening the book on her lap to the dedication to the king, “I’ll get on with reading. I daresay I have a good three hours before all the guests depart, and I can read a lot in that time. I prefer silence while I’m reading.”
He burst out laughing. “And do you not think someone will start to wonder where you are? I daresay at this very moment your mother is scouring the ballroom wondering where her prize sacrifice on the bonfire of her family has got to. She’s probably even gone into the card room to tell your father you’ve vanished. Your brothers and your aunt are even now joining the search.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
“I can see that.”
She closed the book with a sigh. “Then I had best return your book to you and go back to the ballroom. No doubt my mother has found several more prospective husbands for me to meet and have trample on my toes.” She laid the book on the table between the chairs and stood up. Her gown flapped where it had been torn. Oh no. She’d have to patch it first and hope no one would notice.
Broxbourne rose to his feet as well. He towered over her, a distinctly masculine presence so unlike those of her much shorter brothers. He nodded at her skirt. “I see you hadn’t thought of that, either.”
She fished in her reticule. “I have thread and a needle. Mama says always to be prepared wherever you go.” And the needle was even threaded, ready for use.
He held out his hand. “Here, give it to me. It’ll be easier for me to sew it than you, and after all, it is my fault it’s ripped.”
Without thinking, she handed him the needle and thread. How was it a man such as he could sew? How unexpected. Especially considering she was so bad at sewing herself.
He dropped to one knee beside her, head bent, and began to sew, using small, neat stitches—better than any she could have done herself, particularly whilst wearing the offending garment. Quite at odds with his reputation.
The rip was large, though, and he was only halfway through it when the library door swung open and three people came in. Mama, Papa and the white haired old gentleman who’d welcomed them to his ball. Broxbourne’s own father, the Earl of Amberley. Behind them, a fourth figure loomed, staring through the open doorway. Lady Routledge.
Elenora’s head snapped around as her eyes widened in shock. Not quite so much, though, as the eyes of her audience.