Chapter Fifteen
On the night they were to attend the opera with Harbury and Lady Asquith’s brother, Sir Brenton, both Eliza and Cassandra took pains to dress with care and intention. As they dressed, they rehashed their earlier discussion about Mr. Vane.
“He was very honest,” Eliza repeated the argument she’d been making to herself. “And he owns our house.”
“A house we all agreed to part with so we could have sufficient dowries. A house with unhappy memories.”
“Yes. But I could have the house and the dowry. I could make new memories. Doesn’t that sound like fate?”
“Fate. …Or not. You cannot convince me you liked him.”
Eliza traced the row of tiny buttons down Cassie’s back, double checking to make sure they were all securely fastened.
“I didn’t not like him,” she said reasonably.
“You’ve spoken of him at length and yet you haven’t described anything close to…” Cassie glanced over her shoulder.
“Close to what?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Cassie sighed. “The little thrill you get when you gaze at someone at a man you find…intriguing.”
Eliza turned Cassie around. “Have you felt such a thrill?”
“Of course I have.” Cassie primly pursed her lips. “If I hadn’t been…just a tiny bit taken by Harbury, do you think I would have let him drag me into a dance?”
“Oh, no! No!”
“Don’t look so horrified. After he’d announced he’d no interest at all in me, but merely needed a distraction, my feelings underwent a drastic change. How do I look?”
Together, they stood in front of a long looking glass.
“Beautiful.”
Cassandra’s dress was of fine fabric and in the first stare of fashion. Eliza wore pale-green chiffon over an ivory silk underdress with dozens of tiny buds of coiled ribbon wrapped around glittering jewels.
Eliza twirled in front of the mirror, loving the way she shimmered as she moved.
The extravagant display was meant to send a clear message.
Fate—and the duke’s arrogance—may have cast Cassandra into that Harbury’s path.
But the Wainwright ladies were not without resources, or options.
Such as a large inheritance divided among them.
An inheritance meant choice…something Eliza repeated to herself as, together, the sisters joined Lady Asquith.
All three then made their way to the duke’s conveyance.
Eliza took the liveried footman’s hand, allowing him to help her up the carriage steps and into Harbury’s town coach—a well-sprung, closed carriage unlike any she’d ever seen.
The lower half of the carriage was a lovely green, the upper, a glossy black.
Two footmen and a tiger stood on the rear rail, with a coachman sitting stone-faced but alert on the box.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim interior—which consisted of three snugly spaced rows. Harbury and Casandra had taken the first, Lady Asquith and her brother, the second. And—to her surprise—Redver awaited her in the third.
No one had warned Eliza the party was to include the marquess.
A plot was clearly afoot.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon had warned her they might be thrown together. At the time, she’d believed she would be safe, simply because he would not have any reason to connect her with the Blackbird. She hadn’t considered that heart would leap and her body would know and recognize him.
Did his recognize her?
She masked her dismay with a polite smile and settled in beside him. Simple proximity was enough to make her hands sweat and her heart race.
She inquired after his sister and Lady Redver—whom she now knew was not his wife but his father’s widow.
Both well, he responded. His sister, at present, likely with her nose in a book, while Lady Redver was holding one of her weekly salons, where some topic of scientific or philosophical importance was being discussed.
Eliza wished her original assumption that Lady Redver was his wife had been correct. She’d been jealous, of course, but if he were married, she’d have good reason to keep him at arm’s length.
He was here tonight and would also be at the planned outing to the Royal Academy. How often would she be obliged to keep company with him?
And would each time bring the same rush of excitement?
Eliza didn’t know how she was able to keep up polite conversation.
When they finally reached the theater, Eliza accepted Redver’s escort.
Soon, she and the marquess were again seated side by side, this time in a darkened box.
They occupied two chairs furthest from the stage, with Lady Asquith and her brother in the center, and Cassandra and Harbury closest to box’s edge.
That Cassandra and Harbury had been set on display wasn’t lost on either twin.
Cassandra had cast Eliza a worried glance. Eliza could do nothing but smile reassuringly.
She expected the presence of Lady Asquith and her brother would discourage unwanted attention, and she’d been correct…at least for the first quarter hour.
Then, however, both siblings had nodded off.
When Lady Asquith audibly snored, Redver crossed his legs and leaned toward to Eliza, so close that his arm brushed hers.
“You may stop glowering.”
His mouth was mere inches from her ear. His warm breath tickled her nape. Her body responded to his voice, sending shivers of anticipation down her spine.
“Harbury,” he continued, “has no more interest in your sister than she has in him.”
Keeping her eyes on the stage, she rested her arm on the chair, further narrowing the distance between them with a tilt of her head. “I suppose, in your mind, his lack of interest absolves him of responsibility?”
“No. What Harbury did was inexcusable.”
Believing he was mocking her, she flashed him a chastising expression. To her surprise, he appeared to be serious. She turned back to the play.
“We are agreed then,” she said.
“And yet, you continue to seethe with enmity.”
She compressed her lips and glanced askance.
“Every time you look at me in that fashion, you defeat the purpose of this exercise.”
She cocked a brow. “Which is?”
“To show the world how interesting and engaging the eldest two Miss Wainwrights are, thus restoring you to the good will of the Patronesses and allowing you your pick of eligible young men.”
“And the world,” she mimicked him acidly, “will come to this realization simply because you and Harbury deign to notice us?”
“Harbury, yes. But me?”
He flashed one of his heart-melting smiles—a smile that left her staring at his lower lip.
“I’m afraid I find myself equally in need of reputational rehabilitation.”
“Why? Simply because you’re—” She stopped herself. She wasn’t supposed to know him.
“I’m…?” His brows rose.
Again, her gaze dropped to his lips. She forced her eyes down to the pin in his cravat. “You’re disinclined to dance.”
“Observant of you, Miss Wainwright. I’m impressed.”
Damn her heart for taking another leap.
“As I was saying,” he continued, “Harbury’s interest will be noted. And when his interest is noted, you and your sister will see your societal value rise.”
Her gaze snapped back to his face. “Forgive me,” she replied. “I’m not quite following. Do you mean to suggest Harbury’s presence confers some magical, ducal means of improving reputations? Why then does your reputation continue to ail?”
He smiled indulgently, as if he found her ire charming. Charming in the manner of a cute little hedgehog.
The rogue.
“Harbury,” he explained, “is here to improve Cassandra’s reputation, I am here because being seen with you, with your godmother’s approval, improves mine.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“That, my dear, is your most ferocious scowl yet. Possibly the most ferocious I’ve ever seen. You have me quaking in my boots.”
“You aren’t wearing boots.”
Briefly, he lifted his trouser leg. Then, he flashed another smirk. “I stand corrected.”
“You’re insufferable.”
He cocked his head. “A curious conclusion to come to on such a short acquaintance. Doubtless, however, there are some who would agree.”
Resolutely, she returned her attention to the stage.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I am far too accustomed to sparring with a precocious little sister. My intention was to be completely honest with you, not to upset you.”
Honest.
She glanced back at him.
Men rarely were. And yet she’d had two men declare themselves to be so in the past two days. Of the two, she didn’t trust this one in the least, no matter how fascinating his features.
“If I understand you correctly, you wish to use me—or at least my godmama—as a pawn in your rehabilitation?”
“You’ve a ready understanding.”
“Am I to feel grateful for the honor?”
“Grateful? No. But I would be obliged if you were to agree to the scheme.”
“You mean beyond tonight and the visit to the Royal Academy?”
He nodded.
“You expect me to treat the wrong done to my sister as a game?”
“Not a frivolous one.” He studied her face in silence. “I assure you I am extraordinarily aware of reputation as currency. I do not seek rehabilitation for my own purposes, but because how I am perceived reflects on my sister, perhaps even more so than how your sister is perceived affects you.”
She frowned. “Your concern is not for yourself but for Miss D’Acre?”
He nodded. “Recent events have, ah, shown me how far I have fallen short of my social responsibilities. Emily will be presented next season.” Again, he fell quiet for a moment.
“I thought you might sympathize with my plight, if I were honest. I haven’t much time to transform myself from a… rogue back into a gentleman.”
He’d used the same name she’d given him when she’d played the Blackbird, and he’d looked pained. Had their encounter affected him that much?
She studied him.
Possibly.
Despite his glib retorts, he certainly didn’t seem as roguish as he had when he’d first swaggered into the bedchamber at the Lyon’s Den, nor did he appear confident of her acquiescence.
“You’re suggesting the pretense of a courtship.”
“I’m asking you to tolerate my presence for the duration of Harbury’s courtship of Cassandra…for Emily’s sake.”