Chapter 2
T he Earl of Langley sprawled carelessly across the chaise longue, entirely nude but for a lazy smile.
His companion – her name eluded him, though he believed it had begun with an M – draped herself beside him, still flushed.
She had been lovely, if entirely unremarkable.
He took his pleasure – and gave it, when inclined – with all the consideration of a gentleman selecting a third bottle of claret: briefly, indulgently and with no intention of recalling it come morning.
After all, what was there to dwell upon?
He had long since perfected the art of such arrangements.
It was always he who set the terms, dictated the pace, and departed the moment it ceased to amuse him.
Affection was tedious, obligation worse, and Theodore Winslow, Earl of Langley, had no interest in either.
With a languid stretch of a man for whom consequence rarely knocked, Theo stood and reached for his shirt. He shrugged it on, followed by breeches, which he fastened one-handed as he sauntered to the mirror to tie his cravat .
Since his father’s death, the duties of the earldom had descended upon him in a haze of unwanted ceremony and cold ham.
He was expected to attend to ledgers, speak on matters of grain tariffs in the House of Lords, and – worst of all – wed some suitable young lady to continue the sacred lineage, as though the world might end if another Langley were not produced before Michaelmas.
It was all so dreadfully dull. Most of his responsibilities had been swiftly delegated.
The steward managed the estate, the agent kept the accounts, his secretary handled the letters, and the solicitor could be trusted to drone on about wills and taxes until the end of days.
It was, Theo reflected, entirely possible to outsource one’s entire existence – except of course for marriage.
That particular obligation could not be signed away or passed along.
Even now, his mother’s letters arrived weekly, full of sotto voce suggestions: daughters of dukes, nieces of viscounts, the odd American heiress – every one of them charming, accomplished, and appallingly intent upon matrimony.
Theo had thus far avoided the noose through a combination of charm, indifference and strategic disappearance, but he knew it could not last forever.
Marriage, in his view, was simply another form of tedium, akin to a lifetime of tepid tea and thin soup.
One need only glance into a Mayfair drawing room to see what came of it: cold glances across colder suppers, polite contempt beneath the chandeliers.
The theatre of affection, once performed, gave way to reality, and Theo had no desire to find himself cast in that particular tragedy.
Far better, then, to keep to the diversions he enjoyed: card games, champagne, agreeable company, and the occasional enthusiastic tumble.
He enjoyed pleasure, he liked his freedom and above all, he liked being amused – which was precisely why the sight awaiting him on that evening was so unexpected, and dare he admit it, wonderfully intriguing.
Miss Henrietta Tolliver – the eldest daughter of the Viscount Tolliver – was standing at the servants’ entrance of his London residence, where only footmen, tradesmen, and women of very questionable morals ever stood.
She was cloaked, gloved, and looking rather as if she were about to rob him.
It was a sight he could not, in all his years of mischief, womanising, and wilful neglect of duty, have ever predicted.
“Miss Tolliver,” he drawled, leaning most indolently against the doorframe. “How delightfully improper. Ought I to feel flattered, or alarmed?”
“You ought to feel neither. I am here on business, not pleasure, though Heaven knows you’d struggle to distinguish the two. Your front door yielded no response, I might add.”
“Ah, yes – well, I dismissed the butler for the evening. Rather inconvenient, I admit, but entirely necessary. He objects most grievously to debauchery after supper. I thought it the kinder course.” He gave a negligent shrug. “One must preserve domestic harmony where one can.”
“How very considerate of you, Lord Langley.”
At that moment, a young woman slipped past them without the faintest trace of shame. One jewelled earring sparkled in the lamplight; the other was conspicuously absent .
“Ah, that was Mary, I believe. Or was it Margaret? Yes – Margaret.”
“Margery,” the woman muttered, waving down a hackney.
“Clearly she had pressing engagements,” said Hetty. “Now, if you would be so good – pray admit me before some passer-by assumes I’ve come to offer more than conversation.”
Without awaiting his leave, she swept through the servant’s door with her skirts swishing.
He lingered a moment, watching her vanish into the hall.
Time had a way of rearranging people, particularly childhood friends, and he found himself momentarily struck by the transformation.
The grass-stained imp who used to climb trees and dare him to jump into the duck pond now walked with the composure of a duchess – not a curl out of place, nor a trace of jam upon her gown.
It was like seeing a spirited foxhound turned into a show pony.
She was entirely wasted on the genteel! Hetty was lovely, to be sure…
but where had the little menace gone? He gave a soft snort of amusement.
He rather missed the girl who once tried to sell his governess to a passing chimney sweep.
“I must confess, Miss Tolliver, you have quite outdone yourself. A lady who appears at a gentleman’s door – after dark, through the tradesmen’s entrance no less – and still manages to look as though she’s come directly from an audience with the Prince Regent.
I daresay your Mama would suffer an apoplexy on the spot were she ever to hear of it. ”
“She will not hear of it. Unless you mean to write to her.”
“Tempting,” he mused. “Though I shall leave it to the scandal sheets to inform her. A single glimpse of you wandering Mayfair unchaperoned, and by morning you’ll be toast and marmalade at every breakfast table in London. Still – if you must be ruined, I am deeply honoured to be selected.”
“Indeed,” she said. “That is precisely why I’ve come.”
He blinked. “It is?”
“Yes.”
Theo straightened, all indolence slipping away as he regarded her anew.
The notion that Hetty Tolliver – his childhood partner-in-mischief turned paragon of feminine respectability – should stroll into his house and calmly request to be ruined was so far beyond the bounds of familiarity, he might as well have been asked to propose to his own cousin. “Are you quite in earnest?”
Rather than answer, she turned and swept into the morning room, a modest chamber off the back corridor.
She removed her gloves, casting them onto the escritoire as though she owned the place, and made to the sideboard where a decanter and two glasses stood abandoned from earlier in the evening.
She uncorked the brandy and poured herself a modest measure.
“I’ve not seen you in over two years,” she said, settling herself upon the edge of the settee.
“It seems a pity not to mark the occasion.”
Theo followed, slowly, as one might approach a slumbering beast whose temperament was unknown. “Hetty,” he said at last, “are you drinking my brandy, uninvited, in my morning room?”
She sipped. “Would you prefer I did so in your bedchamber?”
He choked. “Good God.”
She regarded him over the rim of her glass. “Do be calm. I’ve no designs upon your virtue. ”
“Well, that is a mercy. Mine is already in a state of advanced decay.”
“Then it should suit my purpose admirably.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Hetty set her glass down and folded her hands in her lap. “The truth is, Theo, I require a scandal. A proper one. Nothing irredeemable, naturally – merely sufficient to render me unfit for courtship until I choose otherwise.”
Theo raised a brow. “Forgive me, but am I understanding correctly that you wish to be ruined?”
“In theory,” she said sweetly. “Not in fact.”
“I see.” He lowered himself into a nearby chair, beginning to grin. He was rather relieved that Hetty was not asking what he thought she was. “And you thought, naturally, of me.”
“Of course. You are idle, rakish, well-known for your indifference to propriety, and I trust you not to take liberties. It is a very short list of qualifications, and you happen to meet them all.”
“I am overcome,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Truly. Such praise is liable to unseat my reason entirely.”
“I rather thought there was precious little of that to disturb.” She picked up her brandy and sipped again.
“But if you require elaboration on your merits: you are tolerably presentable, you dance well when coerced, and your reputation is sufficiently questionable enough to lend the entire scheme credibility.”She tilted her head.
“As for your detractions: there is your lamentable fondness for your own voice, a disposition inclined toward melodrama, and an ego so expansive it ought to enter a room three minutes ahead of you, heralded by trumpet.” She smiled.
“Still, one must make do with what one has.”
He gave a low whistle. “I cannot decide whether to be flattered or grievously insulted.”
“Oh, do be both,” she said, waving a hand.
“Pass the brandy, will you? Now tell me – what precisely would this… light ruination entail? Am I to be caught emerging from your bedchamber at some ill-chosen hour? Or shall we conspire to sit rather too closely in a darkened opera box? Oh, or a compromising silhouette behind a curtain? Oh, I have it – a kiss in Vauxhall Gardens under suspicious moonlight!”