Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride (18 page)

“One wonders—” The earl paused to drain off the brandy that remained in his glass. “One wonders if Miss Winwood is able to take no notice of it.”

“Well, there is that.” His friend resumed the seat he had been waved to at the start of his visit. “And it is unfortunate with her betrothal to Kersey about to be officially announced—not that there is a member of the
ton
or a footman or a groom who does not know of it. Gabe, you did not actually kiss her in the Velgards’ ballroom last evening, did you? The truth can get vastly distorted in the retelling.”

“Yes, I did.” The earl chuckled. “In the doorway to the balcony, actually. I imagine we were far more easily seen there and by far more people than if I had done it in the middle of the dancing floor.”

“Then you owe her an apology, do you not?” Sir Albert looked troubled. He had defended his friend against a large group at White’s, all of whose members had insisted that it really had happened and that before it had, the two had had eyes only for each other and had waltzed indecorously close and had disappeared onto the balcony with the obvious intention of getting closer. It had been the joke of White’s, the day’s story in which everyone delighted. The Lord only knew what was being done to the poor girl’s reputation in the drawing rooms of London, where the ladies would delight in the story in an entirely more vicious manner.

“Do I?” The earl narrowed his eyes on his glass before hurling it onto the hearth and watching in apparent satisfaction as it shattered. “I think not, Bertie. She did not exactly fight me off. Besides, it was merely a kiss. Hardly even that. A momentary meeting of lips.”

“In full sight of the gathered
ton,”
Sir Albert said.

“Life becomes dull when the Season is a few weeks old,” Lord Thornhill said, his voice cold and cynical. “The
ton
needs some sensation to gossip about. Miss Winwood and I have obliged them.”

“But it will be far worse for her than for you, Gabe.” Sir Albert was indignant at his friend’s apparent unconcern at what had happened—and what was happening. But he knew the impossibility of talking sensibly with a man
who was very far from sober despite his quiet manner and articulate speech. “I know you fancied her from the first, but she is spoken for. There must be some other beauty you can flirt with if you feel that way inclined. The blonde, for example. Miss Newman.”

“No one but the delicious redhead will do,” the earl said. “Today she and I are being gossiped about. Today her betrothal is on shaky ground. Today Kersey will be feeling foolish at the very least. I am well content.” His tone was almost vicious.

“Good Lord, Gabe.” Sir Albert leapt to his feet again. “You are not trying to end the girl’s betrothal, are you? Are you that desperate for her? You will ruin her, that’s what you will do. Will you be proud of yourself then?”

“Sit down, Bertie, do,” the earl said. “It hurts my eyes to look up at you. But ring for another decanter before you do. I am thirsty if you are not.”

“You are foxed,” his friend said, glaring at him.

“And so I am,” the earl agreed. “But not nearly foxed enough, Bertie. I am still conscious. Send for more, there’s a good chap.”

“If you weren’t drunk,” Sir Albert said, “I would draw your cork, Gabe. I swear I would. But if you weren’t drunk you would not be saying such insane things. So you fancy her but can’t have her. So you were a little indiscreet last night—no, more than a little. It can be patched up provided Kersey or Rushford don’t lose their heads. Apologize to the lot of them, Gabe, or at the very least stay away from them. Leave London. It is the only decent thing to do.”

“But …” The Earl of Thornhill narrowed his eyes and spoke so quietly that he sounded almost menacing. “I am not expected to be decent, Bertie. If I can debauch my own stepmother, I am capable of any outrage.”

Sir Albert stared down at him. “There is no talking to you in your present state,” he said. “If I were you, Gabe, I would get your man to bring up a very large pot of very strong coffee. And a large bowl of very cold water for you to plunge your head into a few times. I shall leave instructions to that effect on my way out. Good day.” He turned to leave the room.

The earl, still sprawled in his chair, chuckled once more. “She is a fortunate woman, Miss Rosalie Ogden, Bertie,” he said. “She will be acquiring a mother hen to care for her for the rest of her days.”

Sir Albert Boyle, his back bristling with indignation, left the room.

T
HE
E
ARL OF
T
HORNHILL
rested his head against the back of his chair and stared upward. Closing his eyes was not a comfortable experience. He could not summon up enough energy to get to his feet to pull on the bell rope and order up more brandy. Besides, he had the feeling that he had had altogether too much already. Oceans too much, if the truth were known.

He had made a curious discovery in the course of the afternoon. Self-loathing was the perfect antidote to the effects of liquor on one’s system. Even if he drank another ocean or two of brandy, he would not be able to
drink himself into insensibility, he suspected. His body might become more and more foxed. His mind would remain coldly, coldly sober.

He could not possibly have slapped a glove in Kersey’s face and been content to put a bullet between his eyes or the tip of a sword through his heart. Oh, no, that would have been altogether too easy and too unsubtle. And it would have renewed the scandal against Catherine and brought her further dishonor.

No, no, he had taken the far cleverer and more devious course of tampering with the man’s life, making him look like a fool before the
ton
. Showing the world that Kersey, despite his title and his prospects and his wealth and good looks, could not keep a beautiful woman. Causing him the embarrassing scandal of a broken engagement.

And like the upright, honest, honorable man he was, he had tackled the task indirectly, working on Kersey’s betrothed so that at the very least she would so compromise herself that Kersey would feel obliged to turn her off, or at the best she would feel so compromised that she would break with Kersey. Either way, Kersey would be embarrassed and humiliated.

Fine revenge indeed. Oh, very fine and admirable.

Yes, I believe you
, she had said last night.
Yes, I do
. He could see her eyes now, gazing at him with earnest trust through the slits of her golden mask as he had waltzed her through the French windows, toward which he had carefully maneuvered her. And then at his prompting, she had spoken his name.

He wished he could drown out the echo of her voice and the words she had spoken. He wished he could close his eyes and no longer see hers. But the room spun about him when he tried—and he could still see her eyes.

I love him
, she had said.
I love him. I love him. I love him
.

Today she was doubtless in deep trouble with her family and with Kersey and the Rushfords. Today she was doubtless the subject of eager and malicious gossip the length and breadth of fashionable London. Today she was doubtless in deep distress.

Yes, I believe you
.

Gabriel
.

I love him
.

The earl turned his head from side to side against the back of his chair, but he succeeded only in making himself feel dizzy and nauseated. The sound of her voice, soft and earnest, would not go away.

He wondered if she would be able to weather the storm, if he had gone just too far last night and forced her to go too far. …

The power we have over other people’s lives
, Bertie had just said. It was a relief to hear Bertie’s voice in his mind instead of hers for a while. Until he really heard the words, that was, repeating themselves over and over again, just as her words had been doing all afternoon.
The power we have over other people’s lives
.

His plan was proceeding perfectly. Even better than he could have hoped. It was poised for completion tomorrow night. The Earl and Countess of Rushford’s ball was surely the event at which the betrothal of their son
was to be announced. And though he had not been invited to the dinner that was to precede the ball, he had unexpectedly had an invitation to the ball.

It was there he had planned his most outrageous assault on Jennifer Winwood. It would be quite perfect. He would ruin the ball—except for the gossipmongers—wreck Kersey’s betrothal, and humiliate him in the most public manner possible. The fact that he would also ruin his own reputation once and for all had seemed immaterial to him. He really did not care.

But there was Jennifer Winwood, caught in the middle. The one who would probably suffer the most. No, the one who
would
suffer the most. The innocent one. The one it was so easy to mislead because she was so ready to believe the best of other people. Because she wanted to believe the best of him. Because she wanted to be his friend.

Yes, I believe you. Yes, I do
. If he had not been drunk, the Earl of Thornhill would doubtless not have put his hands to his ears to stop the sound of her voice. But he was drunk.

Gabriel
.

She made his name sound like an endearment, he had told her. The one spontaneous truth he had spoken to her. It did not sound like an endearment now. It sounded like a curse straight from hell.

No, he could not proceed. It was perhaps too late now to give in to a crisis of conscience, but better now than not at all. Perhaps last night’s indiscretion could be smoothed over. Apparently Lady Rushford had walked
about with the girl during the set following the one she had danced with him, and had smiled and looked unconcerned. Wise woman! It was far better to have done that than to have whisked her home in disgrace.

Perhaps, with Kersey’s mother behind her and the grand dinner and ball before her with its public announcement of her betrothal, today’s scandal would become tomorrow’s stale and forgotten gossip.

If he stayed out of the way.

If he left town and remained away for the rest of the Season. If he kept himself out of her life and out of sight of the
ton
.

He would set his servants about packing his things and send word ahead to Chalcote and arrange for the journey, he decided. He should be able to leave within three or four days, perhaps sooner. In the meanwhile, he would stay at home.

The Earl of Thornhill got to his feet, relieved now that his decision was made, now that he had pulled himself back from committing a great evil before it was quite too late. But the combination of a change in position and a releasing of his self-loathing was too much for him. He staggered and fell to his hands and knees while the room spun about him at dizzying and unrelenting speed.

Lord, how much had he drunk, anyway?

The door of his sitting room opened quietly to admit his valet, who was carrying a large pot of coffee on a tray.

Bless Bertie, mother hen par excellence.

J
ENNIFER WAS RIDING IN
the park, seated in an open barouche beside Viscount Kersey, the Countess of Rushford opposite her, Aunt Agatha beside the countess. Jennifer was wearing a white muslin day dress of fashionable but modest design, chosen carefully for her by Aunt Agatha, and her straw bonnet. She was smiling brightly and looking steadily into the eyes of anyone who cared to look into hers and conversing with all who drew near and with all to whom they drew near. Her left hand rested on Lionel’s sleeve. His left hand covered it.

It was what must be done, the countess had said briskly and quite firmly when she had called earlier at Berkeley Square with her son. It would be nonsense to behave as if there were something to be ashamed of merely because the Earl of Thornhill, who was a disgrace to his name and his rank, had chosen to behave with such outrageous vulgarity. Rushford, she had explained, was to make it quite clear to Lord Thornhill that despite his invitation to tomorrow evening’s ball, he would be unwelcome there.

Lionel had stood quietly behind his mother’s chair while she had said all this, and Jennifer had studiously not looked at him. But she had got together her courage finally to ask the countess and Aunt Agatha, who had also been present, if she might have a private word with Lord Kersey.

It was necessary, she had felt. Her father had summoned her during the morning and scolded her roundly—which was a mild way to describe his blazing anger—and
told her to be prepared to return to the country for a very long stay if the Earl of Rushford decided that she was no longer worthy of his son’s hand. He and Rushford had quite a quarrel over this business, he had explained, and he would be damned before he would be put even more in the wrong by a chit of a daughter. She had better be very careful. Aunt Agatha had been tight-lipped and curiously quiet all day. Sam had not emerged from her room.

Last evening’s incident—the kiss at the French windows—had burst into scandal this morning, Jennifer gathered. She was the
on dit
of fashionable drawing rooms. She was in disgrace. Everything was in ruins. Lionel would no longer want her. Nor would any other respectable gentleman. Not that she wanted any other gentleman. If she lost Lionel, she would want to die. It would be as simple as that.