“I didn’t even know who the devil he was until he joined us.” It was impossible not to sound at least a little edgy.
“Therefore, since you have no quarrel with him, ignore what just happened.”
It was sound advice and Jonathan would have wholeheartedly agreed despite his distaste for being summarily informed that he wasn’t allowed to court a certain lady, but before he could speak, another hand—this one much less confining yet every bit as demanding— fastened on his arm, slender fingers gripping with importunate force. A very soft, composed voice said succinctly, “May I have a few minutes of your time, my lord?”
It was Cecily, he saw, and it threw him decidedly off balance, considering he’d just been thinking about her. This evening she was more than dazzling in a nectarine gown of Lyon silk—he unfortunately knew a great deal about fabric, ribbons, buttons and the like after accompanying Carole and Betsy to the modiste recently—her blond hair upswept, but those tawny eyes he so admired shimmered with open distress.
He should say no.
“Alone,” she added on a breath. “It’s quite urgent I speak with you.”
Chapter 7
S
he’d actually grabbed his sleeve, and the moment Cecily realized what she’d done in front of most of fashionable London society, she dropped her hand.
Had she not been rather frantically looking for Jonathan, maybe she wouldn’t have been so impulsive, but his sudden appearance as he emerged from one of the gaming rooms was such a relief she had simply reacted.
At least there was some reward for her impetuousness, for his face showed open surprise. So did that of his cousin, James, who despite their very dissimilar coloring bore a decided resemblance to the earl. It was in the shape of their mouths maybe, or the elegant arch of their brows, and both were dressed similarly in stark black evening wear and looked extraordinarily handsome. . . . Oh, devil take it, she didn’t care who looked like whom, she needed to get Jonathan alone for a few moments.
“Of course,” he said, staring down at her with those mesmerizing dark eyes, amusement replacing his startled expression. “Bloodshed be damned.”
What does that mean?
He shouldn’t have sworn in front of her either, as it was highly impolite, but she was too distraught to care.
James Bourne said warningly, “Jon.”
“What’s wrong?” Jonathan pointedly ignored him. His gaze was probing, inquiring, his dark brows drawing sharply together as he interpreted her current state of agitation with accurate comprehension.
“I’ll explain, but . . . privacy would be best.”
That he understood she was upset calmed her. In a quiet tone he asked, “Shall we step outside to the terrace or would you prefer we go out into the hallway?”
“Whatever is the most discreet.”
“Neither one,” Lord Augustine’s cousin muttered. “And entirely unoriginal in the bargain. It’s a warm night. If you want a private moment I do not recommend the gardens as other couples will have exactly the same idea, and the hallways are always busy with servants and guests in a crush like this. Is there any way to convince either of you to forgo this conversation?”
Cecily heard him, but the request was not an option.
Not after she’d seen Eleanor’s reddened eyes and faced her sister’s studied cheerfulness in the carriage on the way to the ball. Obviously the news of her impending betrothal had reached Eleanor’s ears. It solidified Cecily’s conviction about her sister’s feelings for Lord Drury, and it would not be possible to live with herself if she didn’t do something
now
. Her father had given her three days, but if the marriage settlement was already with his solicitors, coupled with her conversation with Roderick, it sounded as though she needed to do something quickly—now—before Viscount Drury had a chance to actually propose.
There was little question. She was . . .
desperate
.
Would Jonathan Bourne, the infamous Earl Savage, help her now that she’d risked this direct approach?
Jonathan glanced at the melee of fashionably dressed people around them. “James, will you dance attendance on Carole and Betsy, please?”
Relief flooded through her.
James Bourne said something under his breath, but sketched a small, polite bow and then nodded and moved away, shouldering into the crowd. Instead of leading her toward the doors to the outside, Jonathan told her in a low voice, “I will head toward the foyer. It is early yet, so a carriage should be easily summoned. I won’t use the conveyance with the Augustine crest. I will actually be in James’s smaller carriage, which is more nondescript. If you follow in a few minutes, we will not be seen leaving the house together and we can certainly talk privately if we go for a short drive. If we need to be alone, I’m afraid that is the best plan I can come up with at such short notice.”
The suggestion was a little daring, but at this point, what was the difference between being seen in a secluded corner of the mansion with the earl or joining him in his carriage?
Not much, except the sacrifice of her reputation. But when she thought about Elle . . .
Potential scandal wasn’t something she was going to worry over at this moment, even if she had assured her brother there wouldn’t be one. The misery she’d seen on her sister’s face was enough to spur her to action, however reckless it might seem, because truthfully, both their futures hung in the balance right now.
Was it wrong to fight what fate seemed to have crafted for her?
No. What was wrong was marrying the man her sister was desperately in love with when Cecily didn’t even want him.
There was a bemusing touch to the melodrama of trying to secretly sneak off to meet with the notorious earl . . . at her own suggestion. Actually, she was slightly surprised he’d agreed so readily, but was glad he had. With luck, he’d be as amiable to the rest of her request.
This was a gamble. She wasn’t at all sure she was doing the right thing, but she was taking action of
some
kind
.
If she didn’t she might be dragooned into a disastrous arrangement.
A few minutes later, when she edged nervously out the doors of the mansion, she saw the carriage with the signature Augustine crest departing as if Jonathan was inside. Another, smaller vehicle sat down the curve of the drive, and at the sight of her a liveried servant opened the door.
Cecily hurried forward, saw a dark figure lounging negligently on one of the seats, and clambered in with such haste that her arrival was probably most unladylike. To her relief, Jonathan seemed to have the same urgent agenda, for he tapped on the panel and the vehicle lurched away the moment the door closed behind her.
And they were left alone, looking at each other.
This was the point at which she’d have to explain why she’d wanted to see him so urgently.
Awkward, that. Since she still didn’t feel she could mention Eleanor, she needed to come up with a reasonable explanation for her somewhat
un
reasonable behavior.
“The footman won’t say anything . . . or he shouldn’t,” Jonathan said, a slight smile curving his lips. “I gave him a little incentive to not mention a golden-haired young lady joining me. Now then, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Sprawled on the seat in front of her, large and a bit formidable with his raven hair brushing his shoulders and his long legs extended, just his presence had her now—at the crucial moment—tongue-tied. What she wished to ask of him was a reach, a very long reach actually, for anyone, much less someone she didn’t know well at all. So far all they had shared were two wicked whispered comments.
Both made by him. Maybe that gave her a little leverage, considering the gossip. But, how to do this . . .
Had she
really
just driven off with him? In close quarters he seemed larger, more imposing, and unfortunately, even more attractive, which had been a problem since the moment they’d met. Everything about him—his unusual coloring, the vibrant masculinity that he exuded, the sensual promise in his eyes—had intrigued her since that first chance encounter. And now she was about to ask him the unthinkable, but it was in a very good cause.
With careful enunciation, she got right to the point. It wouldn’t do for her to be gone long. “I wondered if you would consider an engagement.”
“An engagement?” He didn’t seem anything more than mystified. The vehicle rocked around a corner and she caught the strap to steady herself, but it did nothing for her frayed composure. How the devil did gentlemen do this? Proposing was an entirely nerve-racking experience.
Even if it wasn’t a sincere offer of marriage. “Between us.” She indicated him and then herself with a nervous flick of her closed fan.
Lord Augustine considered her from across the small space. “Forgive me for being obtuse, but what the hell did you just say? You wish for me to marry you?”
Someone should really tell the man that profanity in front of ladies was impolite. Apparently in the Americas civility was optional, or maybe he was just independent enough to ignore it. She suspected the latter. Cecily swallowed down the sudden lump in her throat and squared her shoulders. To a certain extent, she didn’t blame him for his shock. She was somewhat shocked herself at her own behavior. “No,” she clarified hastily. Her voice was faint. “I can explain.”
“That,” his lordship said, a mocking smile on his wellshaped mouth, “would be most welcome, Lady Cecily. I admit I am at a loss.”
The cobbled street made the wheels of the carriage rumble, and she was reminded that she’d tossed the dice and left with him, and if her father found out—if society found out—she might be irrevocably ruined.
A small price to pay for Eleanor’s happiness. Not that this rash move ensured her sister’s future, but surely waiting for Cecily’s engagement to Lord Drury to be set in stone was a lesson in torture. She refused to ever
, ever
do that to Elle.
With difficulty, she wondered just how to phrase this absurd proposition. Finally, she settled on, “I need to become engaged. I can’t tell you why, but what I was thinking of was perhaps a temporary arrangement between us. Obviously I don’t expect you to actually marry me.”
Earl Savage blinked, settled back even more in his seat, and took his time answering. His handsome face took on a slightly sardonic expression. “If this is an oblique attempt to murder me, please be reminded I am not that easy to kill.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. Perplexed, she frowned. “What?”
“Let us just say I am under the impression you are already engaged to a certain gentleman who made it quite clear just moments ago he thinks I should stay away from you.”
“Already engaged?”
“Picture the antithesis of myself. Blond and very, very English.”
Lord Drury had actually said something to him? She couldn’t decide whether to be mortified or furious. Stiffly, she said, “I am not currently engaged to anyone, let me assure you.”
“Well, everyone who was present in the card room thinks you are or certainly are about to be.”
“I’m trying neither to murder nor to marry you, sir.” She was proud of the crisp, pragmatic tone of her voice. “I merely wish to become your fiancée.”
“Merely? Excuse me, but that does not seem to be a small decision. Why me, pray tell?”
He certainly had every right to ask. She clasped her hands and formulated a response—hopefully one that made sense. At the end, she said softly, “There is already gossip about the two of us, so it would be believable. I need the help of a true gentleman and I wasn’t sure where else to turn.”
Well, he wasn’t sure he qualified as a true gentleman, especially considering the lascivious thoughts going through his head at the moment, but Jonathan was surprisingly willing to listen to the beautiful young woman sitting across from him. “Go on.”
Her hesitation charmed him, but then again, unfortunately everything about her charmed him. From the tendrils of golden hair at her temples, the demure neckline of her gown over those oh-so-tempting breasts, the top of her glove on the supple muscles of her upper arm . . . to the way she tentatively bit her lower lip and regarded him from under the fringe of her lush lashes. “I don’t
want
to get married quite yet,” she said emphatically enough that he believed her conviction. “And I especially don’t wish to marry just because my father has decided Lord Drury is his preferred son-in-law. I have other reasons, but I wondered if perhaps . . . Are the rumors that you wish to return to America in the fall true?”
What
other reasons
could a nineteen-year-old ingénue have for a false engagement?
It was his first thought, and a subversive one, for he found himself at once in the quandary of wanting to agree to—and to refuse—her request, all at the same time. To agree just because she had asked him and she looked so luscious in her soft orange gown that he wasn’t sure a man on this green earth could refuse her, and to decline the honor because he had a sixth sense there was an inherent danger in accepting.
A man should always listen to his gods
. . .
His aunt was been right, of course. Her gentle spirit embraced the idea of a higher power that served all men, not just those who believed in the strictures of organized religion. Intellectually, he agreed. If men took goodness as a sign of spirituality, then the world would be a better, more tolerant place.
But it wasn’t that simple, an inner voice reminded him; Cecily’s family might take issue with him as a potential son-in-law. The subject was carefully avoided in his presence, but he knew Adela’s arrival in England with him had caused a great deal of speculation and disapproval. Not that it mattered to him what others thought of it—nothing would make him change his bond with his daughter—but he was pragmatic enough to have a realistic viewpoint.
“My intention is to return as soon as all is settled here,” he admitted cautiously. “It is my true home. I realize I’ve inherited my father’s title, but England is not where I was raised, after all.”