The Birthday Scandal (9 page)

Isabel studied her sister’s refection in the dressing table mirror. “I quite like him. He has rough edges, of course, but Uncle Josiah has a few of those himself. Athstone may grow into the role.”

Emily sniffed, set the hairbrush down, and began to braid.

“What did he do to annoy you so, Emily?”

“He left his doxy tucked away at the inn.” Emily tugged a strand painfully tight, and Isabel protested. “I’m sorry—I forgot your head. You hadn’t come in yet when he told Uncle Josiah that his mistress is waiting in the village.”

“He said as much?”

Emily nodded.

Isabel would have been amused if not for the over-enthusiastic braiding. “Then I would wager there is
not
a bird of paradise at the inn. It was not well-done of him, of course, to try to gammon Uncle Josiah like that.”

“You didn’t hear him, Isabel.”

“And you’re used to thinking the worst of any man. It’s true that Cousin Gavin is out of his element. But if he were to marry well—”

The heavy tresses slipped through Emily’s fingers and spilled over Isabel’s shoulders, but she didn’t seem to notice. “
That’s
the answer! All we have to do is wave a future duke under Sir George Fletcher’s nose. Hint that his daughter might end up a duchess, and he’ll soon put paid to Father’s notions of marrying her. Think about it, Isabel—we can put a pin in Father’s plans and get Gavin Waring settled all in one swoop!”

Isabel laughed. It was the first time she’d felt like doing so since she’d walked into the drawing room that afternoon and found her husband waiting.

By the time Emily left, Isabel was feeling the tight braid more than the residue of her headache, so she released the ribbon and let her hair flow free. By the time she’d unwrapped the last twist, she was even pleasantly sleepy—too much so to bother to do it up again. She climbed into the big bed, blew out her candle, and snuggled under the heavy wool blanket. But a moment later her eyes snapped open and her gaze focused on the door that connected her bedroom and the adjoining one. The room that the Earl of Maxwell would occupy.

Surely he wouldn’t dare to simply open that door and walk through. Surely he wouldn’t assume that just because he’d offered a bargain she had agreed to it. And surely he wouldn’t break the uneasy truce that had lain between them for more than a year, just because he’d suddenly decided his wife should carry out her duties.

But if he did, Isabel knew, he would be completely within his rights under the law.

She slid out of bed and tiptoed across to the door. He wouldn’t be in his room yet, of course. Knowing that the ladies were not waiting in the drawing room, the gentlemen would linger long into the night, drinking port and smoking cigars and swapping stories. She was perfectly safe—and quite sensible to turn the key in the lock, just in case there had been even more port than usual.

But the key was not in the lock.

Very slowly and quietly, she turned the knob. Reaching around the edge of the door, she felt carefully for the lock, hoping to touch the rounded handle of a big brass key.

Just as she realized it wasn’t on that side, either, the Earl of Maxwell spoke from the quiet room. “How wise of me to pocket the key earlier—for if you were to lock me out, Isabel, I would break down the door, and I cannot think your uncle would appreciate having his castle damaged.”

He rose from his chair by the fire. He seemed taller than ever as he crossed the darkened room, his body a silhouette against the moonlight that poured in through the tall windows behind him. He must have come upstairs some time ago, for he was no longer in evening clothes but wrapped in a dark-red brocade dressing gown.

Had he been listening by the door? Waiting for her sister to go away? Giving Isabel time to get settled, before…

Too late, she realized that the rays of silvery light were focused almost on the door, falling past it to rest on her old plain white nightgown. Her action in reaching around to feel for the lock must have been as obvious to him as if she had shouted her intention.

“All I was trying to do was assure that I will be safe in my sleep,” Isabel said.

“Then you need have no fear—and you do not need a key, for you are quite safe from me.”

Despite his deep, reassuring tone, Isabel had her doubts—especially because he was now close enough to touch if she merely turned her hand.

“While you sleep, at least,” the earl went on, “for what I plan to do will be when you are fully awake.”

Isabel’s stomach clenched. “Are you trying to drive me mad, sir? Are you hoping that I will lose all reason so you can lock me away in an attic somewhere in a far corner of your estates and forget that I exist?”

“That would not get me what I want.” He brushed a stray curl away from her face.

Isabel flinched.

“You are my wife. If I am to have an heir, he must be from your body. Those are the simple facts.”

“How sad for you. Unless you are threatening to take me by force, sir—and in that case, you are truly a monster.”

“No, my dear. If I were to force you, it would be no more than my right and my due. But I have not threatened force, and I shall not. Instead, I have offered you a compromise.”

“A
compromise
? Is that what you call it when you make insane demands?”

“I am not demanding. And what I ask is not insane. I have made a simple request, in return for a generous settlement.”

His palm cupped her cheek, tipping her face up to his, and he leaned toward her until his lips brushed hers. The contact was so soft, so fleeting, that she couldn’t be certain he was touching her—until he spoke and his voice vibrated through her. “Think it over, Isabel—and let me know when you decide to accept the bargain.”

Emily’s mood was in tune with the morning—remarkably sunny and fine—and she ran lightly down the stairs. Her intention was to nip a slice of bread and a bit of ham from the breakfast room and escape to the stables to wheedle a mount from the duke’s stable master. She hadn’t ridden in months, and the opportunity—as well as the day—was too good to miss.

She pulled up short at the door of the breakfast room, where Gavin Waring was settling himself at the table with a full plate. He leaped to his feet as he caught sight of her. The Earl of Chiswick, sitting across the table and nearly hidden behind a newspaper, only half stood, as though he was reluctant to grant his daughter the status of a lady. Emily decided neither of them deserved more than bare civility. “Good morning,” she said coolly and lifted the lid of a chafing dish.

The earl put down his newspaper, and Emily felt an itch creep over her as he inspected her from head to toe. She braced herself for a comment about the age of her riding habit—but at least he could have no disparaging comment about its condition. Since she had little opportunity to ride in Barton Bristow, the garment bore no signs of wear.

But the earl surprised her. “You’re already dressed for riding. Excellent. We have calls to make. I trust your sister is not planning to lie in bed all morning?”

“When you’re planning an expedition, it would be useful to tell the participants what you expect,” Emily pointed out. “I have my mind set on a good gallop this morning to shake the fidgets.”

“If that is your goal, then you should not mind galloping toward a specific destination.” The earl turned his attention to Gavin. “Weren’t you summoned to meet with the duke this morning, Athstone?”

“Yes, sir, but I thought it prudent not to meet a lecture on an empty stomach. Thank you, Chalmers,” Gavin added as the butler set a tankard of ale before him.

The prospect of a lecture didn’t seem to bother him much, however, Emily thought as he applied himself with steady concentration to his breakfast.

Since her father’s presence seemed to put paid to her plan to roam the countryside by herself, Emily decided she might as well enjoy breakfast. She put a spoonful of shirred eggs, a slab of ham, and a slice of toast on her plate and took the chair next to Gavin. He looked startled at her choice of seats, and she wanted to tell him that she’d opted for that position only because it meant he wouldn’t be in her field of vision and she could ignore him more easily than if she were sitting across the table. But even though telling him would be satisfying for a moment, doing so meant she’d have to admit that she had noticed him enough to make a deliberate choice.

There were moments, Emily thought, when the simplicity of her life in Barton Bristow looked appealing after all. On the other hand, she hadn’t tasted anything nearly as good as the ham, which had probably been cured right on the duke’s estate, in as long as she could remember.

She sipped the tea Chalmers had poured for her, spread butter on her toast, and addressed her father. “I assume you intend to call on Miss Fletcher at Mallowan this morning and would like Isabel and me to do so as well. But since you are surely not intending to defer to our opinions regarding your plans to marry, I see no point in going through the motions.”

Chiswick’s eyebrows rose. “But my dear, it was your own plan to call on Lady Fletcher. To refuse to do so simply because of her daughter makes you sound like a small child throwing a tantrum.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Lady Emily,” Gavin murmured, “but I think that is what’s known as being hoist with your own petard.” He finished his ale and excused himself before Emily could retort.

“In any case,” Chiswick went on, “what could you possibly find lacking in Miss Fletcher?”

Emily dropped her fork. “What on earth are you thinking, Father, to betroth yourself to Chloe Fletcher? Or indeed any other young woman—at your age?” She wanted to say,
“Have you a maggot in your brain?”
and was proud of herself for resisting the temptation.

She thought he would refuse to answer, or snap at her not to be impertinent to her elders. Instead, Chiswick replied quite calmly. “You should not be surprised that the idea of starting a new family has occurred to me, since all my children are unsatisfactory in various ways.”

Emily gasped. “And if we’re unsatisfactory, whose fault is that? You matched Isabel with a man who wanted her only for the property she brought with her, and then you wonder why it is not a successful marriage. You tried to marry me off to Philip Rivington, and you didn’t turn a hair when he was shot in a duel over Lucilla Lester just a day after the betrothal was announced. You’ve tried to sell Lucien to each empty-headed ninnyhammer who has joined the
ton
, so long as she has a pedigree and an enormous dowry.”

“Hartford is empty-headed himself.”

“He is not. You haven’t tried to know him. Mother would not have allowed—” She swallowed the rest of the protest.

Chiswick seemed not to hear. “Thank you for the well-timed reprimand, my dear. I shall keep Hartford beside me on our ride today so I may discover what is hidden under that fluff of hair.” He folded the newspaper with precision and went out.

Emily bit her lip. Not only had she failed to make headway on her main point, but Lucien was not going to thank her if he was subjected to the constant presence of the earl on their ride. It must be six miles across country to the Fletchers’ home. She didn’t care to think of the number of scathing comments the earl could deliver in the time it would take to ride so far.

As though her remorse had summoned him, Lucien appeared in the breakfast room, and a moment later Isabel came in as well—though she hesitated on the threshold for a moment, looking around.

Making certain Maxwell wasn’t there, Emily guessed, and thanked heaven that she herself had escaped the pain of having a husband she despised.

“What’s this about a riding party?” Lucien asked. “We ran into Father in the hall.”

“Brace up. It seems we’re to meet the bride this morning and give our formal approval to his choice.”

“Even though we
don’t
approve of her?” Isabel poured herself a cup of tea and sat down across from Emily.

“Exactly,” Emily said. “Though I imagine we’ll find Chloe Fletcher as unobjectionable as any other young lady who has so recently left the schoolroom. Our father, on the other hand…”

“The sainted earl is an arrogant ass,” Lucien said, picking up the tankard Chalmers had just set in front of him. “And any female who finds marriage to him an inviting proposition is a dolt.”

“Her father’s only a baronet,” Isabel mused. “She’d be a countess. It’s hard to blame her for having stars in her eyes.”

Lucien snorted. “Stars? More likely she’s seeing guineas, or tiaras and coronets. She might be excited over becoming a countess, but not over our father. How old was he when he married our mother, anyway?”

“Thirty,” Isabel said. “Honestly, Lucien, you shouldn’t have to ask these things.”

“
Thirty
? And he thinks
I’m
wasting time? I’m only twenty-six!”

“Our mother was seventeen,” Emily said.

“So I suppose he thinks he’s being reasonable to choose a bride who’s nearing twenty this time,” Isabel mused. “However, as there’s nothing whatever we can do about it—”

“There’s always the distraction of a duke,” Emily said.

“You think Uncle Josiah could stop him?” Lucien looked morosely at his empty tankard. “Where did Chalmers go? If I’m to be civil to my new stepmama, I need another ale.”