A Gentleman Undone (29 page)

Romantic
. That word had meant something to her once. If the past three years had not happened, and if a man like Mr. Blackshear had come to love her, she might have loved him back. She might even have loved him first, and known the breathless hope that her feelings would be returned.

If, if, if. A waste of a thinking brain. She missed a return and withdrew to the window.

“Have you spoken to Mr. Roanoke today?” Even Eliza possessed sufficient tact to save this question for a moment in which her face was averted as she bent to retrieve the shuttlecock. All day the ladies had tiptoed round the fact of Edward’s indiscretion, blessed as they both were with gentlemen who would presumably never do such a thing.

“I haven’t.” Lydia bounced the netting of her racket rhythmically off the heel of her hand, as a lady might do if her protector’s slights were a matter of no great concern or even notice to her. “He’s been quite occupied all day with boasting to the other gentlemen of last night’s conquest. Perhaps we’ll speak when he’s had his fill of that.”

Or perhaps not. What was there to say? No explanation could undo the insult he’d served her, and yet what could she do but carry on with him? As she’d told
Mr. Blackshear, she cherished no illusions of Edward’s fidelity.

“He’s lucky to have you.” Eliza lobbed up the shuttlecock and swung. “If I’d been subjected to that affront, I promise you I would have entertained Mr. Blackshear whether I desired him or not, and seen to it we could be heard as far away as Mr. Roanoke’s room.”

“Yes, but you would have done that in any case.” This remark proved to the others that her spirits were not suffering, and also shifted the conversation away from Mr. Blackshear and herself in favor of some general good-natured teasing.

Lord knows she’d need all the good nature she could hoard up before going to Edward’s room tonight. As the day went on it became increasingly apparent he was angry. For all that Mr. Blackshear’s admissions—which must surely have come at some cost to Mr. Blackshear’s pride—ought to have assured him, he was still stung by the ignominy of having lost his mistress in a game of skill. She could see it in his exaggerated unconcern, in the gusto with which he congratulated himself on last night’s exploits with his hired partner. In her own presence he carried on this way, which meant a share of his anger was directed at her.

Well, she’d foreseen this possibility, after all. And she’d gain little by pointing out the illogic of his pique. Men’s anger sprang from odd sources, from perceived injuries to their dignity, and a prudent woman just stood back and let the mood run its course.

So she did to the best of her ability all day, idling in the gallery with the other ladies, taking a walk to the stables and back, avoiding her protector in hopes his ire would burn itself out by evening. But when the company assembled for supper it was immediately evident that Edward had spent those same hours feeding his ill humor, and that his food of choice was drink.

He was no five-bottle man. He drank his fill at parties or card games, as did any gentleman, but he wasn’t one of those who began the day with a bottle and learned to go about with no signs of impairment. When he drank in earnest the effects were visible to all.

To begin, he put his new favorite lady at his right hand and set to lavishing her with compliments at a volume either distorted by the drink, or expertly calibrated to reach the place where Lydia sat. At great length she heard of the merits of the lady’s golden hair, and of her snow-white skin, and of her eyes that put sapphires to shame.

Objectively considered—and the only wise way to receive any of this was in strict objectivity—what he said was quite true. Caroline, as her name proved to be, was pretty after Maria’s fashion, if less dazzlingly so. Caroline was also embarrassed at having the fact proclaimed to such a degree, though Edward, of course, was beyond taking note of this detail.

If you cared for him, this would hurt like swallowing broken glass
. Another instructive reminder, as though any were wanted, of the disadvantages of love. Absent that emotion, she could even feel a bit of sympathy for the lady, who had only done what she’d been hired to do and never bargained with playing a role in some tawdry melodrama between a man and his mistress.

Still, by the time they came to the fish course this was beginning to feel like the most interminable supper in human history. And clearly she wasn’t alone in that opinion. Maria, who sat near to Edward, had bodily angled herself away from him. An auburn-haired lady who sometimes joined them for whist was wincing at every upsurge in the vigor of his speech. Even Eliza’s Lord Randall, with whom she’d never exchanged two words, sent her one eloquent look of tight-lipped commiseration.

And when she happened to glance at Mr. Blackshear, across the table and four seats down, he looked up from his turbot in Dutch sauce with an expression just as eloquent as Lord Randall’s, though its message was something different. Something like
Say the word and I will eviscerate him with this knife and fork
.

She dropped her gaze to her own plate, her insides buzzing like a hive of bees. He was a man who’d killed, of course—so he’d told her—but she’d never before glimpsed murder in his eyes.

“I vow that wager with Blackshear proved to be excellent sport.” The name yanked at her attention as none of the rest of Edward’s tirade had done, and she twisted to face his end of the table. “I’ve half a notion to try it again.” He delivered these words to the company at large but his eyes were on her. “Who’s come without a mistress and might like to take his chances at winning one? Lord Cathcart?”

The viscount lifted his napkin and dabbed calmly at his mouth. “I find myself unable to perpetrate such injury upon the lady who has joined her life to mine, else I should already have a mistress of my own.” He sent a slight bow her way. “Perhaps even one as charming as Miss Slaughter.”

Heat was creeping up her cheeks in spite of every effort at aplomb. She set down her fork. A person couldn’t eat under so many covert glances and open stares.

“Someone else, then?” He’d either missed or was willfully disregarding the reprimand in Lord Cathcart’s answer. “Some man of more sporting tastes?”

“I don’t consent to this.” Even on so short a statement, her voice wavered. She pressed her lips together before it could have a chance to waver anymore.

“Neither did you consent last night, and yet I’ve heard remarkably little complaint from you all this day.” He’d
been only waiting for her to provoke him to this lashing-out. “A night in Blackshear’s bed seems to have been everything agreeable to you.”

How could a lady even make any reply? She’d only done what he himself had arranged. He’d have been equally angry if she’d defied him. “I don’t know what I’ve done to incur your displeasure, but I wish you would have the goodness to resolve it with me in private, rather than attempting to punish me with these uncivil words and coarse machinations in view of the entire company.”

“Resolve it with you in private?—don’t you wish I would.” His eyes and his laugh made lewd allegations, apparently heedless of the accusation he’d just issued regarding her partiality for another man. He was utterly beyond reason now.

She took the napkin from her lap and put it on the table. “I cannot speak to you when you are in this state. Nor can I remain here and be the target of your abuse.” Her pulse hammered like an overzealous blacksmith. She’d never addressed him so—doubtless he’d be angrier than ever—but to stay had become insupportable. “If everyone will excuse me, I shall take my distracting presence elsewhere that you may enjoy the rest of your meal.”

“My room, Lydia. I trust you remember the way?”

She’d avoided, these last few moments, any glance toward the place where Mr. Blackshear sat, but this utterance brought her round to face him before she could think whether she ought. Indeed everyone at the table swiveled likewise, more than one piece of cutlery clanking or screeching against a plate as a diner was brought up short by this unexpected development.

He, in contrast, was the picture of unruffled poise. He’d lifted his goblet and now brought it to his lips,
eyelids lowered, without the smallest sign of awareness that he’d just hurled a firebomb into the proceedings. His use of her given name alone must throw into doubt their previous accounts of what had transpired last night.

Someone touched her chair. The footman, come to draw it out. One deep breath, and she would rise.

Will lowered his glass and leaned a bit forward. “That will be agreeable to you, I hope?” He laid the slightest emphasis on
agreeable
, the word around which Edward had built his accusation. He was smiling with everything but his eyes.

Without waiting for an answer he shot a brief glance to the end of the table where her protector sat. “I trust you won’t mind. I had the impression, from your recommending her to others, that you weren’t wanting her company tonight.” Like a single scarlet thread in white-work, the strain of menace in his voice. Perhaps no one else in the room knew him well enough to discern it.

“Please yourself.” Edward laid hold of his own glass and brought it halfway up before a witticism occurred. “I daresay that’s what you did last night, all primed for a woman only to find her not inclined to open shop to you.”

Anger surged up in her then: all those wadded-up portions of anger she’d hoarded away sprang out to full size and drove her finally to her feet. “Would it be any wonder if I did prefer his bed to yours?” This was imprudent. This was precisely the kind of outburst she couldn’t afford. But so help her, she’d been prudent long enough. “He behaved with honor. He treated me with respect. A lady recognizes a debt to a gentleman who conducts himself so.” Was she really going to say this next bit? She oughtn’t. She courted disaster. But the words sat hot on her tongue; they’d burn her if she didn’t let them out.

She revolved just enough to face Mr. Blackshear, who watched her with calm interest, only his eyes betraying any trace of turbulence to match her own. “Your room, to be sure.” Her own blood roared in her ears. She curtseyed, eyes never leaving his. “Give me half an hour, then you may come after.”

No one could miss her meaning. Half an hour was the time it took a lady to undress.

And here was that gaze she’d seen before, the one that made her naked without ever roving away from her face. One hand dropped to his waistcoat and came back with a pocket watch. “Half an hour.” His eyelids lowered to consult the watch as he flicked it open. “You’ll have at least that long before I come.” He set the watch by his plate and didn’t look up again when she turned and left the room.

S
HE HADN’T
meant it, had she? He’d assumed she was only saying what she thought would spite Roanoke, and he’d been more than happy to abet her in that.

Will looked about him, and saw two or three glances hastily withdrawn. One of Miss Slaughter’s friends, the porcelain blonde, broke the short silence by forcefully proposing a round of charades after supper. Her gentleman protector seconded the scheme, and a number of well-intentioned souls who’d had their fill of unpleasantness chimed in with such zealous, dogged gaiety as charades had probably never before inspired in all the years of its existence. When the half hour ended they were still on the topic.

He set down his fork with his cutlet half-finished, and rose. No remark seemed quite suitable for the occasion, but he bowed. Several of the gentlemen nodded in return. Everyone pretended ignorance of the circumstances surrounding his departure save for another of
Lydia’s friends—the dark-haired one—who caught his eye and winked, unabashed approval written all across her face. He picked up his watch and walked out.

What would he do if she’d meant it?
Oblige her, you nodcock
. But oblige her in what? If she intended to do this only for the purpose of avenging herself on her protector, then it really had little to do with him. And if he were ever to bed her, he wanted it to have
everything
to do with him.

More than likely she hadn’t meant it. Or if she had, her wrath would have subsided in the half hour. They’d have a good laugh at their outrageous counterfeit, and then retire to the bed and the floor as they’d done last night.

The walk upstairs and down the hall to his room gave him time enough to convince himself of this, and almost time enough to convince himself it was what he desired. He swung the door open, and every conviction fled before the sight of Miss Slaughter, in nightclothes, with her hair taken down.

She perched on the window seat, legs bent to one side in mermaid fashion, bare ankles visible past the hem of her dressing gown. Or rather,
his
dressing gown. A low humming started in his blood as that detail came clear.

She didn’t look at him. In her hand she held a glass of claret and she raised it to drink. Matter-of-factly she did this—no angling her neck to show him the delicate ripples of her swallow, no licking the wetness from her lips—but when she lowered the glass, one side of his too-large gown fell away from her shoulder, exposing the gleam of dark, dark purple silk beneath.

It was no nightgown she wore. His palms and fingers remembered, with a charge like static electricity, every quality of that fabric. So did his mouth. The humming in his blood kicked up to a low-level clamor.

He pulled the door shut behind him, his hand lingering at the knob. Eighteen or so inches higher was a bolt.
Lock it
, came the prompting from his hand and his blood and every other hasty part of him.

But to throw that bolt home would be to commit to the deed. In the slide and click of metal would be acquiescence to a drama with no worthy role for him.
Yes
, that action would say.
I’m willing to serve as a mere convenient erection in your scheme
. And was he?

He took his hand from the door and folded his arms across his chest. He wouldn’t decide just yet.

Miss Slaughter stirred: her shoulders rose with a breath. “I pride myself, you know, on acting rationally and deliberately.” Though the words must be for his benefit, she delivered them into her glass of claret. Now he’d absorbed the spectacle of her dress, he could perceive the half-empty bottle beside her on the seat.