A Lady's Guide to Ruin (25 page)

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A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal

Coming soon from Berkley
Sensation!

SUMMER, 1812

Colin Spenser, Marquess of Farleigh, paced. It was, he allowed, a cliché, but he felt he undertook the task with style. He had chosen the library for his pacing, surrounded by weighty books and furniture of a deep mahogany, which lent a dignity to the endeavor he did not feel himself. He was a man in love, helplessly so, and any moment now—the next circuit, or the one after that—he would stride out, declare his affections, make the requisite proposal, and be done with this discomfort.

Colin considered himself a man of great certainty. He knew on instinct, without the aid of a compass, which direction he faced at any given moment; he knew the time without glancing at a clock; he knew Latin and Greek, mathematics, the precise distance between New York and London, and the rules for fifty-seven separate card games. He
knew
that Elinor Hargrove was an irritating, nosy twig
of a girl, her only redeeming quality being her relation to his closest friend.

The problem was, he'd been so very
certain
of that fact, and the image of her—blotchy-skinned, gawky, in ill-fitting gowns, constantly ill—had been so fixed in his mind that he had not seen the gradual transformation she had undergone. He had missed, too, the incrementally longer moments he had lingered near her, the more extensive conversations they had engaged in. He had missed that her no-longer pimpled skin was a soft, pale shade that bordered on luminous, her hair effortlessly swept up off her long neck, her body slender and gracefully curved. He had missed that when she laughed across the room, his thoughts faltered and his conversation fell to silence so he could listen.

Somehow, through all of that, he had insisted to himself that he did not care for her one whit. Until now. Until this summer, in her family's home at Birch Hall. There was not some sudden flash of insight; he could not give himself that kind of credit. No, the evidence had accumulated over months and years, a slow accretion like snow on a roof. Each flake inconsequential, until the roof bowed and broke.

For all its discomfort, it came as a relief. He had spent the last several months in a state of numbness, ever since word arrived—months after the fact—that his elder sister had died in India. Months after she'd left England, he'd found himself turning as if to ask her advice, straining his ear to catch the light fall of her laughter again. By the time she died, he had been accustomed to her absence, and that made it hurt all the more. It was only on his mother's insistence that he'd dragged himself to this party. And then
he'd seen Elinor, and it was as if he remembered at last how to breathe.

He could not go back to that half-death. He had to act.

He stopped, straightening, his hands clasped behind his back. He was a logical man, and he could recognize his failure in this circumstance. He had allowed himself to be blinded by his adolescent prejudices. It was time to correct his mistakes, and all of this pacing would not change the situation. Nor did it appear to be supplying him with the correct words to convince a girl—a woman—whom he'd studiously ignored for two decades to marry him.

He'd extemporize. Women liked that, didn't they? Spontaneity?

He cleared his throat and strode out into the hall. He took a sharp right, proceeded thirty-one steps down the hallway, and turned toward the door to the Blue Room. Elinor spent every afternoon in the Blue Room, reading or sewing, alone with her thoughts. It was the perfect time to approach her without interruption.

Except—

Except the door was ajar, and he had arrived not in the midst of a long silence, but a short one. A pause, one might say, and now the conversation within resumed.

“You needn't give me an answer now.”

The voice belonged to Matthew Newburne, a fellow guest at Birch Hall for the summer. Colin frowned. Newburne and Elinor despised one another. They had fought all summer, trading jabs and burning glares from the time the carriages pulled up in the drive. What was Newburne doing there?

“Needn't I?” Elinor asked. She didn't sound angry. She sounded . . .

Oh, God. Not this.

“You can take as long as you require. I do not mean to pressure you.”

Colin tensed. He could burst in. Fall down on his knees. Or stand. Loom. He was tall; he was good at looming. Dear lord, Newburne was shorter than Elinor!

“Though . . . how long do you suppose you might require?” Newburne managed a chuckle, but the strain in his voice was obvious. Colin balled his hands into fists. He recognized that strain. Good God, he should have seen what hid behind that bickering.

“Oh, Matthew. I don't need any more time. My answer is yes.”

Colin closed his eyes, jaw tensing at Newburne's startled laugh, Elinor's inhalation of—surprise? Delight? Laughter again, and the unmistakable sound of a kiss. And then, footsteps. They were coming for the door. Colin's eyes flew open. He stepped back, mouth parting, eyes widening as he frantically considered what he might say.

The door opened. Elinor stood, flushed, her hand stretched back and Newburne dragged along merrily behind her. She halted, eyes shining and a smile lighting her elegant features. Colin stood gaping, breathless, feeling as if someone had just punched him in the stomach.

“Lord Farleigh,” Elinor said, after the pause had grown distinctly uncomfortable.

“Ah. Lady Elinor. Mr. Newburne. Good afternoon.”

“We've just—” Elinor trailed off, laughed breathily, glanced back at Newburne. The man had a sheepish grin on his face. Colin contemplated sinking a fist into it.

“I overheard,” Colin said. “Not that I was listening, mind. I happened to walk by.” He tilted up his chin. His
heartbeat seemed to have deserted him; certainly the blood had ceased to flow through him and vertigo swept in to take its place. “My congratulations,” he said, light and airy. He was going to faint. Or commit murder. “It is a surprise, of course. You do seem mismatched. In height, in temperament . . . but I suppose that differences do a lively match make. And certainly it is high time you were wed, Elinor. You are what, twenty-five years of age? We had begun to worry.” He cursed every word as it came out of his mouth, and yet he could not stop himself. He wanted to fling all the helpless hurt back at them, to watch someone else's face crumple with the despair that compressed his lungs.

Elinor gaped at him. Newburne had turned red, but when he made to step forward, Elinor tightened her grip on his hand. “Thank you for your well wishes,” she said. Her voice was just as tight as her hold on Newburne. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must find my brother.”

“In the garden, I believe,” Colin said. “Again, my congratulations.” He turned on his heel and strode back the way he had come. Thirty-one steps. A left turn. He shut the door to the library behind him and stood with his hand on the knob, his brow inches from the solid wood. Perhaps he should slam them together a few times. Which of the two methods might be more efficacious, he wondered: ramming his head forward into the door, or yanking the door into his forehead? The latter might attract more attention, but as he rather hoped he would be unconscious at the end of the procedure, it didn't particularly matter.

Matthew Newburne.
Mr.
Matthew Newburne. The son of an earl, yes, but the
third
son. And his brothers were
quite
healthy.

He turned, abandoning the quick release of a
concussion. Perhaps there was something in the room he could tear apart. Some of the books looked heavy enough to throw through the windows, and if Martin got upset, he'd simply explain . . .

Under no circumstances could he explain this to Martin, he realized. The man must never know; not if their friendship was to continue unaltered. He'd simply claim to have been drunk, then.

Which, come to think of it, was a marvelous idea. He stalked to the table beneath the window, on which rested brandy and sturdy glasses. He filled the glass halfway and downed a large swallow. Ah, yes. That would do.

He would drink. As plans went, it had the advantage of simplicity.

He threw himself into the nearest chair. He'd spent two decades ignoring the woman. He could certainly manage a few
more.

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