Page 49 of To Love and to Loathe
“I won’t deny that she’s a bold little thing,” his grandmother admitted before pinning him in place with a sharp look. “But, tiresome as Lady Rothsmere is, she wields a great deal of power in thetonand I won’t have her complaining to all and sundry about my rake of a grandson leaving her daughter heartbroken. She entrusted her daughter to my care for the duration of this house party, and if the lady returns to London giving even the slightest impression of a woebegone calf, I’m certain Lady Rothsmere will be more than happy to lay the blame at your feet. And mine.”
“If the lady is heartbroken, I’m hardly to blame,” Jeremy objected. “I’ve certainly done nothing to encourage her.”
“I’m not saying that you have, but the fact is, Willingham, you have something of a reputation—one that you’ve very intentionally created for yourself, I’ve no doubt. As I told you just the other night, the act is wearing thin with me, but if you’re going to insist on behaving like a man without a scrap of conscience, then the very least you can do is not embarrass me publicly by creating a scandal with the daughter of an earl. It is apparently too much to ask that you sincerely consider the idea of courting her—”
He could not allow this to pass without comment. “You cannot be serious.”
“I’m entirely serious, my boy,” the dowager marchioness said, surveying him in a way that made him wonder what, exactly, she saw within him. “It’s high time you were wed, as I’ve made abundantly clear, and one could hardly ask for a more willing candidate for a wife. You’d barely have to expend any energy at all—it seems the perfect solution.”
“Barring the minor detail that I would be utterly miserable for the rest of my days!” Jeremy said, nettled.
His grandmother waved a hand dismissively. “I never took you for a romantic, Jeremy.” Before he could offer a vehement protest to that particular bit of commentary, she rose, rubbing her hands together in businesslike fashion. “Now, go soothe the lady’s wounded sensibilities. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
Somehow, in short order, Jeremy found himself out in the hallway, rather like a subject whose audience with the king had been declared at an end; he had no doubt that his grandmother would not object to this characterization of their relationship. Deciding that there wasno point in putting off an unpleasant task—and shuddering to think what the dowager marchioness’s reaction would be if he did not follow her instructions—he walked a few doors farther down the hall, stopping before the bedchamber that had been given to Lady Helen.
He had a vague thought of knocking on the door and asking her if she would like to accompany him downstairs for another cup of tea, but he paused in the act of raising his fist when he realized that the door before him was slightly ajar. Elderwild was an old house, and many of the heavy doors, if not shut sufficiently firmly, would fail to latch and swing back slightly, which was what appeared to have happened here. He was about to go ahead and knock anyway when a sound from within made him freeze.
A moan.
Jeremy was a man of simple pleasures: a fine glass of brandy, a hard ride on a horse, a good round of boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s, a tumble with a willing woman. None of these occupations provided him with expertise that he generally had much cause to call upon, but in that moment, he knew one thing with the utmost certainty: that moan had not been one of pain, but of pleasure.
He lowered his fist, the rest of him frozen in shock. Lady Helen with a lover? He would never have thought her capable of it; in truth, he was a bit impressed. Her reputation was impeccable—never so much as a whiff of scandal. Who could the gentleman possibly be?
He knew that the honorable thing to do now would be to attempt to shut the door without the parties within noticing, and walk away, but he found himself leaning forward slightly, pressing his face to the crack in the door.
And then he blinked. And blinked again.
For Lady Helen was indeed within, pressed up against a wall, herskirts rucked up and a lover’s hand working beneath them. But the lover in question was not one of the gentlemen of the house party.
It was one of the servants.
Specifically, it was Sutton—her lady’s maid.
Later, Jeremy thought, he would look back on this evening and laugh. At the moment, he felt rather too shocked to do anything of the sort, even as the events around him devolved into farce.
Dinner had been a lengthy affair, as usual, the table groaning under the weight of numerous dishes making up each course. Jeremy—who was beginning to seriously wonder at the wisdom of allowing his housekeeper to be in charge of the seating arrangements—had found himself seated between Lady Helen and Diana, with Audley, Violet, and Penvale directly opposite. This arrangement seemed entirely to the latter three’s satisfaction, as they watched the ensuing conversation between Jeremy and his seatmates rather like spectators at a boxing match.
“Lady Helen,” Diana said sweetly as the soup course was cleared away, “are you finding your ankle much recovered?” This was, of course, a ludicrous breach of etiquette—Diana was meant to be talking to Jeremy, who was seated directly to her left; on his other side, Lady Helen was regaling Belfry with some sort of lengthy monologue. Jeremy noticed that Belfry was drinking rather deeply from his wineglass.
At Diana’s interruption, however, Lady Helen broke off her discussion with Belfry and slowly turned. She gave a sort of trembling sigh clearly meant to indicate long, noble suffering. “I am, Lady Templeton,” she said mournfully. She had to lean forward slightly to speakacross Jeremy to Diana, and she placed a hand on his sleeve as she did so. Several hours earlier, this breach of propriety would have had him crawling under the table to escape; now, however, he merely watched her, wondering what, precisely, her plan was.
She turned to him, batting her eyelashes so heavily that he was tempted to ask her if she had something in her eye. “Lord Willingham, the strength of your arm undoubtedly played a role in my speedy recovery.”
Across the table, Jeremy saw Penvale choke on his Madeira.
“Oh, yes,” Diana agreed solemnly, leaning a bit forward as well. This movement, given the cut of her bodice, made it extremely difficult for Jeremy to keep his gaze fixed on the lady’s eyes, which were at the moment round and innocent. Given that her brother was seated directly opposite them, however, he did his best in this regard.
“Willingham can be quite solicitous when the fancy strikes him,” Diana continued; a more halfhearted endorsement of one’s chivalry Jeremy wasn’t sure he’d ever heard, but he had too many other concerns at the moment to take offense. “And of course…” She trailed off, pausing dramatically. Jeremy once again glanced at Penvale, Audley, and Violet, all of whom were watching Diana expectantly, appearing to be enjoying themselves thoroughly.
“… when Cupid’s arrow has struck, you cannot but expect him to spring into action to spare his delicate flower any discomfort.” Diana blinked rapidly, as though suppressing tears.
“Are you quite all right?” Jeremy asked politely, watching as she dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. It seemed a shame not to pay her the courtesy of playing along, now that she’d really gotten into the spirit of this performance.
“Merely touched,” she assured him with a watery smile.
“In the head?” he asked.
On his other side, Lady Helen gave a shrill sort of giggle, once more placing her hand on his sleeve, drawing his attention back to her. Was it his imagination, or had her nails dug into his arm? “Oh, Lord Willingham!” she said with slightly manic glee. “So droll! So frightfully droll!”
