Page 3 of A Sham Engagement

“Yes, you will,” Aunt Penelope snapped. Perhaps she already knew what Matthew had done.

Elenora suppressed a frown, which Mama would doubtless censor as being detrimental to her looks. As this was the third time Matthew had been rusticated, it did seem as though he hadn’t learned anything from the first two occasions. If she’d only had the chance to go to Oxford to study, she’d never have done anything to jeopardize her place. But girls weren’t allowed to attend any university. So frustrating, as it was the only place in the world she’d be happy to go to, if she had to leave Penworthy. Another thing Petunia couldn’t understand.

“Your Papa is here too,” Mama said, her tone brusque. “No doubt he’ll be anxious to hear your side of the story, Matthew. He received a letter from your college giving their point of view on the subject a few days since.”

Matthew’s amiable expression fell a little. “Oh. Right. I daresay they’ve colored it in their direction. I’ll let him know the truth when I catch up with him.”

“He’s in the card room,” Elenora said. “Why don’t you go there now? I daresay he’ll be glad to see you.”

Matthew bridled. “In a while, Sis. Can’t leave Adam and Tim on their own, not with all these predatory mamas out and about.” He waggled his eyebrows at her in the way he’d been used to do when they were children together at Penworthy, and she had to suppress a giggle. She’d worm the reason for his latest rustication out of him later.

His two friends, however, to her delight didn’t look much like desirable catches. Mr. Thoroughgood’s plump face boasted a fine display of pimples while Mr. Brightwell’s singular most noticeable feature was his bright red hair—the sort of hair the unkind might describe as carroty.

“I say,” Mr. Brightwell ventured, having found his tongue at last. “Might I trouble you to put me down on your card for a dance, Miss Wetherby? Now we’ve been introduced, that is.” The rosy color creeping up his face clashed terribly with his hair.

Mama opened her mouth to say something that would inevitably be a refusal to this poor young man as he didn’t conform to the list of requirements for dance partners that had been hammered home to Elenora before they set out. But Elenora was already opening her dance card and licking the end of her pencil. Mama’s words rang in her head. The men you dance with must be of marriageable age, they must be rich and they must be titled. Looking more closely at Mr. Brightwell, she wasn’t sure he was even of marriageable age. And she doubted very much if he fulfilled either of Mama’s other requirements. Which made him the perfect dance partner.

As they’d only arrived a short while since, not a single name so far had been written in the card. “Do you like to dance the cotillion?” Elenora asked, surprised at her sudden onset of confidence. “I see it is the very next dance.” If she had to dance with someone, let it not be anyone of whom Mama might approve.

Mr. Brightwell, looking as though his birthday and Christmas had both arrived at the same time, spluttered out a yes, and, after she’d written his name down, held out his arm to her, his pink face glowing with pride.

As if inspired by his friend’s success, Mr. Thoroughgood bowed to Petunia and asked her for a dance as well. That made the prospect of dancing less of an ordeal than Elenora was expecting, as much of her practice had been with her sisters at Penworthy and with her cousin here in Town. She could almost view it as another practice day if she tried hard enough.

Heart hammering against her stays, she allowed Mr. Brightwell to lead her out onto the crowded dance floor, as Mr. Thoroughgood led out Petunia, leaving Mama with Matthew and Aunt Penelope, where no doubt they would take the opportunity to grill him about his Oxford indiscretions. A delightful thought occurred to her. If she could fill her card with unsuitable matches, then that would thwart Mama’s plan to marry her off to some inbred member of the haut Ton. Let Augusta, who at sixteen was already itching to have her first London season, save the family fortunes. And then maybe she, Elenora, could get on with doing what she really wanted, which was studying history.

Mr. Brightwell was not a good dancer. Or perhaps he was, but dancing with Elenora brought out the clumsy, two-left-footed side of him. Every time he trod on her toes, which was often, he apologized in the most exaggerated fashion, and so loudly that heads turned. Which only succeeded in bringing a flush of hot embarrassment to Elenora’s cheeks at being made a spectacle of. What was the betting Mr. Thoroughgood would be just as bad a dancer, although he appeared at the moment to be getting on swimmingly with Petunia as a partner. However, bruised toes were a small price to pay for avoiding Mama’s matchmaking plans.

Mr. Brightwell’s lack of any other kind of conversation than apologies enabled Elenora to study the other dancers in their eight. She hadn’t expected to know any of them, except, of course, for Petunia and Mr. Thoroughgood, but one of her favorite occupations was people watching, so, as she knew the dance steps intimately, that was what she did.

One of the men, a fair bit older than the other dancers, kept glancing in her direction, a wicked glint in his eye indicating he had perceived her problems with Mr. Brightwell and his uncontrollable feet. Tall, powerfully built, and with just a few flecks of silver adorning his unostentatious dark sideburns, he had an air of being amused about him that set her hackles rising. Was he presuming to laugh at her?

And what about the woman he was partnering? Nearly as old as Mama, which was positively ancient, her gown was of a deep ruby red and her face had been painted to perfection, unlike Lady Routledge’s, giving her the appearance of a beautiful and voluptuous statue come to life, despite her advanced age. As the ladies came together, the woman’s eyes met Elenora’s and for a moment held them, as though in a challenge. Taken aback, Elenora stumbled, and, when she looked up again, the dance had moved on. The woman was no longer looking at her but laughing up at her handsome partner.

Because even Elenora, uninterested as she was in marriage, couldn’t deny that the tall gentleman was handsome in a devilish kind of way. Even a dangerous kind of way. And that did make him interesting from the point of view of people watching, just as his dazzling partner was.

As she and Mr. Brightwell came together again she had time for a question. “Do you know who that woman is?”

He followed her gaze, more color rising up his cheeks as he saw who she was referring to. His reply came out as a mutter. “Um, I believe that’s Lady Raby.”

“Why did she look at me as though she hates me?”

The blush kept on rising. “Really, Miss Wetherby, I have no idea at all.” He glanced about furtively. “I’ve heard she’s a woman to be avoided at all costs. Do not let her make a friend of you.”

As if that would happen after the look she’d given Elenora.

The nature of the cotillion meant that as the dance progressed, she kept finding herself momentarily having to dance with all the other ladies. When she did, she now deliberately kept her gaze away from the flamboyant Lady Raby, assuming the demure behavior that Mama had hammered home was to be expected of a newly-come-out young lady.

But the dance also meant she was every so often partnered with Lady Raby’s escort, the man with the devilish look and the amused gaze. The first time this happened, she took his proffered hand in the lightest of holds and let him twirl her around, her head pointedly turned away from him. The second time, though, he caught her unawares. “Is there something about me that you dislike, Miss Wetherby?” He possessed a deep and undeniably attractive voice.

Her head snapped around. How did he even know her name? Did gentlemen also study the members of the Ton the way Mama had made her? Not that she knew who this particular gentleman was. From the look of him he wouldn’t have figured on Mama’s list of prospective husbands. “No, there isn’t.” Caught unawares she’d reverted back to her old forthright ways—ways that Mama had spent years trying to groom out of her. “Sir.” Or was he a “my lord?”

The dance led them apart, and it was a short while before they were once again paired. He started up exactly where he’d left off. “Then why is it you refuse to look at me when we dance?”

She took a quick peek up at his saturnine face. Dark hair curled around his forehead and the shadow of dark stubble outlined a strong jawline. Winged eyebrows framed eyes so dark they were almost black in this light. A face to be afraid of, if you were of a more missish disposition than Elenora. “You wish me to look at you?”

“It’s only polite while we dance together.”

They parted again, and now Elenora did indeed look at him as he danced with Lady Raby. The dance called for minimal touching of more than hands, and yet Lady Raby seemed to imbue every touch with something Elenora had never seen before. A languidness adhered to the woman, to both of them, as they danced the same dance as everyone else, yet in a way that seemed to exert a strange pull on Elenora, making her feel warm all over. The stranger had an elegance about him that pleased the eye, although his face possessed a distinctly devilish look even from a distance. To her surprise, she found that something more than just her idle interest in people watching fascinated her.