Page 35 of A Sham Engagement

An awkward silence fell between them. If only he hadn’t spoken those final thoughts. If he could have taken them back, he would have. If they were going to make this sham engagement work, he needed to behave as if it was undertaken for real. “Perhaps we’d better go downstairs to the drawing room. We are, after all, alone together, and I’m not sure either my mother or your aunt would completely approve.”

A smile lit her face, banishing the serious expression. “We are engaged, so I think every engaged couple is allowed a small amount of time alone.” She glanced across at the fallen soldiers. “And we have two armies to chaperone us.”

Jack stood up and held out his hand. “Most of whom are dead, don’t forget. Let us go downstairs. Perhaps I could prevail upon you not to reveal what you know about Edward to your aunt? Or to your mother when you see her? I like to keep his presence not so much a secret, but more as quiet and unobtrusive. I don’t want to give the gossipmongers more to gossip about me than they already have.”

This time with less hesitation, she took his offered hand. “Your secret is safe with me. Although, if someone were to come out with the direct question ‘does Lord Broxbourne have any children’ I don’t think I could lie for you. But I doubt anyone will ask such a question, so you may consider yourself safe.”

And that would have to do.

Chapter Thirteen

The day of the Belmont House ball dawned all too quickly for Elenora. If only Aunt Penelope hadn’t asked Jack to escort them. If only she didn’t have to go. Everyone would stare at her, wondering how she’d managed to ensnare such a catch when no one else had succeeded, and she would want to sink into a puddle of embarrassment. It would be dreadful. She couldn’t do it.

“I feel sick,” she tried with Aunt Penelope. “I don’t think I can go.”

Petunia arched her eyebrows and heaved an impatient sigh from her seat on her bed. She’d been waiting there for a good fifteen minutes, her own maid having secured her appearance with more speed than Agatha was capable of. Especially as Elenora was in a fidget and no hurry to be ready.

Aunt Penelope laid a practiced hand on her forehead. “Nonsense, you look quite healthy to me. No temperature, and you have very pretty color in your cheeks.”

Not what Elenora wanted to hear.

Petunia huffed as though exasperated. “That’s what I told her.”

They were all in Petunia and Elenora’s bedroom, where Agatha had been struggling to arrange Elenora’s hair to her mistress’s approval, something Elenora had already decided not to give. She tried again. “I think I might be going to be sick.” If only she were better at pretending, but she’d always found it far too stressful. Not as stressful as tonight was going to be though. At another ball. Who would have thought having obtained the desired engagement life would have become more difficult instead of easier? How unfair was that?

Aunt Penelope, who was dressed, coiffured and ready, just like Petunia, had come in to chivvy Elenora and Agatha along. “You ate a good breakfast of the same things as I did. It’s just nerves, my dear, as it’s your first time out as an engaged young lady. That’s a big step for any girl.” She glanced at her own daughter. “One which I’m sure Petunia will be taking before very long, as she has quite a fortune at her disposal.”

Of course. Petunia was that desirable creature—an heiress with money, and Aunt Penelope had probably expected her to make a match before her impecunious cousin.

Petunia’s expression became complacent. She’d been at pains to mention this several times already that evening.

Aunt Penelope fanned herself in distraction. “Now do hurry up, and stop worrying. All you need to do is raise your chin and look down your nose at those girls who haven’t been as lucky as you.”

Probably she didn’t mean Petunia, although the temptation to do so was strong, given the way she’d been behaving since the engagement.

Aunt Penelope gave a little titter. “Getting yourself engaged to an earl’s only son at your first ball is quite an achievement.”

Had Aunt Penelope forgotten the circumstances of this engagement? Was she suffering from selective amnesia? She might not be so inclined to be smug if Elenora reminded her it had been brought about by her having been compromised. The inclination to remind her aunt rose, but Elenora stayed silent, perhaps wisely. Not that anyone in her family thought her wise. How right her aunt was about it being nerves making her feel like this. Only she was making a vast understatement. “I think I’m going to be sick right now.”

“Pass her a bowl, Agatha.”

Agatha obliged, holding the china wash basin in front of her mistress. Elenora made a few dry-retching sounds in the vague hopes her stomach would oblige, but it didn’t. Drat it. Surely if she’d produced anything tangible her aunt would have allowed her to remain at home?

“There,” Aunt Penelope said, a distinct note of satisfaction in her voice. “I told you there was nothing wrong with you. Now, slip your gown on and we can go downstairs. Lord Broxbourne has been waiting for us in the hall for the last ten minutes.”

Elenora’s spirits rose a tiny bit. At least she would be with Jack. Since she’d met his little ward, she’d revised her opinion of him somewhat. Any man who would take in his dead mistress’s illegitimate child and clearly love him as he did could not be all bad. Could he? His child, in fact. He could so easily have followed his mother’s first suggestions about who should care for the infant, and he hadn’t. He’d kept him with him. A warm feeling for Jack’s kindness trickled over Elenora. He wasn’t the man everyone thought he was, and she was probably the only person who knew it.

If only Aunt Penelope knew that, as well. That would make her sit up and look. She smiled to herself as Agatha helped her into her ballgown. Another new one, this time in a pale silver satin, embroidered with tiny silver birds. Small, puffed sleeves sat slightly off the shoulder, and a sweeping neckline, combined with judicious use of stays by Agatha, created the impression of a decided bosom. A miracle what stays could do.

Taking her time, in the vague hopes that delaying the inevitable might help her, Elenora drew her gloves on, let Agatha drape a filmy cape about her shoulders that would not be enough to keep the cold off, and picked up her reticule and fan. Feeling like Marie Antoinette about to mount a tumbril on her way to the guillotine, she emitted a deep sigh. “I suppose I’m ready.”

Aunt Penelope patted her arm. “No need to behave as if this is a punishment, you silly girl. You look a vision. If he had not already offered for you, I swear Lord Broxbourne would be fit to do so tonight when he sees you in this gown. It was an excellent choice of mine, if I say so myself.” She stood back as if to better admire her creation. “It really won’t be the ordeal you seem to be imagining, my dear. Your betrothed will be by your side as is his duty, and I shall be keeping an eye on you both, have no fear. You will be the belle of the ball, the toast of the evening, the toast of the season, in fact, as you are certainly the success of the season.”

Elenora glanced at Petunia, whose face had taken on a mulish expression. Really, it was no wonder she was feeling jealous with the way her mama was extoling someone else’s virtues and success. A pang of guilt washed over Elenora. She would have swapped places with her cousin in an instant, did Petunia but know.

She sighed. What a very good reason being lauded as the belle of the ball by strangers was for not wanting to go. She’d tried, but she’d failed. Short of flinging herself down the stairs in an effort to break something, she couldn’t see any other way of getting out of this evening’s ordeal. An ordeal that promised to make escaping this engagement at the end of the season all the harder.

With a nod of thanks to Agatha, she followed Petunia and her aunt out of the bedroom to the two flights of stairs to the hallway. On the first floor landing, she paused, peering down at Jack where he stood in the wide hallway with his back to her, ostensibly gazing at a portrait of Aunt Penelope’s late husband looking portly and important, just as Elenora remembered him.