Page 7 of A Sham Engagement

Aunt Penelope had been left a rich widow three years ago, something which seemed to rankle with Mama. She had been overjoyed that she could, for a second time, as Petunia already had her wardrobe assembled, traipse around London’s best couturiers and mantua makers and shoemakers and hat shops and all the other establishments Mama swore were necessary for a girl making her debut with the Ton. After all, as Mama pointed out more than once, dressing a girl as rewarding as Elenora was delightful.

Elenora had tried again at every opportunity to put forward her reasons for not wishing to come out, especially the amount of money they were spending on gowns and gloves and spencers and cloaks and slippers and hats and… well, too many clothes for one girl, especially one who preferred messing about in the country and shooting with her brothers. And, of course, Mama had to have new gowns as well. Her protesting was to no avail. Aunt Penelope, unfortunately for Elenora, had already offered to help Papa pay for Elenora’s gowns, so there was to be no argument.

She’d tried again that very evening, before Aunt Penelope’s carriage had arrived at the front door, ready to take them to the Amberley House Ball. Mama had already been in an ecstasy of anticipation. “We’re so lucky dear Penelope lives in London for most of the year. She knows everyone who’s everyone and we’ll reap the benefit of that with invitations from all her friends and acquaintances.”

Elenora hadn’t shared Mama’s enthusiasm and made the mistake of airing her thoughts. Mama had not been amused. And here they were, after midnight now and an excruciating supper in the company of the tubby and middle-aged Lord Shinfield, the recently widowed heir to a dukedom. He featured high on Mama’s list of suitable gentlemen, despite his pot belly and nascent bald spot, and the fact that he was three inches shorter than Elenora. She was sure she’d heard Aunt Penelope whisper her congratulations to Mama when he’d edged his way across the ballroom to request a dance.

Elenora had been quite relieved when, as they emerged from the supper room, a younger gentleman arrived to claim the next dance with her. Lord Shinfield, who had regaled Elenora with tales of his seemingly numerous motherless children, and not once asked her a question about herself, glowered at the newcomer, but etiquette required him to stand back and cede the day.

However, this young man had proved no more interesting a conversation maker than his predecessor—did no one in London have anything worthwhile to talk about? As the dance ended, Elenora wished him a brusque good evening and slunk away into the mêlée of people around the refreshments before Mama could pounce. Surely there must be somewhere she could get away from this crowd of noisy, tipsy if not outright drunk gentlemen and their imperious ladies.

She found herself almost bundled to the side of the room, where a closed oak door beckoned her. Glancing around in case the young man to whom she’d been consigned for the next dance might be approaching, she opened the door and slipped inside.

The oasis of peace that was the room she found herself in surprised her. Only a faint buzz of noise managed to penetrate the heavy door and paneled walls of a large library. Of all the places in Amberley House, this was the one she would have most wanted to find herself in if she’d been asked. What luck. A little sigh escaped her as she surveyed the floor to ceiling shelves of leather-bound books. Heaven on Earth. And nobody knew she was here. Perhaps she could hide in a quiet corner until it was time to return home. With a book.

A coal fire burned with enthusiasm in the large fireplace on the far side of the room, in front of which stood two large wingbacked chairs, facing the heat. If she sat in one of them, with a book of her choice, no one would even see her from the doorway, and in her somewhat limited experience, most people were not fond of the actual books in libraries so wouldn’t linger even if they found their way here. Perfect. Now to choose a book.

No easy task. Whoever owned this library had the books ordered by subject, so that was a great help. She navigated her way down the shelves to the right of the door, searching for the history section, if there was one. History was a subject that had always interested her, but she’d long since exhausted the small supply of such books in the library at Penworthy. A library that had been purchased by Papa’s father by the linear foot, for the way it looked and not for its content. A library only she and Papa frequented.

The pleasingly large and well-stocked history section resided on the mahogany shelves on the right side of the room. Elenora perused the spines, reading off title after title in an awed whisper as she went, as spoilt for choice as Mama had been last week in the couturiers when choosing the fabric for her new gowns.

She paused, her breath catching in her throat. Antiquities of Athens Measured and Delineated by James Stuart and Nicholas Revett. All three volumes, the last published in 1794, when she’d been a little girl, just starting out with an obsession for history the rest of her family couldn’t understand. She let her fingers run over the embossed leather of the books’ spines. How often had she begged Papa to purchase a copy of these books, offering to forego new gowns for several years should he be so kind as to agree. An easy thing to offer, but all to no avail. And now here were all three, and she had time only to skim their surface. Better not waste any time and start with the first one.

She pulled the first volume from the shelf, and, hugging it to her breast like a beloved child, headed for the leather wingbacked chairs by the fire. It would be so cozy to sit in silence with her feet up on the fender, warming her toes, with the book she’d longed to read for so long in her lap.

She rounded the seats and stopped in her tracks. A man already occupied one of them, and he wasn’t discreetly asleep, or even feigning sleep, which would have been polite. Instead, he was looking at her with one dark eyebrow raised in open enquiry and a sleek, sardonic smile on his lips.

Jack Deveril, Lord Broxbourne. The man with the reputation.

“Oh,” was all she could think of to say.

He steepled his fingers. “I was wondering whether you intended to purloin that book or come and sit with me before the fire to read it.”

“Sit with you? Good heavens, no.” Shock made her more honest than she would have liked. “I shall put it back forthwith and leave you to your thoughts, Lord Broxbourne.” Damn it. How dare he be here spoiling her escape from the ball? Spoiling her chance to read this book. She made to turn away, but he shot out a hand and caught hold of her gown.

“Pray don’t depart on my account. If you wish to read that book, then please do so.”

Oh no. She pulled away from him, expecting him to let go of her gown, as any gentleman would. He didn’t. The delicate, and eye-wateringly expensive, fabric tore.

She did stop then, in case the gown tore even more, which would be a disaster and take a lot of explaining. “Please release your hold on me. I must return to the ballroom. You may have the book back and return it to the shelf yourself.” She held out the book.

He ignored her.

The book was heavy and holding it out made her arms ache. She drew the book back to her breasts again, holding it like a shield between her and this ridiculous man who seemed to think he could tell her what to do. Just like Mama. Just like everybody she knew. “At least, my lord, unhand me so that I may return the book myself.”

He nodded his head at the other chair. “Nonsense. I’m bored and you interest me. Sit down and tell me why you chose that particular book, when there are others of a more feminine taste over there. Novels. I never met a woman yet who didn’t like a romantic novel.”

Well, he’d met one now. She didn’t say so though.

She didn’t move. “That is really none of your business. Now please let me go before someone comes.”

He didn’t let go, a rather wicked smile lighting up his face, as though he were finding this whole thing entertaining. “Afraid of the consequences, are you? You know you like me. I could tell from the look on your face when your erstwhile mother lied to me that your dance card was full.”

On sounder ground now, Elenora could answer this one. “You mistake me, my lord. I was not pleased you’d asked for a dance because I liked you, but because you are so unsuitable a partner. And if you had secured a dance with me, that would have been one less dance for me with someone my mother sees as a possible son-in-law.”

He had unusually dark eyes, in which the dancing flames of the fire flickered, giving him an undoubtedly devilish appearance. Hadn’t Mr. Brightwell said his nickname was Satan? Lord Satan, would that be? And his family name, Deveril, was close enough to the word ‘devil’ to be more than a coincidence. Perhaps.

He laughed. “Are you telling me you wanted to dance with me because I’m considered an unsuitable match? Don’t you want to be married to some scion of a noble house?” His laugh hardened. “To save your family from ruin?”