Page 70 of A Sham Engagement

“Yes?”

“Miss Wetherby, Elenora, had not gone home to her aunt’s house.”

His mother’s delicate brows arched. “She was still there after midnight?”

Jack nodded.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that she had her maid with her as a chaperone?” Her tone was more than sarcastic.

Jack remained silent, knowing full well that Elenora’s maid had returned to Arlington Street some time earlier that evening.

His mother sighed. “Of course she didn’t. I hope you provided her with a suitable escort and sent her home forthwith.”

Jack remained silent. Again.

Realization dawned in his mother’s dark eyes. “You didn’t? What were you thinking of? You let her stay? In your house? The house of a known rake? By herself? Overnight?” Her voice rose with each utterance in the most alarming way, reminding Jack of when he’d been brought before her as a boy and forced to admit his misdemeanors. Which had been many.

“She was already in bed. So to speak.”

“In bed?” He hadn’t thought her voice could get any higher, but she proved him wrong.

“You went into her bedroom while she was in bed? In a state of deshabillée?”

He’d better get this off his chest quickly before steam started coming out of her ears. “No. She’d clearly been reading a bedtime story to Edward and fallen asleep with him. I went to the nursery, as I told you just now, to check on Edward, and I found her curled up with him. Asleep.”

He paused, the image dancing before his eyes tantalizingly. “I couldn’t have disturbed her for it would have disturbed Edward too. And he needed his sleep after his ordeal.”

His mother fanned herself with one hand. “So you let her spend the whole night in your house? With you? Good heavens, Jack, do you possess no sense of propriety?”

Jack bridled. “It didn’t happen quite like that. When I saw she was still there, I took myself off to White’s and spent the remainder of the night there. The servants there can vouch for that. One of them brought me a glass of brandy as I couldn’t sleep. I was not under the same roof as her.”

His mother shook her head in what looked like despair. “Very correct of you, after a night of such inveterate incorrectness. However, I think what you’ve just told me solves your little problem with your Miss Wetherby. You will have to marry her now, whether she loves you or not, and rub along as best you can. Her parents and my dear Penelope will stand for nothing else. There’ll be no backing out of this engagement at the end of the season. The girl has spent the night under your roof. Whether you were there or not is immaterial. She will be ruined if you don’t marry her within the week.”

Jack put his head in his hands. This wasn’t how he’d wanted to win Elenora’s heart. He needed her to love him back, not feel backed into a corner like this. “What do you advise?”

His mother drew her shawl more closely about her shoulders. “I suggest you get round there straightaway and propose proper marriage to her. And go and get a Common License and marry the girl immediately before the gossipmongers of the Ton get hold of this story. She’ll come round to it, I can assure you. Girls always do.”

Elenora woke to the sound of heavy rain on the window. Papa would be cross if he couldn’t go out for his daily ride around the estate and that would make him grumpy with her and her sisters. She snuggled further into the warmth of her covers, putting off the moment when she’d have to get up. But who was this in bed with her? Could it be Phoebe who’d dared slip in beside her? Only Phoebe was thick-skinned enough to ignore Elenora’s often repeated warning words about coming into her bedroom.

If it was Phoebe, then she was snoring, and that was intolerable.

Incensed at the cheek of her sister to creep into her bed during the night and on top of that to snore, Elenora sat up in bed with a jerk.

This was not Phoebe.

For a moment, Elenora couldn’t work out who it was before realization dawned and she recognized Edward’s sleeping form and remembered she wasn’t at home at Penworthy. His snoring sleeping form. She must have fallen asleep last night. She hadn’t meant to. Her memory surfaced about everything that had happened yesterday. She’d come in after her bath to make sure Edward was happy, and he’d asked her to read him a story. She’d climbed onto the bed beside him and he’d snuggled in close as she read, warm and cozy, and as far as she could remember, she hadn’t reached the end of the story. They’d both been so very tired…

She must have fallen asleep. It had been an exceedingly stressful day, after all.

Dim light filtered in around the heavy curtains, so it must be past dawn, which, as it was February, meant it must be after eight o’clock. The fire in the hearth had gone out, and now that she was sitting up, the chill bit into her shoulders. The elegant peignoir she’d borrowed had little substance but she pulled it closer about herself, nevertheless.

The full import of her situation sank in. She’d spent the night here, in Portland Place. In a man’s house. The house of a single man, no less, with no woman to give her stay any hint of propriety. Her betrothed, it was true, but that counted for nothing. Young ladies, especially not those clad in fancy nightgowns and peignoirs that were not their own, should never spend the night in a man’s house. Alone. Not even the house of their betrothed. She looked at Edward’s sleeping face, so like his father’s. Technically, she wasn’t really alone. She had a chaperone. Of sorts. Even if he was only seven years old.

She glanced about the nursery. She couldn’t stay here. She had to get home. But before she did that, she had to find some clothes. She could hardly go home in a silk peignoir. Where was Agatha? Should she ring the bell for one of the servants? Oh dear, she seemed to have got herself into more of a pickle than ever. No, she wouldn’t ring the bell. She’d manage by herself. The fewer people who knew she was here, the better. Easier said than done, but best undertaken now, before she quailed. Facing an irate, possibly apoplectic, Aunt Penelope was not going to be fun.

She slithered out of bed and found the pair of silk slippers she’d worn last night on the rug. Good. She slipped her feet into them, pulled this pesky peignoir close, and tiptoed across the nursery on silent feet.

No one in the corridor, thank goodness, but with all the curtains closed, deep gloom reigned, as though not only she and Edward, but the whole household, had slept in late.