Page 9 of A Sham Engagement

She fished in her reticule. “I have thread and a needle. Mama says always to be prepared wherever you go.” And the needle was even threaded, ready for use.

He held out his hand. “Here, give it to me. It’ll be easier for me to sew it than you, and after all, it is my fault it’s ripped.”

Without thinking, she handed him the needle and thread. How was it a man such as he could sew? How unexpected. Especially considering she was so bad at sewing herself.

He dropped to one knee beside her, head bent, and began to sew, using small, neat stitches—better than any she could have done herself, particularly whilst wearing the offending garment. Quite at odds with his reputation.

The rip was large, though, and he was only halfway through it when the library door swung open and three people came in. Mama, Papa and the white haired old gentleman who’d welcomed them to his ball. Broxbourne’s own father, the Earl of Amberley. Behind them, a fourth figure loomed, staring through the open doorway. Lady Routledge.

Elenora’s head snapped around as her eyes widened in shock. Not quite so much, though, as the eyes of her audience.

Chapter Five

“Elenora!” Mama’s voice rose to a horrified squeak, as Lady Routledge almost elbowed past her and into the library and Papa hurriedly slammed the door behind them all.

“Mama!” Elenora’s hand shot to her mouth and unwanted heat rose to her cheeks.

Oh no. This was too terrible for words. And that condescending old harpy who’d looked down her aristocratic nose at them and cast aspersions about Penworthy as well. What could possibly be worse than being caught in what was undoubtedly a compromising position? Being caught by that arbiter of the Ton, that was what.

Lord Amberley’s face purpled as though he were in danger of suffering apoplexy as he glared at his son. “Jack!”

“Father.” To do him credit, Broxbourne didn’t get up, but continued sewing. “Give me a minute or two. I’m just mending Miss Wetherby’s gown.”

Admirable sangfroid in this awkward situation.

“What’s going on here?” Papa asked, coming farther into the library, his accusing gaze snaking between Elenora’s blazing hot face and Broxbourne still on his knees in front of her.

“M-my gown tore,” Elenora tried, twitching with desperation to move away from the man on his knees in front of her. If before she’d longed for a hole to swallow her up, that had been nothing compared with right now.

“It doesn’t look as though you were doing nothing,” Lady Routledge almost crowed. “You look as though we’ve surprised you in a tryst.” She couldn’t have looked more delighted if she’d tried. She’d have been the sort to sit watching the French aristocracy going to the guillotine and congratulating herself as each head fell into the waiting basket.

Mama turned anguished eyes on Papa. Elenora, unable to put up with Broxbourne’s attentions any longer, snatched her gown away from his nimble fingers, the needle left hanging loose by its thread. Her unavoidable eye for the smallest detail had her admiring his stitchwork. “Nothing whatsoever has happened here,” she tried, keeping her voice as calm as she could but uncomfortably aware that the heat of her face, which had to rival Lord Amberley’s, might be giving the lie to this.

“My boy,” Lord Amberley said, his voice a deep rumble replete with heavy threat, “This young lady is of good breeding. You can’t go bringing your back street morals into my ballroom.”

“This isn’t your ballroom, it’s your library,” Broxbourne said, with some asperity, as he rose to his feet. “And I have not brought my ‘back street morals’, as you call them, here. All I was doing was assisting Miss Wetherby in her hour of need.”

Lady Routledge stepped forward like an actress taking center stage. “And how exactly did Miss Wetherby’s dress become ripped?” She fixed Elenora with a gimlet stare.

Elenora swallowed, her mind wiped clean of all coherent thought. She’d always found it impossible to lie, and a lie was what was needed here, but one would not come.

“She—” began Broxbourne, only to be silenced by an imperious hand.

“I am asking Miss Wetherby,” Lady Routledge intoned, sounding like a judge about to pass sentence of death, or how Elenora imagined one might sound.

Her eyes going from her mother’s face to her father’s, Elenora groped blindly for some excuse. Her parents stared back at her, but their expressions gave her no confidence that she would be believed.

Lady Routledge took a step closer. “Did Lord Broxbourne tear your dress, Miss Wetherby?”

Caught like a mouse in a trap, all Elenora could do was give the tiniest nod.

“Oh, my dear, sweet, innocent child.” Mama ran forward and enfolded Elenora in her arms so tightly she almost choked the breath from her. “She’s been violated by this odious man. I don’t care if he’s your son, my lord, he’s a vile cad. A rake. He’s defiled my daughter’s honor.”

“Mama, he didn’t…” Elenora tried, her face embedded in her mother’s fragrant shoulder.

“Is this true? Lord Amberley blustered. “You ripped Miss Wetherby’s gown, Jack?”

Elenora couldn’t see Broxbourne now, clasped as she was to her mother’s heaving bosom, but she could hear him. He sounded as shocked as she was. “No, well, yes, I suppose I did, but not the way—”