Louisa pushed back from the table, excused herself, and stalked out into the hall, head high and shoulders squared. Behind her, the hum of speculation resumed, louder than ever.
It was only as she turned the corner toward the library that she caught the whispered exchange of two footmen in the shadowed anteroom.
“They say he proposed right there in the music room—on one knee and everything!”
Louisa’s face burned, but a rueful smile tugged at her mouth. In the end, she supposed, it was almost romantic.
If only it weren’t her own life being affected by it.
She drew in a breath and continued down the hall, determined to find an escape from the brewing scandal. She stopped in the library before continuing to the drawing room.
There was a belief endorsed by saints, philosophers, and certain English matrons, that literature could solve anything. Louisa had always been skeptical. But on this particular morning, with the world closing in on her and her reputation under scrutiny, she clutched her battered novel like a lifeline.
She curled in an armchair by the drawing room window, sunlight streamed through the glass just as her brother entered, looking troubled. Lord Lucas Pembroke, Viscount Winthrop, was not typically dramatic, but the expression on his face as he closed the door suggested that something had gone seriously wrong.
“Louisa,” he said, barely keeping his voice even.
She looked up, marked her place with a finger, and responded, “You’re out of sorts.”
Lucas paced to the fireplace, turned, then paced back, as if measuring a confinement. “I have received, in the last hour, no fewer than seven notes of congratulation on your engagement to Foxmere. One of them—from Aunt Eugenia—includes a hand-copied recipe for ‘matrimonial pudding.’”
Louisa snorted, but Lucas did not share her amusement.
He turned, face flushed, hands braced on the back of a settee. “Is it true?”
She set the book aside and folded her hands, determined to project calm. “No. Absolutely not. The entire story is a farce. Someone overheard a foolish conversation and embellished it.”
Lucas’s jaw tightened. “That is not what the staff are saying. That is not what Lady Honoria Worthington is saying. And I daresay the village is now sharing the news.”
Louisa lifted her chin. “When has Lady Honoria ever let facts interfere with a good story?”
He shook his head, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You have to see it from my position, Louisa. You are my only sister. Our name?—”
“Our name is already in the mud, Lucas. I merely added my own touch.”
He fell silent, brow furrowed, as if searching for the right response among the remnants of familial affection.
In the sudden hush, the door swung open. Lord Foxmere entered, coat slung over his arm and sunlight cutting across his face. He looked at Louisa, then at Lucas, surveying the scene with one of his signature, irreverent bows.
“Am I interrupting a domestic tragedy, or is it merely the comedy hour?” he asked.
Lucas straightened, preparing for a confrontation. “You,” he said, “are the cause of this entire mess. Explain yourself.”
Foxmere regarded Lucas with the bemused detachment of a man who had been called worse by better people. “Which particular mess do you mean, Lord Winthrop? I understand there are at least three circulating at present.”
Louisa wanted to interject, to offer herself as a shield or scapegoat, but the words caught in her throat.
Lucas advanced, voice shaking with restrained anger. “You made a mockery of my sister. You ruined her standing?—”
“That,” Niall interrupted, suddenly serious, “was not my intention.” He fixed Lucas with a steady gaze. “If anyone’s reputation is to suffer, it should be mine alone. I take full responsibility.”
The room fell silent. Even the clock seemed to pause.
Lucas closed the distance between them. “You take full responsibility?” he repeated, incredulous. “You? You think a clever phrase and a bow will settle matters?”
“If it would,” Niall said, “I’d add a curtsy and a round of applause. But I know it will not.”
A blur of movement, a fist arcing through the air, connected with Niall’s jaw in a sickening crack. Niall reeled, staggered, and caught himself on the edge of the armchair. For a moment, Louisa thought he might retaliate, but he gripped the fabric, steadied himself, and let out a dry laugh.
