Marchmont chuckled. “On the contrary, Miss Tolliver, I find this particular drama most exquisitely penned.”
“Splendid,” Hetty said crisply. “Then you may read about it inThe Morning Gazette, as will the rest of theton. But I have no intention of standing here like some swooning heroine whilst the gentlemen posture and puff themselves into a fine frenzy.” She turned sharply to her brother. “You may bear the family name, Benedict, but do notpresume to command its use. Remember that well before you dispatch any further of my so-called suitors to pistols at dawn.”
Theo looked on as if tempted to smile, until Hetty rounded upon him. “And you, Lord Langley, will refrain from humouring this absurdity out of some misplaced notion of chivalry. Should either of you bleed before breakfast, I shall never forgive either one of you!”
“Well said, my girl,” came a voice from the top of the steps. “Though I must add, should anyone be wounded before breakfast, it will most certainly spoil the marmalade.”
All heads turned to behold Lord Tolliver making his leisurely descent into the garden, his evening coat somewhat disordered and a book tucked beneath one arm, as though he had merely sought a quiet refuge for reading and had been unwittingly waylaid by the evening’s high drama.
“Now then,” he said, coming to a halt betwixt Theo and Ben, who remained locked in mortal glare, “who is duelling whom, and pray tell, is it for something as tedious as honour or something as amusing as goats?”
“It is not amusing, Father,” Ben snapped. “Winslow has kissed Hetty.”
Lord Tolliver blinked. “Well, naturally. They are betrothed.”
“They are what?”
“You were unaware?” Lord Tolliver looked genuinely perplexed. “I believe it was reported in the papers. Or perchance your Mama mentioned it in one of her – ah – rather detailed letters?”
“I do not read the newspapers,” said Ben stiffly. “And the last correspondence I received from Mama consisted of no less thantwelve pages devoted to a pigeon infestation and a recipe for plum preserves.”
“Ah.” Lord Tolliver gave a sympathetic nod. “Then yes, you’ve missed rather a bit.”
Ben turned sharply to his sister. “Hetty. Is it true? You are engaged? To him?”
“I am,” Hetty answered coolly. “Though if you persist in bellowing like a fishmonger at Billingsgate, I shall be forced to call off the entire affair on the grounds of sheer embarrassment.”
Ben opened his mouth, likely to resume his righteous bellowing, but Lord Tolliver raised a placating hand. “Now, now, let us not enlarge the spectacle beyond what is already quite sufficient. The engagement is perfectly proper. Lord Langley is neither lunatic nor notorious libertine – well, no more so than is currently fashionable. And, to my relief, he has yet to burden me with unsolicited opinions on naval strategy, which is more than I can say for your fellow with the sideburns, Hetty.”
“She did not have fellow with sideburns!” Ben barked.
“Not one you were aware of,” Lord Tolliver mused. “But, as ever, that is scarcely the point.”
Ben clenched his jaw, turning upon Theo once more. “You may style yourself Langley now, but I have known you since you were scarcely out of knee breeches, Winslow… And I know your sort! Should you have compromised her – ”
“I would marry her a hundred times over before dishonouring her,” Theo snapped.
A silence descended upon the garden, so complete that even Miss Pomeroy ceased her fluttering fan, mouth slightly open in breathless rapture.
Hetty sighed and rubbed her temples. “Wonderful. Now everyone is being noble. Might we retire indoors before someone begins reciting Byron or, Heaven forbid, firing pistols into the shrubbery?”
Lord Tolliver nodded. “Excellent suggestion my dear. I have always found pistol fire quite disagreeable to wisteria.”
With that, the party retreated indoors as though they had merely taken a leisurely turn about the garden, and not, in truth, narrowly averted the spectacle of a duel at dawn. One could always count on Society to preserve an air of composed decorum in the face of impending scandal. Miss Pomeroy, resuming her fan with a flutter, looked positively ready to swoon from romantic satisfaction. Marchmont lingered, of course, his smile sharpened to a knowing edge, as if the entire scene had been contrived solely for his entertainment. Benedict strode ahead, muttering darkly beneath his breath, stiff with the indignation of a brother entirely too late to intervene.
As for Hetty, she walked beside Theo with chin held high and spine as straight as the stiffest stays, as though such impeccable posture might silence the rather distracting recollection of his mouth upon hers. By all rights, she ought to be mortified, or at the very least, incensed. Instead, she found herself possessed of an altogether intolerable sense of uncertainty and suspended disbelief, which was proving far more vexing than any scandal.
Why, in the name of all that was rational, had Theo kissed her? Such liberty was decidedly absent from the terms of their arrangement. Had she, unwittingly or otherwise, betrayed some imperceptible cue that might have encouraged him? Had she smiled too fondly? Tilted her chin just so? Or was it simply that Theo, with all the practiced ease of a seasoned player, had acted on the time-honoured impulse to kiss whichever lady occupied his thoughts most persistently? Or more troubling, was it possible that he was playing the part with such exquisite skill that even he no longer quite distinguished performance from passion?
Three weeks, she reminded herself grimly. Three weeks of this masquerade – of carefully contrived appearances in the Park, smiles artfully fashioned to appear besotted, and stolen glances designed to suggest affection rather than impatience, and, Heaven preserve her, three more weeks of the painstaking avoidance of any further kisses from Theodore Winslow. At the conclusion of those three weeks, she would be properly, publicly, and irreversibly ruined, which, she reminded herself with some desperation, had always been the plan.
Even so, a most un-Hetty-like flutter of doubt stirred within her breast, and she could not help but wonder – somewhat hysterically – what exactly, she had set in motion.
Chapter 12
At the far corner of White’s, mercifully removed from the din of whist tables and the droning discourse on stocks and studs, Theo sat in a high-backed leather chair, nursing a brandy he had scarcely touched. His thoughts were occupied with one singular, vexing notion: the taste of Hetty Tolliver’s mouth upon his. It had been madness, a lapse in judgement, a moment of lunacy brought on by moonlight, proximity and the maddening defiance of her chin… and Heaven help him, he wanted very badly to do it again.
“You’ve the brooding look of a man contemplating matrimony,” came a voice from across the room, languid and amused. “Or sugar investments. Either way, it does not bode well.”
