Rogue's Honor (30 page)

Pearl sighed with relief, then rolled onto
her back to stare up at the medallioned ceiling. What had she been
thinking, to drink
five
glasses of champagne? Why, she could
have . . . Bits and pieces of the previous evening returned,
gaining clarity as they accumulated.

Lord Bellowsworth, stuffier than ever. Luke's
appearance, in splendid style . . . Luke and Bellowsworth arguing,
arguing about
her
! Insufferable men. Then, later, talking to
Minerva, then Luke, then . . .

She pressed her hands to her face. Dear
heaven, she had told him everything! And then . . . and then he had
kissed her. Even now, horrified as she was by what she'd told him
and the impropriety of allowing such an intimacy in such a setting,
the memory of that kiss had the power to send warmth rushing
through her, temporarily easing her bodily anguish.

But not her mental anguish.

She had agreed to marry Lord Bellowsworth
with her eyes wide open. He had met with her father, the
announcement had been printed in all of the papers, settlements
were being drawn up, she had even exacted a promise from him that
she would be allowed to manage Fairbourne as she wished.

Everything, in fact, had been arranged
precisely as she had requested. And now,
now
she discovered
that Luke did not despise her after all. Worse, he now knew that
she was betrothed to a man she did not love, and in all likelihood
understood the true nature of her feelings toward Luke himself.
Pearl writhed inwardly with embarrassment. She had all but thrown
herself at the man, while engaged to marry another!

When next she saw him, she would have to
behave distantly, even coldly toward him, making it clear that the
champagne had been talking last night and not her reason.
Otherwise, he might well precipitate a scandal for the pure
pleasure of discomfiting Bellowsworth. As new to Society as he was,
that would do his standing no good at all.

A little voice told her that she wouldn't
care, as long as they could be together. But no. Luke had said
nothing last night about wishing to marry her— she was certain she
would remember if he had. She would not be made into a
laughingstock for the sake of his male pride —or Bellowsworth's. It
was up to her to make certain there were no further confrontations
between the two.

If she ever felt equal to leaving her bed
again . . .

* * *

"Excellently done, Flute!" Luke examined the
fall of his cravat in the glass. "We'll make a valet of you yet.
You've been practicing, have you?"

"Aye, around that urn on the landing." Flute
fairly beamed with pride. "Clarence says I'm getting it right three
times out of four now." Lord Marcus had been sending his own valet
to Hardwyck Hall for an hour or two each day to assist in Flute's
training.

"I always knew you were a clever lad. Now, if
you'll just hand me the blue coat—yes, Woodruff? What is it?" He
turned to face his new butler, who stood clearing his throat at the
door of his chamber.

"Lord Marcus Northrup is below, my lord,"
replied the young man who had served as a footman to the
Mountheaths until they turned him off last week without a
reference.

It seemed that Miss Fanny had thrown away her
favorite fan in a fit of pique, then, regretting her action, had
told Woodruff to retrieve it from the dustbin. He had succeeded,
but the condition of the fan had been sufficient to throw the young
lady into a fury —and Woodruff into the streets.

Luke nodded. "I was just going down. Thank
you, Woodruff."

Lord Marcus greeted him in the library a
moment later with a relieved smile. "I'm glad I caught you before
you went out, Luke. I've been thinking about last night, and wanted
to talk with you."

"About what?" asked Luke warily, moving to
one of the new overstuffed chairs near the windows. Already the
library was a far more comfortable room than it had been during his
uncle's possession.

Marcus took the matching chair. "Your
apparent determination to pursue the Lady Pearl, of course. I don't
know how well you know Bellowsworth—"

"As well as ever I want to, I assure you,"
Luke interjected.

"—but he's rather a favorite, even a coddled
son of Society," Marcus continued as though he hadn't spoken. "He's
an ineffectual fellow, I grant you, but those in positions of
influence— particularly the matrons —are rather, well, protective
of him."

"So you feel it would be a mistake for me to
humiliate him?" Luke concluded. "Pity." For that was precisely what
he intended to do.

His determination must have been obvious, for
Marcus leaned forward earnestly. "I know you care for the lady, and
I'm the first to admit that Bellowsworth isn't worthy of her, but
can you really afford a scandal so soon?"

Luke had to laugh. "You're a fine one to
talk!"

"Yes, but I've never had much at stake. You
do." Marcus frowned worriedly. "Already tongues are wagging about
your exchange last night, and it won't be long before someone
dredges up that old story about Lady Simcox from last Season."

Now it was Luke's turn to frown. "What story
is that?"

"Hm. Well. I only know what the gossips have
said," replied Marcus, clearly wishing he hadn't brought it up.

"As I have not been in a position to hear
Society's gossip until quite recently, perhaps you can enlighten
me," Luke suggested.

Marcus ran a finger between his neck and
collar, glancing out the window, then around the library, before
answering. "The story last year— after you went back to the country
—was that you seduced her right under her husband's nose. That she
flaunted her infidelity so that Simcox would divorce her—so she
could marry you —but that you left her in the lurch. I never
believed any of it, of course, but—"

"Like most persistent tales, it's a mix of
fact and fiction," said Luke with a chuckle. "The lady approached
me. She was desperate to free herself from her brutish husband, and
I agreed to, er, assist her. She never had the slightest desire to
attach herself to me—or to any man, I imagine, after what she'd
seen of marriage. She intended to return to her ancestral home in
Cumberland, I believe."

"Then it's true that you and she . . .?"

"A gentleman never tells," Luke reminded him
dryly. "Now that you've done your duty by sharing your concerns,
perhaps you'll excuse me, Marcus. I have a mind to go riding in the
Park."

"Would you care for company?"

He shook his head. "I'm trying out a new
mount, actually. My horsemanship still leaves much to be desired, I
fear."

Visibly relieved, Marcus grinned. "What, does
your aunt Lavinia not keep a stable?"

Luke felt a twinge of remorse for continuing
to deceive his friend about his past, but he shook his head. "No,
she never travels, so saw no need. I've scarcely ridden at all
since Oxford, in fact."

The riding instruction he'd received there
had seemed pointless at the time, but he was glad of it now. He saw
no need whatsoever to inform Marcus that he had reason to believe
Pearl and Bellowsworth would be driving in the Park this afternoon.
He only hoped he wouldn't make too poor a showing, should he
encounter them —as he fully intended to do.

"I'll take my leave then," said Marcus,
standing. Luke accompanied him to the front door. "You'll keep in
mind what I said?" he asked, by way of parting.

"Of course," Luke agreed. "I do appreciate
your keeping me apprised of everything Society is doing and
saying." It would make his campaign easier, if he knew precisely
what he was up against.

With a cheerful nod, Marcus departed. At
once, Luke called for his horse. With any luck, the next hour would
be most amusing.

* * *

"You seem uncommonly thirsty this afternoon,"
Obelia commented from her throne-like chair in the parlor as Pearl
poured herself another cup of tea.

"I suppose I am," she agreed absently.
Hettie's concoction had helped enormously, but she still felt far
from her best. Tea was all she cared to put into her stomach thus
far.

The Duchess eyed her critically. "I am
pleased to see you are feeling recovered. It was beyond all things
rude for you to refuse to call upon Lady Bellowsworth this morning,
illness or no illness. She rarely invites visitors to her home, you
know."

"I'm certain Lord Bellowsworth —and you, your
grace—would prefer my first impression upon her to be a positive
one." Pearl took a large sip of tea. It did seem to fortify her
somewhat. "I assure you that such would not have been the case had
I gone this morning. I had the most dreadful headache, and was
dizzy besides."

"You're not increasing, are you?" Obelia
demanded. "That could ruin all."

Pearl nearly spewed out the mouthful of tea
she had just taken. "Of course not! And pray lower your voice, your
grace. That would be a fine thing for one of the servants to
hear."

Obelia merely sniffed, taking a delicate bite
of the cucumber sandwich she held.

"If you must know, I drank a bit too much of
the Prince Regent's excellent champagne last night, and it
disagreed with me," said Pearl, deciding honesty was preferable to
Obelia's surmises. "And my monthly courses ended just days ago, so
you needn't worry about . . . what you suggested."

It appeared that this was plainer speaking
than Obelia cared for. "No more details, if you please. I only hope
Lord Bellowsworth did not notice your imbibing last night. A man in
his position will not want a sot for a wife."

Pearl did not reply, refusing to be drawn
into a discussion of her own shortcomings —not that she had any
defense for her foolishness, in any event. The silence had become
awkward, as so often happened between them, when Upwood appeared to
announce Lord Bellowsworth.

On entering the parlor, he offered only a
cursory bow to the Duchess before hurrying over to Pearl. "I am so
happy to see you sitting up, my lady! Dare I hope you are feeling
recovered? Mother was so disappointed that you were unable to
attend her this morning."

His solicitousness would have been a pleasant
change from Obelia's criticism had Pearl not detected a hint of
censure in his manner. "I hope you conveyed my apologies to her,"
she replied. "I had the most abominable headache, but I am feeling
much more the thing now."

"That is excellent news," he exclaimed. "And
I have even better news to share. My mother is outside at this
moment, in the barouche-landau, and wishes you to come driving in
the Park with us!" He beamed as though offering her the greatest
treat imaginable.

The Duchess spoke before Pearl could summon
up the enthusiasm he clearly expected for her response. "Sitting
outside in a carriage, my lord? Pray invite the dear lady
inside!"

But Lord Bellowsworth shook his head. "She
preferred to wait, your grace. Climbing in and out of carriages is
difficult for her. That is why I was so delighted when she asked me
to take her for a drive today. I'm certain the fresh air— warm,
with no hint of chill —will do her an enormous amount of good."

"I'll ring for my parasol at once." Pearl
realized she might as well get the inevitable meeting over, though
she'd have preferred another day to recover her constitution.

Stepping outside a few minutes later, Pearl
saw at once why Lady Bellowsworth might find dismounting from her
barouche an effort, for she was an extremely large woman. Blinking
in the sunlight, which seemed far too bright for so late in the
day, Pearl curtsied to the turbaned, silk-swathed figure reposing
under the hood of the carriage.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my
lady," she said, when the woman did not speak at once.

Instead of replying, Lady Bellowsworth turned
to her son. "Burford, hand her into the barouche-landau, so that I
can get a look at her." He hurried at once to comply. "My eyes are
prone to inflammation, you know," she continued. "Spectacles do me
little good."

Pearl murmured something sympathetic as
Bellowsworth seated himself next to her in the rear-facing seat,
but the grand dame before her waved a beringed hand to silence
her.

"So this is the lady you have finally chosen
is it, Burford? The papers have been uncommonly flattering about
her, but I'll form my own opinions. A bit long in the tooth, isn't
she?"

"Of course not, Mother!" With an embarrassed
glance at Pearl, he signaled the coachman to start. "I've already
told you that she is not yet one-and-twenty."

Lady Bellowsworth continued to regard Pearl,
who was torn between laughter and outrage, with a critical eye. "A
younger girl would be easier to train," she pronounced. "This one
has a very decided expression and her forehead denotes a strong
will. I suspect she has been much indulged."

"If your ladyship would prefer to select a
more suitable bride for your son—" Pearl began hopefully.

"No, no, of course she does not mean that, my
dear," Bellowsworth interrupted. "Mother is merely nervous at this,
her first drive in some months."

"Driving is not at all good for me," Lady
Bellowsworth agreed, diverted for the moment from her critique of
Pearl by this reference to her own health. "I find I benefit from a
more sheltered atmosphere. Early summer is the only season I can
abide being out of doors for any time at all, I take a chill so
easily."

At once Bellowsworth was all concern. "Is
that rug warm enough for you, Mother?" he asked, reaching across to
adjust the heavy blanket covering her legs.

"Too warm," she responded, shoving the rug to
the floor of the carriage. "And the sun is too bright." In that,
Pearl had to agree with her. "It makes my poor eyes water."

"Lady Pearl will be happy to lend you her
parasol to shield your face. Will you not, my lady?" Without even
waiting for her answer, Bellowsworth reached for the named
item.