A Little Scandal (23 page)

Well, nothing much.

“I presume,” Burke said, observing Miss Mayhew pull a small gold watch from her bag, and scrutinize its face rather more closely than necessary, considering the brightness of the light from the chandelier over their heads, “that Isabel is all right. She is not tiring herself out by dancing too much?”

“Oh, no.” Miss Mayhew dropped the watch back into the depths of the bag, and, still without meeting his gaze, replied, “She is quite well. The surgeon declared her perfectly cured this afternoon. I’m afraid she’s back to worshiping Mr. Saunders up close, rather than from afar.”

“I see,” Burke said.

He wished she would look him in the eye. He couldn’t stand this accursed awkwardness. If only he hadn’t given up on
Last of the Mohicans
that night. If only he’d stayed in his room. He’d have never encountered Miss Mayhew in her nightclothes, and he’d never have known, as he did now, that the corset she was currently wearing was a needless frivolity. Her natural waist was slender enough on its own. And that those breasts, hidden now beneath all that silk, were, though small, as close to perfect as any he’d ever had the privilege of seeing. And he’d not only gotten a fairly good look at them—really, what kind of chaperone went about in virtually transparent nightwear?—but he’d felt them through the fabric of his dressing gown. Her nipples, hard as little pebbles, had seemed to burn holes through the black satin lapels of his robe. How they might feel against the palm of his hand was a question Burke had been asking himself ever since.

Kate, who had found a loose thread on one of her gloves, was now apparently using it as an excuse to avoid his gaze. Was she angry with him? Or merely embarrassed? Was it possible he had been flattering himself when he’d fancied she’d wanted him to kiss her?

But she’d never been kissed before. He was as certain of that as he was of her virginity. What Burke wasn’t certain about was how, precisely, one proceeded to seduce a virgin. He didn’t want to frighten her. There was no use, of course, thinking back to how he’d managed it with Elisabeth, since, of course, he had found out on his wedding night that Elisabeth hadn’t been as virginal as one might have expected, considering the fact that she’d worn white, after all, to the ceremony.

Burke said, coming to a sudden decision, “Miss Mayhew, all I’m saying is that if that man—or any other—bothers you, I will be more than happy to see that he puts a stop to it.”

She stared up at him in the manner of one who is quite convinced a companion is mentally deficient.

“Lord Wingate,” she said. “I told you. Mr. Craven is nothing to me, merely an old family—”

Burke ground his teeth. He couldn’t help it. “That may be true,” he said. As he stooped to speak into her ear, since the room was so noisy, he could barely hear himself think, Burke couldn’t help but notice that Miss Mayhew’s ear was quite a charming ope, very small and quite clean, like the rest of her. “But I believe his intentions toward you are a little more than friendly ….”

Before she could open that delightful mouth to reply, someone had begun tugging on his sleeve.

“Lord Wingate?” a familiar voice asked.

He shook his head, not willing to let his conversation with Miss Mayhew be interrupted, however intent the rest of the world might be at doing so. But the woman at his elbow persisted.

“My lord?” More tugging. Then the soft, inviting, “Burke?” that he’d heard her utter so many times, generally from the middle of a tangle of sheets and pillows.

He felt his blood go cold in his veins. What was she doing here? Surely she hadn’t been invited. She did not belong at a debutante ball. On the other hand, some hostesses were so desperate for their parties to be perceived as a success, they invited just about anyone who might be remotely construed as society.

Even actresses.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new little friend, Burke?” Sara asked, her voice dipping to a kittenish purr, as she snaked a hand through the crook of his arm.

Burke looked down at her. Sara was, as always, exceedingly well made up, and exquisitely dressed. One could hardly believe, to look at her, that underneath that generous bosom—much of which was on display just then—there beat a heart that, she kept insisting, in letter after letter to him, was permanently broken by what she insisted was his cruel desertion.

Burke did not, in fact, believe it. And in answer to her question, he gave a curt, “No,” and removed her hand from his arm.

Sara blinked her kohl-rimmed eyes, looking wounded as a fawn. It was a look she’d perfected by practicing it for hours on end in front of a mirror. Burke knew, because there’d been a time when he’d delighted in watching her do it.

“Lord Wingate,” she said, her voice now sounding childishly hurt. “Is that any way to treat an old friend?”

Before Burke could reply, Miss Mayhew said, “No, of course it isn’t, Mrs. Woodhart. But you see, I’m not Lord Wingate’s new little friend. I’m Miss Mayhew, his daughter’s chaperone.”

Although the hurt left Mrs. Woodhart’s beautiful face, it was replaced by a new emotion. Burke recognized it as suspicion. “Oh,” she said knowingly. “The chaperone.”

“I saw a poster of you as Lady Macbeth a few months ago, Mrs. Woodhart,” Kate went on to say. “Which is how I recognized you.”

“Indeed,” Sara said. Both of her eyebrows were raised, stretched to their limits. This was not a good sign, Burke knew. It meant she was going to say something impertinent. To spare Miss Mayhew, and avoid any embarrassment to himself, he quickly reached out, and seized the actress’s plump upper arm.

“Mrs. Woodhart,” he said, with some desperation. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

“Certainly, Burke,” she said.

But Burke did not manage to steer her away quickly enough, because as they stepped out onto the dance floor, Sara said, in an insinuating tone, “Well, I can see now what’s been occupying all of your time these past few weeks, Burke.”

Kate heard, of course. Everyone heard. That was what Sara wanted. She considered herself the injured party, no matter how many times Burke pointed out that she was the one whom he’d caught with another. He had always prided himself on the fact that all of his past relationships—with the exception of his marriage—had at least ended amicably. His breakup with Sara Woodhart, however, was destined to be an acrimonious one.

Just how acrimonious, however, he hadn’t anticipated. Not until the crack of her outstretched hand striking his face, seconds after he’d informed her, as they waltzed, that there was no longer any place for her in his life, and that if she ever spoke to him again at a function he was attending in the company of his daughter, he would personally see to it that, whatever particular production she happened to be in at the time, all its financial backing would be dropped.

Most of the guests, and most likely the hostess, saw the slap, or at least heard it, and everyone saw Sara storm from the ballroom, the skirt of her gown swaying angrily from side to side as she walked.

Including, of course, Kate Mayhew.

“Geoffrey,” Isabel said dreamily, from the corner of the carriage she was slumped in, “says he has something to ask me, Miss Mayhew.”

Kate, seated in her own corner of the carriage, said nothing. Her mind was too full to attend to Isabel’s prattling.

“Did you hear me, Miss Mayhew?” Isabel leaned forward a little. “I said that Geoffrey says he has something to ask me.”

“Mr. Saunders,” Kate corrected her automatically. “Addressing young men by their Christian names is vulgar, unless they are related to you.”

“Fine, then. Mr. Saunders says he has something to ask me, Miss Mayhew.”

“Well,” Kate said. Her mind was full, it was true. One might even say she was troubled … perhaps even deeply troubled. But it wouldn’t do, she knew, to let her charge know that. And so she asked, “Why didn’t Mr. Saunders ask his question tonight then, if it was so important? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t the opportunity. How many dances did the two of you have?”

“Four,” Isabel said, in the same dreamy voice.

“Well,” Kate said again. “Then he had plenty of opportunity. Sometimes I can’t help thinking young Mr. Saunders is a bit lacking in intellect.”

Isabel took not the slightest offense at this slander against her love. “I suppose,” she said, “he didn’t ask me tonight at the ball because he wanted a more romantic atmosphere. Lady Tetmiller’s was sadly lacking in that, don’t you think, Miss Mayhew?”

Kate did not reply right away. The atmosphere of romance—or lack thereof—at Lady Tetmiller’s was hardly foremost in her mind. No, it was what had happened directly before they’d left the ball that Kate could not get out of her head: the memory of Daniel Craven, who’d left her alone for the whole of the evening after Lord Wingate’s warning, suddenly stealing up and seizing her hand, then dragging her behind a pillar and asking, worriedly, “Katie? Is everything all right? I got the feeling from Lord Wingate that perhaps …’.”

She’d been more prepared this time than she’d been an hour before, when he’d come toward her from out of nowhere and begun chatting amiably about their mutual acquaintances. This time she did not even pale, but said, calmly tugging on her shawl, which she’d collected already from the cloakroom, “Everything is fine, Mr. Craven. Only I wish—”

“Mr. Craven?” He had looked crestfallen, and had plucked up one of her hands to squeeze. “I remember a time when it used to be Daniel.”

Looking down at their joined hands, Kate had said, “I remember that time, too, Mr. Craven. But that was some time ago. Before the fire, remember …”

“Blast the fire,” Daniel had burst out vehemently. “Can a bloody fire have changed things so much, Kate, that you don’t have time anymore for your old friends?”

She’d blinked up at him in astonishment. “But of course it can, Mr. Craven,” she’d said. “The fire changed everything. You ought to know that. You were there, after all.”

Daniel had dropped her hand as if it, like her past, had suddenly burst into flames.

“What do you mean?” he’d asked too quickly, his pale eyes fixed to her face. “What do you mean by that? I wasn’t there, Kate. I wasn’t anywhere near—”

Kate hadn’t heard the rest of what he’d said, because Isabel had begun calling for her, frantic over the apparent misplacement of a glove. But now, jolting along in the carriage home, Kate could only wonder at herself. Why on earth had she said that about his having been there that night? What could she have been thinking? He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t.

“Well,” Isabel said, bringing her back round to the present. “Well, Miss Mayhew? Don’t you agree with me? About Lady Tetmiller’s being so lacking in romantic atmosphere?”

Kate, recovering herself, said with a laugh, “Romance? I’m hardly qualified to answer that question, being, according to you, far too old to entertain any hope a man might ever want me.”

“Oh,” Isabel said, waving a hand airily. “I know of at least one man who wants you very much, Miss Mayhew. But we’re talking about me, now. I believe Geoffrey’s going to ask me to marry him.”

“And what,” Kate inquired, “does he propose the two of you will live on? Moonbeams and morning dew? Mr. Saunders owes far more money than he makes, you know.”

“I shall simply have to convince Papa to pay off his debts,” Isabel said, with a shrug. “And then the two of us will start fresh.”

“Your father would far sooner approve your marrying a Papua New Guinean than Geoffrey Saunders,” Kate said.

Again the airy hand wave. “I shall take care of Papa. I expect he’ll do whatever I say after that embarrassing scene tonight.”

Kate looked pointedly out the window of the chaise. “I don’t know what you mean,” she lied.

“Oh, Miss Mayhew, don’t pretend you didn’t see it. Mrs. Woodhart slapped him hard enough to be heard all the wayto Newcastle. I’ve never been so mortified in all my life. I mean, really. All my friends think he said something lascivious to offend her.”

Kate couldn’t help glancing over at her charge, her eyebrows raised. “Lascivious?”

“Yes. Isn’t that a delicious word? I learned it from one of your books. I forget which one.”

Kate turned her face back toward the window. “I’m sure,” she said, after a moment’s silence, “that they only quarreled. Mrs. Woodhart is an actress, and is probably prone to dramatic gestures like the one tonight. I’m certain there wasn’t anything lascivious involved.”

“They weren’t quarreling,” Isabel said knowingly. “Papa dropped her months ago. He hasn’t had a mistress since you came to stay with us, Miss Mayhew.”

Kate pretended to be absorbed in admiring a passing barouche. “How you come to know these things,” she murmured, “I will never understand.”

“Oh, that’s simple enough. Duncan told me.”

Kate shook her head. “You shouldn’t be listening to servants’ gossip, Lady Isabel. You know better than that.”

“Oh, pooh. It’s perfectly obvious to everyone in the entire house, if not all of London by now, that he’s in love with you, Miss Mayhew.”

Now Kate had to tear her gaze away from the window and stare, horrified, at her charge, while color flooded her cheeks. “Lady Isabel!” she cried, her voice cracking.

“Well, it’s true.” Isabel, looking a bit like Lady Babbie after catching a particularly fat mouse, curled up on the seat opposite Kate’s, and all but purred. “Surely you’ve noticed how he avoids you when we’re at home. But then he pops up wherever we go, sure as clockwork. He can’t help himself. I believe he wakes up each morning and says to himself—she performed an uncannily accurate imitation of her father’s deep voice by dropping her own several octaves—” ‘I shall be certain to avoid Miss Mayhew today.’ But then by evening, all his resolve is gone, because you really are irresistible, Miss Mayhew. Like chocolate.”

Kate said, with all the sternness she could muster, “Lady Isabel, you must stop teasing. It isn’t respectful of your father, and it is unkind to me.”

Isabel ignored her. “Even Mrs. Cleary said something the other day. She said, ‘It’s not like his lordship to miss his supper. But I don’t believe he’s been home for it these past three months.’ And three months is how long you’ve been here, Miss Mayhew. He’s avoiding you, probably because the very sight of you sends him into a frenzy of lust.”