Not Proper Enough (A Reforming the Scoundrels Romance) (4 page)

“I don’t care, you know,” Hester said evenly. “What men like Mr. Lane say or do. ‘Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury…’”

“‘Signifying nothing.’” Fenris cocked his head. “You ought not care. I, however, do. It’s a fault of mine.”

Lane and the others stopped within arm’s reach of Fenris. He ignored them. Eugenia couldn’t decide where to look, at Lane and his hateful friends, for she quite hated them now, or at Fenris, who was giving the performance of his life. He could have made a living on the stage, he was that convincing in portraying himself as kind and thoughtful.

Lane put a hand over his heart and shook his head. “Is this possible?”

His query caused instant silence for a radius of some ten feet. Lane removed his gloves with an awful deliberation. He slapped them against his open palm to a collective intake of breath. The half of the room that could not see probably thought he’d slapped Fenris.

Fenris half turned. “What is that noise?”

Thwap, thwap, thwap
, went the gloves against Lane’s palm. “Fox. Do mine eyes deceive? Gentlemen,” Lane addressed his companions, “did you not hear his lordship ask the girl to dance?”

To this there came a chorus of agreement. Eugenia tensed.

“To be sure,” Fenris said. “I’m begging for the honor.”

“The man who stole away the Incomparable is reduced to begging for dances?” Lane snorted. “I thought you were over your penchant for blowsy girls.”

Fenris went perfectly still. “I don’t know what you mean.”

But he did. Of course he did. Some years ago, Fenris had leveled just that insult at her. He’d called her blowsy, a remark that spread through the Ton like fire and refused to die out.

“If your sensibilities were nice in any respect,” Lane said, his hand still over his heart, “you would not be here pleading for yet another blowsy country girl to dance with you.” He winced, but whether his pain was metaphorical or physical, Eugenia could not say. “Where’s your pride? You’re to be a duke, one day, man.”

Fenris looked him up and down. “If you had the brains
of a lobster, you would possess twice the intelligence you’ve displayed tonight.”

Lane frowned. “Brains?” He opened and closed his mouth several times and squinted as if thinking pained him. “Twice the intelligence?”

“I fear it’s not a compliment.” Hester shook her head sadly.

“Mr. Lane.” Eugenia felt sick to her stomach as she stepped off the cliff with no protection but the hope that she was right that Lord Fenris’s regard for Hester was sincere. “I believe Lord Fenris is suggesting that in a contest of mental acuity between you and a large crustacean, the crustacean would win.”

Dinwitty gaped. “Of a…lobster?”

“Yes,” Fenris said. “A lobster. As Mrs. Bryant so helpfully explicated, a large crustacean.”

Lane’s eyes widened. He tipped his chin downward until it collided with his cravat, which spoiled his attempt to look down his nose at Eugenia. She would gladly accept the man’s blistering scorn as long as he let Hester alone. His lip curled as he turned his attention from her to Fenris. “You go too far.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Lane.” Fenris sounded bored. Bored beyond anyone’s capacity to endure such tedium. “I did not go far enough. I cannot fathom why a gentleman would behave as you have this evening.”

One of Lane’s companions, Eugenia did not see who it was, barked again, to the general hilarity of the rest of Lane’s followers.

Lane gestured at the men behind them. “Give his lordship your condolences, men.” He spoke over several sotto voce mutterings behind him. “I believe his lordship has forgotten himself. My God.” Lane glanced toward the heavens. “Save us from watching him dash his reputation to shreds on such inferior shores as these. You should not, sir, seduce in so poor a country.”

“I beg your pardon,” Fenris said in sharp tones.

Lane slapped his gloves on his palm again. “None shall be given.”

“You would be wise to have a care what you imply about me,” Fenris said so coldly she could practically see snowflakes dancing in the air around him. If you don’t, it will be your mistake to rue. I shall not, however, permit you to imply anything untoward about me and any lady in this room.”

Hester, Eugenia was aware, watched Lord Fenris with a sharp gaze.

“I’m sure,” Lane said, “that I’ve heard more than enough insults for one night.”

The world was perverse. Eugenia had long dreamed about serving Lord Fenris the ice-cold revenge he so deserved. Since the day she’d learned of Fenris’s campaign against her she had imagined all manner of ways to make him pay. She had never, not once, imagined she would align herself with him or feel in any way compelled to defend him. “What insult do you imagine you’ve suffered, Mr. Lane, when, in fact, Lord Fenris has insulted not you but lobsters everywhere?”

A few days later. No. 6 Spring Street, London.

E
UGENIA DIDN’T REALIZE SHE WAS STILL HOLDING
F
ENRIS’S
calling card until he walked into her front parlor on the heels of Keyes, the butler Mountjoy employed at the town house.

“Shall I bring refreshments, milady?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Lord, no. The sooner Lord Fenris departed, the better. Keyes bowed and made his silent departure.

She ended up staring at Fenris as if she hadn’t a thought in her head. She reminded herself she despised the man and wished him gone. Except, he’d been so wonderful about Hester. Asking her to dance and then defending her to that awful Mr. Lane. In front of everyone.

Fenris had come far enough into the room to allow Keyes to depart, and no farther. Now, he bowed, though the motion was more a curt nod of his head. “Mrs. Bryant.” There was that vaunted reserve, that innate disdain she so despised him for. “Thank you for seeing me.”

She lifted her hand, saw she was holding his card, and walked, slowly, to the fireplace mantel where she kept the
calling cards people left. His coat of arms was engraved on thick cream paper, with the Fenris arms to the left and a smaller engraving of the Camber arms in the lower right corner. She pushed his card underneath all the others, to the very bottom of the pile, a silly and ridiculous thing to do, to metaphorically bury the marquess. But then he must be used to people displaying his card in pride of place, and she was
not
about to do that.

“It’s early,” she said. “Not even eleven o’clock.”

“The very break of day,” he murmured.

She turned from the mantel. His expression was unreadable. “Oh, do come in.”

He walked away from the door. The years that had passed since she first met him had turned him from an attractive young gentleman into an appallingly handsome man. He was bigger now, and none of the additional size appeared to be fat. His skin fit close to the bone. She knew now, as she had not in the early days of their acquaintance, about men and their bodies. Their needs. She understood far too well the difference those years had made in him. The things a man wanted from a woman.

“Thank you.”

She gazed at him until she realized she risked him misunderstanding the reason for her silence. “I presume you are not here to inform me my brothers have been killed or injured or of some other disaster that’s befallen me.”

He recoiled, and when she saw how she’d shocked him, she considered leaving the comment unexplained. She owed him nothing. Less than nothing. He had no right to understand why she would say such a thing. Nor was he entitled to the power an explanation would give him over her.

She closed her eyes and wished him gone. His arrival, unwelcome and unexpected, had frightened her, and while she waited for her dread to recede she realized she would have to offer him an explanation. When she opened her eyes, he was still there, and the remnants of her fear continued to echo through her. Softly and only after another long pause, she said, “I was not home when Robert fell ill.”

He gazed at his feet. Her heart beat once before he looked at her again. He knew that Robert had died suddenly. She refused to accept what she saw there was anything real.

“I’m sorry for that.” He gave a quick shake of his head. “No, Mrs. Bryant. I have not come here with sorrowful news.”

“Then why are you here?” She touched the medallion she wore around her neck, a gift from Lily that, according to Lily, possessed the power to unite the wearer with her one best love. She’d teased Lily about the medallion’s magical power and then watched Lily and her brother fall hopelessly in love.

Fenris stood in the middle of her parlor, his hat and his riding whip under one arm. She wasn’t receiving yet, so she presumed he’d either bribed his way past Keyes or told the man his relation to her meant her not being at home did not apply to him. Sadly, this was true. Lord Fenris was Lily’s cousin. She loved Lily to death and would for all the rest of her days, but she would have been very happy if Lily’s cousin were anyone but Fenris.

“Come now. We have a family connection.” He took up too much room in here. Eugenia moved away from him. Nearly to the fireplace. He gave her a smile that, if she were eighteen again, would have devastated her. She was a much wiser woman these days. “Am I not permitted to call on you?”

“Must you?”

“Suppose Cousin Lily asked me to look after you?”

“She wouldn’t.” She thought about that and decided she’d only got that partly right. “She might ask, but she’d tell you not to be so obvious.”

A smile flashed on his mouth, but not in his eyes. “Clumsy of me, then.”

“Go away.”

“Am I wrong that Miss Rendell is here to find a husband?”

She only just managed not to roll her eyes, but she shot back with, “Are you here to find out if you’d like to be her husband?”

“What do you think?”

“I think Hester has a very full social calendar.” She waved at the cards piled on the mantel. There weren’t as many as there might be, but the number wasn’t by any means a disappointment. Her brother was the Duke of Mountjoy, and that meant something here in London. “I’m not sure she’ll have time to see you.” She smiled brightly and insincerely. “I make no promises, but I’ll ask if she’s a minute or two to spare for you.”

“I am not here to see Miss Rendell.”

But while he was saying that, she’d already called for a servant and given the instructions. When she faced him again, he tilted his head very slightly. “Mrs. Bryant.” A line appeared between his eyebrows. “Ginny.”

“Don’t call me that. We don’t know each other well enough for you to take that liberty.”

“I think we do.”

“You are not correct.” His clothes were lovely. Nothing gaudy, everything perfectly tailored to fit his form. A bright yellow fob hung from his watch and offered a pleasing relief from his sober dress. She didn’t care for the whimsy, because it made him seem less unpleasant than she knew him to be. “You always wear that fob. It’s not fashionable at all.”

He shrugged. “I don’t wear it for reasons of fashion.”

“Then why?”

“For sentiment.”

“You?”

“Even I, Mrs. Bryant, have my moments of sentiment.” The man gazed at her with his ridiculously beautiful brown eyes, not a common brown but a lighter chestnut brown. Of course the Marquess of Fenris could never have common brown eyes. The world might end if his eyes were merely brown. Could any man be as perfect as Fenris? It wasn’t fair for anyone to have the best of everything life offered. She looked him up and down, examining him for flaws, and found none. “If you aren’t here for Hester, why are you here?”

“I should think that’s plain enough.”

“Well, it is not.”

“For you.”

She lost her battle for restraint and rolled her eyes. “Was it Lily or Mountjoy who put you up to this?”

“Neither.” He walked to the table where Keyes always placed a vase of flowers. Hester would know their names. All Eugenia could identify were the roses and carnations. The man took over her parlor simply by standing there. No one ought to have that sort of effect on a room. He breathed in the scent of the flowers. “I’ve long been of the opinion that a beautiful woman ought to always have flowers to hand.”

“I’ll tell Hester you said so.”

He turned. “Please don’t imagine I’d insult her like that.”

Behind her back, Eugenia made a fist. “She’s not bad looking.”

“No. Actually, she’s not.” He rocked back on his heels. “I daresay she’s got something a good deal more dangerous than beauty.”

“A bosom?”

He stared, and while he did, she felt herself flush. With no change in expression he said, “Is it difficult keeping that chip balanced on your shoulder?”

She’d insulted him, and now she felt terrible because she hadn’t been kind, when the truth was, at Mrs. Wilson’s he’d publicly come to Hester’s defense. “I’m sorry, my lord. That was an awful thing for me to say. I wish I hadn’t said it, for it’s not true.”

He nodded. “Not entirely untrue. She possesses a bosom.” His smile flashed again, and this time there was an echo of that in his eyes. “An admirable one. You are correct that I noticed this.” His fingers flexed around his riding whip. “But I also observed that she is wickedly amusing. Two words, by the way, I use with great deliberation. A lovely bosom isn’t so uncommon, however delightful it is for a gentleman to encounter. But her sort of cleverness? That’s decidedly rarer. That’s the danger to which I referred.”