Sin and Sensibility (35 page)

“I want some answers,” Sebastian said in his controlled voice.

“Well, so do I,” Valentine snapped, yanking the door open.

Shay made a move to block his exit, but Melbourne gestured him back. “Let him go. And don’t come back, Deverill, until you can explain yourself.”

“Go bugger yourself. The lot of you. Damned Griffins.

This was
your
idea, Melbourne. Not mine.”

Charlemagne had come to fetch him in one of the Griffin coaches, so it seemed only fair that he commandeer it to return home. With a scowl at the driver, he pulled open the door and climbed in. “Corbett House. Now.”

“Aye, my lord.”

The coach rolled forward, then jolted to a halt again.

Cursing, Valentine stood and shoved the door open to lean out. “Damn it, I said—”

Eleanor stood in front of the team, her hands on her hips. “Wait here a moment, Frederick,” she said to the driver, her voice unsteady. “I need a word with your passenger.”

Chapter 19

“I
am not in the mood for this, Eleanor,” Valentine snapped. “Get out of the way.”

She wasn’t in the mood for it, either, but she absolutely was not going to let him escape without giving her an explanation. And whatever he said, it had best be something that allowed her to breathe again. At the moment her throat and chest were so tight, it felt like she was dying. “Don’t you move this coach, Frederick,” she ordered, moving from in front of the team and stalking up to the door. “Step aside and let me in, or I’ll simply express my feelings right here.”

His eyes narrowing, Valentine slammed the door open the rest of the way and then moved back into the shadows of the coach. He obviously wasn’t going to help her in, so Eleanor gathered her skirts in one hand and clambered up herself.

Valentine sat as far from her as he could, arms crossed over his chest. Angry as she was, the expression in his 306

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eyes still made her hesitate; not many people crossed the Marquis of Deverill. Little as most things affected him, he had a rare and nasty temper. She’d certainly roused it, even if her brothers’ participation had added considerable fuel. But she was furious as well, and with even more cause. She hadn’t lied to him, after all. In fact, he was the one person she hadn’t lied to. He couldn’t make the same claim to her.

“You’ve made things somewhat more difficult for me than they needed to be,” he stated.

She felt ready to explode. “Difficult for
you
? I trusted you, Deverill.”

He snorted. “That would seem to be
your
error.”

For a long moment she gazed into his eyes, trying to figure out once and for all who the real Valentine Corbett might be, as if anyone could ever hope to completely solve that conundrum. She had the distinct feeling that she’d been with him that night by the baptismal pond, and that today he’d made himself scarce. But she needed to speak to him, not to the flip, cynical rakehell who would never give her a straight answer.

“I’m not going to cry and tell you that used me or ruined me. I entered into that experience with my eyes wide open.”

“That’s refreshing,” he commented.

“Be quiet. I’m not finished.” She drew a breath. “All I wanted was a little bit of freedom, one adventure.”

“I gave you one.”

“No, you didn’t. The entire time you said you were my friend and that you sympathized with my feelings, you were following Melbourne’s orders—though I’m certain he didn’t know the specifics.” If Sebastian had known, either she or Valentine would be dead or forced to flee the

308 / Suzanne Enoch

country. “The entire time you had in mind the limits of where I could go, and you had every intention of enforcing them. Sebastian made it your job to keep me from doing something truly wild, and you accepted your assign-ment.”

“You’re the one who decided to confide in me; that was your choice.”

“And I won’t make that mistake again. Damnation, Valentine. I’m not a child to be kept away from sweets; I’m an adult. And I thought I admired you. Ha. Be assured that the next adventure I choose won’t have anything to do with you. And it won’t be anything you can control.” She drew a breath. “You should have told me.”

“Would it have made a difference?” he asked almost grudgingly, as if curiosity was overtaking his better judgment.

Good. That was the Valentine she wanted to rail at. “I would have found someone else—someone not obligated to carry every tale and conversation to Melbourne.”

“I didn’t.” He shifted. “That’s why he was so damned angry this morning. Bloody Cobb-Harding stopped by and tried to describe your breasts.”

She blanched. “Stephen Cobb-Harding was here?”

“He offered marriage as a way to protect your reputation. If I’d done as I should have and told Sebastian what occurred at Belmont’s, he would have had some time to prepare for Cobb-Harding’s approach.”

Eleanor nodded. “Perhaps so. But you haven’t done me any favors, regardless.”

He gave a nasty grin. “That’s not what you said the other night.”

“The other night was my idea; not yours. You may have had your hand on the reins, but penned or not, this horse Sin and Sensibility / 309

got something she wanted from you.” She sat forward, jabbing a finger into his knee. “And have you considered that I’m not the only female who’s used you for that?

You are quite good at it.”

“No one uses me.”

“Are you so certain? Perhaps the chits you’re so proud of having seduced and then cast aside were actually only playing with
you
. Maybe you provided something—one thing—they wanted, and so they used and discarded
you
.”

She stood, opening the door again. “Because frankly, Valentine, given your actions, I don’t see much else that you’re good for.”

No one had ever spoken to him like that before. And no one ever would again, as far as he was concerned.

Valentine remained seated, mostly because he was concentrating on not striking Eleanor. He watched as she stepped out of the coach, shutting the door when she reached the ground.

“All right, Frederick. Take him home. I’m finished with him.”

That was bloody well enough of that. Before the coach could travel to the end of the drive, Valentine slammed open the door and jumped to the ground. “I’ll walk,” he snapped, glaring up at the surprised driver.

“Very good, my lord.”

Now it was his turn to speak his mind. He turned around, but Eleanor’s backside was vanishing into the house. As though sensing the danger she was in, Stanton gave him one look and closed the front door.

Fine
. “You’re wrong!” he yelled for good measure, ignoring the groomsman and driver giving him wary looks.

Walking home was probably a good idea. It would be better for everyone concerned if he calmed down a little 310 / Suzanne Enoch

before he reached the familiar depravity of his own house.

He stalked down the street, glad he had nearly two miles to go. He would use every foot of it.

For a good half mile he simply cursed. So Eleanor detested him. What did he care? He’d just used her for a little fun and excitement and enjoyment, and now that the situation was becoming too complicated, it was time to end it. Good riddance.

But he wasn’t a fraud. He hadn’t lied about his participation, even if he had neglected to tell her why he’d made his first appearance as her shadow. At the moment he was loath to admit it, but he did enjoy her company.

He enjoyed chatting with her, and trying to figure out the way her mind worked. Eleanor Griffin was one of the few females of his acquaintance who seemed to have a desire in life other than to settle herself as comfortably as possible.

And now he felt as though she’d kicked him in the teeth. Whatever she thought to do next, Melbourne would never make the same mistake twice. He’d said her rebellion was over, and he meant it. The duke was probably thanking his lucky stars that John Tracey had made an appearance in London. Surely not even Eleanor would object to a match with a war hero. Hell, he’d probably give her all the adventure she wanted every night in their cozy little marriage bed.

“Bloody hell,” he growled.

“Deverill!” a familiar voice called.

He looked toward the road as a barouche stopped beside him. “Henning,” he grumbled, giving a nod and continuing on.

“Some chit lock you out when her husband returned home?” the young, rotund man continued with a chuckle, urging his driver to keep pace. “Let me give you a ride.”

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“Thank you, no. I’m walking.”

“But—”

“I’m not feeling social at the moment, Francis,”

Valentine interrupted, the last of his patience crumbling away. “Good day.”

Henning nodded amiably. “I’ll leave you be, then. I’ve seen many a gentleman with that look before. Driver?”

Valentine stopped. “What look?” he barked.

“The look that says some chit’s got you all twisted around. I’ve even felt that way a time or two myself. No tell—”

“No chit twists me around,” the marquis growled.

Bloody damnation. Lucifer must be howling with laughter right now. Even dull-witted Henning had advice for him.

“I twist them around.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Francis Henning returned, his good-humored expression faltering a little. “I’ve seen the results. Good thing you only break the hearts of married ladies.”

“Why is that?”

“Too late for them to go into mourning and become old maids in your honor.”

He doubted any of his conquests would even consider such a thing. They moved on to the next conquest—or conqueror—just as he did. Just as…“Right.” Valentine made a show of pulling out his pocket watch. “I have an appointment. Excuse me.”

With a nod Francis waved his driver on again, leaving Valentine standing in the street. Of all people to say something pointed, he would have thought Francis Henning the least likely. And yet the muddlehead’s bent logic echoed almost exactly what Eleanor had yelled at him.

But it didn’t make sense. She had to be wrong. What-312 / Suzanne Enoch

ever she said, no chit had ever used him. The idea that she claimed to have done that with him—just used him so she could get the adventure out of her system—was ridiculous. And infuriating.

He was not some stud bull the cows sought out when no one better was available, only to be sent back to the pasture when they were finished with him. It was the other way around. They all knew that.
He
knew that.

Eleanor Griffin was a great deal of trouble. Other women had called him hardhearted or cruel, but they’d never called him worthless. And coming from her, the accusation was more…disturbing than he would ever have expected.

And simply because his initial reason for keeping her company might have been coerced, that was no reason for her to disregard the integrity of her adventure. She’d chosen it, and he’d delivered it. Even if he hadn’t been obligated to Melbourne, he would have done the same.

Valentine frowned. That wasn’t the truth. If he’d somehow been swept into her plot, hadn’t known her brothers, hadn’t been obligated to keep her relatively safe, he would have maneuvered her adventure to reflect what
he
wanted from her. And it would have involved considerably more sex, with much less attention paid to what she claimed to be seeking. What she had been seeking.

Had he somehow ruined that for her, simply by not telling her that someone else had asked him to stand by her? And why the devil did he even care? She’d insulted him, her brothers had insulted him, and he had a hundred other women he could use to purge her from his mind.

Or they could use him, if what Eleanor said was true.

He swore again, ignoring the startled looks of the nearby pedestrians. She’d done something to him. She’d Sin and Sensibility / 313

made him insane. That was why he couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said, couldn’t stop thinking about her damned adventure, couldn’t stop thinking about her. And that, of course, led to all sorts of speculation about when Melbourne would request Tracey’s presence, and whether Eleanor would accept the match out of spite—or even worse, because she liked the damned war hero. She’d probably never call
him
useless.

“Damnation.” He looked up, stopping as he realized he’d missed his corner and had ended up on South Audley Street in front of the modest Grosvenor Chapel. He’d probably passed by it a thousand times, but it being a church, he’d never paid much attention to it.

A church. He’d meant to enter one of God’s buildings only two more times in his life: Once when he found the chit who could bear him an heir, and the second time when he was to be put under the ground, if the hallowed ceiling didn’t crack in horror when they carried him in.

Glancing about self-consciously, Valentine pushed open the gates and entered the grounds. Lightning didn’t strike him, but he remained cautious, nevertheless. A twining arbor of roses marked the entrance to the small cemetery, while more red blooms bordered the short walk to the four front steps of the stone and wood structure. With a deep breath he seated himself on the lowest of the granite steps.

“Good morning, my son,” a quiet male voice came from the entry above and behind him.

Well, it wasn’t God; that was for certain. Valentine lowered one shoulder and turned to look. “Father. Sorry to disturb you. I merely needed a moment to think.”

The tall, thin man garbed in black nodded at him.

“You’re Lord Deverill, aren’t you? Valentine Corbett?”

314 / Suzanne Enoch

“I am.”

“Ah. I believe I’ve delivered a sermon or two about you.”

If there was one thing Valentine hadn’t expected, it was humor from the clergy. “I’m honored.”

“Yes, a little mention of sin always makes the flock pay more attention.” The elderly priest lowered himself with a grunt to the stair above where Valentine sat. “I’ve always wanted to ask—are you named for the saint?”

The marquis shrugged. “I suppose so. I was born on St. Valentine’s Day. My father always seemed to think it was some sort of joke. I didn’t understand it until I grew a little older.”