Too Scandalous to Wed (14 page)

Humming an Irish jig as she fluffed the pillows around his head, she suddenly paused.

“When did you start believing in Irish folklore, m’lord?”

Baffled, Sebastian lifted his groggy head. “What the deuce are you talking about, Mrs. Molony?”

“The ring.” She pointed to the bauble on his finger. “It’s got a Celtic love knot.”

Sebastian eyed the ring again. “It does?”

“Aye.” Mrs. Molony moved about the room. She gathered the vest, the coat crumpled on the floor. “According to Irish lore, he who wears the charm will attract his one true love.” The housekeeper lifted a curious gray brow. “And who might you be trying to attract, m’lord?”

But she didn’t really want an answer. Having had
the pleasure of ruffling his surly feathers, she gathered the laundry and was out the door.

Sebastian glared at the shiny ring on his finger. Henrietta, the devious chit! She had given him a Celtic love knot.

He should not be surprised by her trickery. She was a skilled seductress. And she was going to be his wife. He was going to have to live with her feminine wiles for the rest of his days. He should be outraged. A part of him was. But another part of him was not so incensed. Marriage did afford him
one
pleasure, he mused.

Buck up? Oh, Sebastian intended to do that very thing. He intended to enjoy Henrietta very much—in his bed.

T
he room was stuffy, filled with about a hundred guests or so. Not a grand gathering, but still a considerable number. The crowd was crammed together in a large parlor. An anteroom in the back served as a small dancing nook, but most of the gathered company was busy chortling and making merry.

Henrietta wasn’t in the mood to celebrate, though. Her fast approaching wedding was a blight, not a boon. But she
was
in the mood to wring her betrothed’s wretched neck.

A glance at the grandfather clock indicated the hour of twelve was almost upon them—and Ravenswood had yet to arrive.

The villain! He was probably at his vile club, too busy fornicating with a “nun” to come to his own engagement party.

Her heart cramped as she imagined him in the catacombs, wallowing in debauchery, touching an
other woman…the way he had touched her that night in the library.

Henrietta quickly dismissed the disturbing vision from her mind. She didn’t care if Ravenswood touched another woman. Good riddance! He would never touch her again, that was for certain.

But did the man have to humiliate her, desert her in front of the
ton
? Was he really so angry about getting married he’d wrest from her even the semblance of a happy union? It wasn’t as if
she
was delighted about the wedding, didn’t he know? She was just as miffed as he was, more so, for she now had a scandalous reputation, whereas the bounder had already possessed one. He didn’t need to make the evening more intolerable for her…unless he enjoyed making her suffer.

Her heart fluttered at the riley thought. To think she had ever cared for the devil. That she had once believed he cared for her. Secretly
loved
her, even!

She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. Rotten tears! How could she still cry for the dastardly man? Better yet, how could she have been such a dunce in the first place? For years she’d thought Sebastian was a hero. Where had the foolish fancy come from?

“Henry, my boy, you look flushed.”

Henrietta glanced sidelong to find the baron approaching, and smiled. It was a rather shaky smile, but still, she was glad to see her papa.

Depressed at the loss of his “son,” Baron Ashby
had spent the last few days in seclusion, barricaded in his study. It had taken quite a bit of coaxing to get him out of the doldrums: she’d had to promise to visit him often after she was wed. And there was no reason that she couldn’t keep the vow. Ravenswood clearly didn’t want anything to do with her; he didn’t give a fig about the engagement bash. So Henrietta might just be free of the rogue once she married him. Perhaps Ravenswood wouldn’t care if she spent all her time at home with Papa? She could always hope.

“I’m fine, Papa. It’s a little too warm in here, I think.”

“Quite. Quite. Too warm.” The baron locked his hands behind his back. “You and I shall play a game of billiards, Henry. How does that sound? We’ll get away from all this ruckus?”

“Thank you, Papa, but I think we must stay and host the celebration.”

However wretched it might be
, she thought. An engagement party without the groom? The society papers would be awash with speculation. But Henrietta wasn’t going to cower and dash off to play billiards. She was going to stand there with a fixed smile, and brave the curious looks and whispered words. She wasn’t going to dishonor her family even more by disappearing in a scandalous fashion.

The baron made a sour face. “It’s a curious night, Henry. Indeed it is. Ravenswood isn’t here to enjoy the festivities. You don’t want to play billiards.” He sighed. “It’s all so peculiar.”

“Not so peculiar,” she murmured.

Ravenswood was a scoundrel. It was just like the man to be so ruthless, to dishonor his duty by deserting her. But Papa wasn’t privy to the viscount’s true character. The baron disliked idle gossip, so rumor of Sebastian’s immoral ways had never reached his ears. He thought the viscount a gentleman—one who happened to be “stealing” her away—but still a gentleman.

If only Papa knew the truth…but perhaps it was better if he didn’t. Why trouble the aging baron with thoughts about Sebastian’s wicked pursuits? It would only grieve him, unnecessarily so. She had to marry the viscount; there was no way to cry off and still salvage the Ashby name. So let the baron think the groom a noble man. What harm would it do?

“Nicholas, get away from the girl!”

The baroness was approaching, her deportment stern.

“Nicholas, shoo!” Lady Ashby flicked her wrist. “You look cross. Don’t scold the girl in public.”

“What rubbish!” The baron snorted. “Why, I was just having a friendly chat with the boy.”

“Well, the guests are beginning to think you are unhappy about the forthcoming wedding.”

“I
am
unhappy, Lara,” the baron huffed. “The boy’s too young to be leg-shackled. Nasty business, I say. Nasty.”

“Yes, nasty business.” Lady Ashby offered her
youngest offspring a pointed look. “But the girl’s made her choice, Nicholas.”

Henrietta winced. Her mother was referring to the letter she had written to Sebastian. A sultry letter of apology that the
ton
believed was part of a lover’s quarrel. But since Ravenswood wasn’t at the party, the blasted man, the
ton
was beginning to suspect it all a matter of unrequited love, that she had dreamed up the affair in her head. And since Henrietta
had
dreamed up the affair in her head, it was all the more embarrassing.

“Come along, Nicholas.” The baroness tugged at his arm. “We have guests to greet.” As the couple moved away, Lady Ashby whispered to Henrietta, “And you, my dear, had best get back to smiling.”

The baron looked over his shoulder. “Billiards, Henry. Billiards!”

Henrietta watched her parents disappear amid a throng of guests. Alone again, she took in a deep breath to soothe the tumult in her head.

“Have you forgiven me yet, Henry?”

Henrietta pressed her lips together.

“I didn’t think so.” Peter was holding two glasses of chilled champagne. He offered her one, which she accepted. “Please understand, Henry, I wanted what was best for both of you. You cared so much for Sebastian, and I was so sure that he cared for you…”

Henrietta’s heart throbbed at the words. She, too,
had believed that very thing, that Sebastian had cared for her. Heavens, she had believed the rogue
loved
her!

“I made a mistake, Henry. I should have told you about Sebastian’s ‘habits’ from the start. Will you forgive me?”

She sniffed. “Yes, Peter, I will.”

There was no sense in being mad at Peter anyway. It was her own wretched fault for being such a ninny. A stubborn ninny at that. Her sisters had warned her about Ravenswood’s wicked ways. She should have listened.

“A toast.” Peter lifted the flute. “To new beginnings.”

They clinked glasses.

“And it’s getting off to a charming start, that new beginning,” she said dryly. “It’s almost midnight, Peter, and he still isn’t here.”

Peter glanced at the grandfather clock. “So it is.” He looked back at her. “But he
will
be here, Henry. Trust me.”

“And how can you be so sure of that?”

“Because I have to believe there is a little good inside my brother.”

Henrietta could admire that, familial devotion. But she didn’t have to believe in it herself. “You have more faith in your brother than I do.”

“Yes, I suppose that is my failing.” He smiled. “Would you care to dance?”

“Thank you, Peter, but no. Why don’t you dance with your wife instead? Penelope looks like she needs a respite from all the pestering guests.”

They both looked across the room to see Penelope fending off a gaggle of matrons, all looking for a juicy tidbit of gossip about the viscount’s absence. Loyal Penelope, however, was deft at deflecting the nosy inquiries. She simply retorted the viscount was delayed by a pressing matter of business; he would be there as soon as time allowed. It was the story they had all agreed to tell until the viscount made his fashionably late appearance.
If
the scalawag ever bothered to show up, that was.

Peter offered her a tender smile. “Will you be all right, Henry?”

Henrietta gathered her valor. “Yes, I will. Now off with you, Peter. Go and rescue your wife.”

Peter nodded and set off.

Alone yet again, Henrietta sipped the chilled champagne, perusing the guests, letting her mind wander.

It was a deuced wonder, really. Peter and Sebastian. Both brothers. Both so alike in looks. Yet both so different in temperament.

She watched as Peter and Penelope waltzed in the anteroom. How odd to see one brother so content, so at ease with his wife, so happy, even. And to know that the other brother was so dark in spirit? It was all so peculiar, as Papa would say. How had Sebastian drifted so far into the shadows of life?

“Good evening, Miss Ashby.”

Henrietta looked up at the handsome young man, and returned his smile. “Good evening, sir.”

He bowed. “Lord Emerson. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

He was a tall man, slender in frame. A cap of blond curls covered his head. He had an air about him. An aristocratic air. Not haughty, per say, but bold, perhaps impudent at times. Still, he was gracious. He spoke well. He was dressed immaculately, that was for sure, in his embroidered dress coat and matching green silk breeches. And he had a genuine smile; that was a welcomed respite, indeed.

“I have come in place of my father,” he said, “the Earl of Ormsby.”

Henrietta had heard the name before, but she had never met the earl or his son. Was Mama inviting strangers to the party? It wouldn’t surprise her. The woman was determined to make a good show of the engagement bash; make
it
the talk of the
ton
and not the scandalous letter Henrietta had penned.

“Is the earl unwell, Lord Emerson?”

“One might say so. The dear old man loathes the cold. He insisted I take his place at this gathering.” Lord Emerson gestured to the guests before he returned his attention to her. “Might I congratulate you on behalf of my father and myself on your approaching nuptials?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, my lord.”

Henrietta tried to sound like a cheery bride, but
it was a deuced bother, the façade. Yet she had to go along with the charade. It was her responsibility, after all, to make right the mess she had made.

“It is a splendid match, Miss Ashby.” The young lord’s smile quivered. “If I might be so bold, Ravenswood is a very fortunate gentleman.”

There was something familiar about Lord Emerson. Henrietta wondered if perhaps she had met him somewhere before. There was something in his manner, his smile that triggered a sense of déjà vu. A chilling memory.

For all his charm, there was a quality about Lord Emerson she suddenly did not like. His eyes?

What rubbish! She was a dreadful judge of character. She’d deemed Ravenswood a noble hero. Clearly her intuition was flawed. Emerson was every bit a gentleman, she was sure. And yet…

At length, Henrietta scrunched her brow, and said, “Lord Emerson, have we met before?”

“It is possible, Miss Ashby. We move in very similar circles.”

“Well, I distinctly remember you from somewhere.”

“Perhaps I remind you of someone?”

Henrietta was not satisfied with that explanation. “There is something familiar about you.”

“Such as?”

“Your eyes.”

He lifted a brow. “My eyes, Miss Ashby?”

“Something about the color…purple feathers!”

Emerson started. “Pardon, Miss Ashby?”

“Purple feathers. I remember now. You had a mask of purple feathers. We must have met at Papa’s masquerade ball. Last summer, I believe.”

“You are right, Miss Ashby.” He smiled. “The masquerade ball. I do remember, now that you mention it.”

There, she had solved that mystery. And now she could get on with her assessment of Emerson. He had good family connections. He was easy to talk to. He was a handsome fellow, albeit dull. But he was pleasant. He was the sort of man she
should
have set her cap for all those years ago. Not the dashing rogue Ravenswood.

Oh, why hadn’t she had the good sense back then to partner herself with a more dependable dandy? A trustworthy and respectable husband who could not break her heart? She would not be in this muddle, then. But she had learned her lesson far too late.

“When is the happy union, Miss Ashby?”

“On Twelfth Night.” One long and dreadful week away. “We will be married at the chapel in town.”

“I can not wait to attend, Miss Ashby.”

How distressing that the guests were more eager about the wedding than the bride!

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it myself.”

Lud, she sounded so insipid!

“Well, Miss Ashby, until the joyous day, I bid you good evening.”

Emerson bowed and wended through the crowd.

Just then the grandfather clock struck the hour of twelve.

Midnight! And the rogue Ravenswood was
still
absent.

Henrietta downed the rest of her champagne. She’d had enough. She was going to bed.

Three. Four. Five chimes.

She skirted across the room. She had made a good show of it. But her betrothed was still detained by “business.” There was no sense in her standing there anymore, under the scrutiny of the guests. She was utterly fagged.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve chimes
.

It was after midnight.

The assembly room door opened.

Henrietta gasped.

“Ravenswood!”

He looked like a fallen angel, dark, yet still sinfully beautiful. And those eyes! The deepest shade of blue—and so full of intent.

Sebastian headed straight for her.

Henrietta clutched her belly, for it was in a whirl. He had come, the blackguard. And dressed in the most striking attire. Dark breeches and boots. Form-fitting coat, tailed. A sharp blue waistcoat, so snug against his strapping chest.

The incredible flutters of her heart quickened even more. For four days she had cried and cursed his black heart, so determined to loathe him. And now here he was, a formidable devil. And she could
not utter a word of resentment. Oh, it was there in her gut, the fury. But she was having a deuced hard time voicing her dander aloud.