A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (8 page)

Colin woke in his bed with the distinct impression that his current location was more a matter of fortune than ability on his part. He was face down, fully clothed but for one boot which had somehow made its way to the windowsill. His mouth was dry, his head pounding, and an ache he couldn't quite locate was making its presence known in his midsection.

“Bloody hell,” he said, and worked his way upright. Sunlight filtered through the window, and someone had set a tea tray on the table by the wall. So someone had seen him in this state. Lovely. He scraped a hand over his face and tried to remember what had happened the night before. He'd left to meet the boys, and then—

Foyle. He'd learned that Foyle was back in England.

Then—

The evening got hazy at an alarmingly early point in the narrative. He'd clearly made it home. Had Gibson dropped him off? Yes, that was right. They'd been roaring about duels and sticking a sword in Foyle's midsection, and Colin had stumbled out toward the town house. He'd thought to go around the back rather than wake anyone, and he'd gotten as far as the hall when—

“Bloody hell,” he said again. Elinor. He'd met Elinor in the hall. He'd kissed Elinor in the hall. He seemed to recall waiting for her to melt into him, eyes dewy and those luscious curves pressed up against him.

He shook his head tentatively, buying clarity at the cost of a rattle of pain. Christ, Martin was going to kill him if he found out about this. Hang on. She'd asked him to kiss her. And then . . . she hadn't liked it, had she? No, it had been a rather awful kiss.

Martin wouldn't have to kill him. Colin was going to fling himself off a bridge first. What the hell had he been thinking?

He shook his head again as punishment for the thought. “That's it,” he declared. “I am never drinking again.”

“Very good, my lord.”

He jumped to his feet and spun, nearly falling over as his single boot threw him off balance. His valet stood in the doorway. “When did you get here?” Colin asked.

“Only a moment ago, my lord. Shall I help you get dressed, my lord? The ladies are preparing to set out.”

“Set out?”

“Yes, my lord.”

There was something profoundly comforting about the repetition of those two simple words. Not that he needed reassurance about his title or his power—he wasn't so insecure as all of that—but it made it ever so much easier to track the conversation, and know when a sentence had reached a complete stop. “Set out to where?” he asked.

“I believe they intend to visit Mr. and Mrs. Hargrove,” the valet said.

“I didn't hear anything about it.”

“It is my understanding that the plans were only recently made, my lord,” the valet said. Colin pinched the bridge of his nose. What this sudden visit signified, he had no idea. It did not help that his brain was socked in a fog as deep as any London had ever seen.

“My lord,” the valet prompted.

“Ah. Yes, I suppose I should get dressed,” Colin said. He
took a few steps with caution, and found his stance steady enough. With the valet's help, he was returned to a state of limited civilization in short order, and tea steadied him further. When his jacket was donned and brushed, he hesitated a moment, staring into the mirror. Dark pouches under his eyes gave testament to his rough night, and made it impossible for him to banish what fleeting memories remained.

He'd kissed Elinor. His best friend's sister. Not the woman to whom he was engaged.

And God help him, he could not stop thinking about doing it again. Correcting the terrible impression he must have left, lapping at her mouth like an overeager dog. In the light of day, he would let his hand trail across her hip. He would crook a finger beneath her chin, and tilt it to just the right angle. So many men were too short for her, but he would have the perfect vantage from which to bend his mouth to hers. To begin with the brush of lips, so light their breath still mingled between them, before capturing her in a deeper kiss. He would make her melt into him.

Elinor. Damn it, he'd fought so hard to put this foolishness aside. Of all the inconvenient—

“My lord.”

“Mm.” Colin straightened a cravat that had been perfectly set a moment before, earning a pained look from the valet, and exited the room. He adjusted his cuffs as he traversed the hall, smoothed his hair as he descended the stairs, and tugged the hem of his waistcoat as he approached the musical sound of women's voices. Elinor and Phoebe were in the drawing room, dressed for travel.

“Good morning,” he greeted them.

Phoebe snorted. “Barely,” she said.

“Don't snort,” Colin said chidingly.

“Why is it that when mother isn't here, you try so very hard to replace her?” Phoebe asked peevishly. “And why are you so late a-bed, lazy bones?”

“A late night, that's all,” Colin said, and could not help a sideways look at Elinor. She trailed a finger down the side of her neck, the corners of her mouth pinched. She didn't appear
angry, at least, or frightened. She also did not look as if she were caught up in the memory, shamefully, thrillingly repeating it in her mind. He tore his eyes from her. “I hear that you are departing my superlative company. May I ask why?”

“Mrs. Hargrove is in need of diversion,” Elinor said, forcing him to return his gaze to her.

“And I haven't seen her in
ages
,” Phoebe said. “And I'm not likely to once she's laden down with a wiggly little infant. Not that I don't like infants. I hope to have a litter of my own someday, but you must admit the little things are quite time consuming.”

“It's only that it seems like a sudden change of plans,” he said.

“I got bored,” Phoebe said. That he could believe. She was much like he had been at her age, and women's pursuits did not do nearly enough to use up her abundant energy. And after the last incident in Hyde Park, their mother had placed strict limits on her riding excursions. Some things were just not safe to do sidesaddle, even if they were within the bounds of propriety. Which they had not been.

“Do you have some objection to the outing?” Elinor asked. He could not read her tone. Was she amused? Scornful? Outraged? She spoke with the serenity she so often projected, and his palms began to sweat.

“None, of course,” he said. “So long as . . .”

“Yes?” she prompted.

“Well,” he said. “Mrs. Hargrove . . .”

Phoebe blew out a dramatic breath. “Honestly, Colin, what do you think of me? It's not as if a day in her company will have me . . .” She trailed off, as if suddenly remembering the many servants that would overhear.

“I have no fear that you'll turn to a life of larceny,” he said. “You're entirely too clumsy. I am sure you will have a delightful time.” And perhaps by the time they got back, he would have exorcised the memory of that kiss from his mind. As it was, the tilt of Elinor's head caught his eye, and the recollection of her lips against his got hold of him around the throat.

“We should go,” Elinor said. “We don't want to be on the road after dark.”

“Of course,” Colin said. Phoebe leapt up immediately and swept out past him into the hall, leaving him momentarily alone with Elinor. Well, not quite alone; his sister was only in the hall beyond, and the door was wide open. But his mouth felt stuffed with cotton. He dropped his voice.

“About last night . . .”

“What about it?” Elinor asked. She meant to pretend it had never happened, he realized. Well, she might manage that feat, but there was no way he would be able to.

“I must apologize,” he said. “I was very drunk. I never would have kissed you, if I hadn't been.”

“Really,” she said. He paused. Her voice was alarmingly cold and hard, like iron on a chill day.

“You're like a sister to me,” he said. “I've never thought of you that way. I would never make advances on you, you must know that. And you're not the sort of woman men make advances on, so I wouldn't want you thinking that. It was a mistake, and it will not happen again.”

“Well, thank goodness,” she said drily. “I am so glad to hear I will be spared further exposure to the Questing Tongue of Lord Farleigh.” Her voice was so low and soft he was certain that Phoebe could not hear, and yet he flushed with sudden shame and whipped his head around to look in her direction. Elinor made a harrumph in the back of her throat and brushed past him, chin tilted upward and eyes blazing.

Oh, bloody hell. He must still be drunk. Not the sort of woman . . . ? He'd as good as called her ugly. And related to him. He wasn't sure which of the two he wanted to rebut first.

She
should
be like a sister to him. He had tried hard over the past five years to drill himself into a pattern of thought that recognized her as nothing more than that, and nothing less. He had not succeeded particularly well, but he had at least managed to function without constant preoccupation.

Now his mind was making up for the lost time, summoning up scattered memories from the past ten years and more.
The way she laughed. The way the sun struck her hair and lit it with red darts, while in candlelight it shone glossy and dark. The way she always seemed to know exactly what to say to break a foul mood, seemed to know when to tease her brother or cast Colin a smile to lift him from a moment of melancholy.

The way she'd stood in his arms, surprised but unafraid, and all but dared him to kiss her.

“You're engaged to Penelope Layton,” he muttered to himself. “And have other things to worry about besides.” Like finding Foyle. He straightened up and tugged at his clothing in an attempt to put his mind in some kind of order. Elinor was out of bounds. So far out of them that she might as well not exist.

Oh, he should tell her that, too.
You might as well not exist.
That would certainly endear him to her.

“Idiot,” he told himself. Penelope Layton. Edward Foyle. These were the names that mattered right now. He could not afford to be distracted. Suddenly, he realized he'd been standing alone in the doorway of an empty room for quite some time. The girls had already exited from the sound of things. Good. At least he didn't have witnesses.

“My lord,” came a voice near his elbow. He jerked around with a huff, only to find his butler, Bolton, an entirely reasonable distance away. Something about the man's voice always seemed closer than reality, and after two years of service Colin still hadn't gotten used to it.

“Yes?” Colin asked, impatient.

“A Mr. Hudson is here to see you.”

His brow furrowed. “Mr. Hudson?”

“He says you sent for him. Last night,” Bolton explained.

“Really. What foresight on my part,” Colin said. Hudson was exactly the man to find Foyle. He was rather impressed with himself for remembering that, given his condition last night. Bolton's nostrils flared slightly in disapproval. “I'm going to try to cut back on the drink,” Colin added. “Now. Where is he?”

“I had him wait in the kitchen, sir,” the butler said, his disapproval clear in every stiff syllable.

Colin gave a displeased tug of his jacket. “He is my guest. I will see him in the drawing room. No, the study,” he amended. The study was more private, and it was assuredly a private business that had called Hudson here. He assumed. Unless he had come up with some other business at some point last night, but that seemed doubtful.

“As you wish, sir,” the butler said. “Only . . .”

“His appearance troubles you, does it?” Colin said.

“He does not seem to be of the quality of your usual company, sir,” the man said in tones of absolute deference.

“And in another five years, perhaps I shall entertain your opinion on the quality of my company,” Colin said. “But I fear we have not yet reached that stage of trust and intimacy. So if you would . . .”

“Of course, sir,” Bolton said. He flushed. He'd overstepped and he knew it. If he had been overly familiar on any subject but insulting Colin's guests, Colin might have sympathized with the man.

“Show him up,” Colin said firmly, and made for the stairs. He started for the study, but halted. He turned slowly in the direction of his bedroom door.

It had to be done. He couldn't explain this business properly without it.

He strode to his room and opened the wardrobe. The box was where he had left it, in the back, beneath an old discarded blanket. The box was wide and flat, made of battered cherrywood with a brass lock to seal it. He lifted it with care and tucked it under his arm.

He had never shared the contents of this box with anyone. It seemed strange that he should be so calm about it now.

Before he could think better of it, he went quickly to his study and set the box upon the desk. He straightened up while he waited for Hudson, aligning the corners of the papers on his desk and shelving the slender volume of poems he had taken down the morning previous. By the time he
had flicked the few specks of dust from the back of his chair, Bolton was back, Hudson in tow. Hudson shouldered past the man, his hat clutched in one thick fist, and stuck out the other hand to Colin.