Читать книгу The Wayward Debutante - Sarah Elliott - Страница 11

Six o’clock had come and gone, and Eleanor still wasn’t ready. She couldn’t find her gloves, and in light of James Bentley’s disturbing habit of grabbing her hand at unexpected moments, they would be an indispensable part of her armor. She’d practically turned her bedroom inside out looking for them. Where were they? And where, for that matter, was he? If he was coming, he was late.

She walked over to her window and looked out onto the square; it was the sixth time she’d done so in as many minutes. Perhaps he might not come at all. That was a reassuring possibility. His promise may have been nothing more than an empty threat meant to scare her. Perhaps he’d met some other hapless girl in the week since she’d seen him and had forgotten all about her.

But just in case he hadn’t…where were her gloves? She was ready in every other way: gray dress, blond wig concealed in the folds of her cloak. The carriage might arrive at any second, and it wouldn’t do at all for her to keep it waiting. What if James’s driver really did come to the door looking for her? She didn’t particularly care to put that threat to the test, even if Beatrice and Charles had already gone out for the evening and wouldn’t be there to witness anything. In fact, she was supposed to be with them, and at that moment she desperately wished she’d never requested permission to visit Miss Pilkington instead.

She moved away from the window and sat on her bed, furrowing her brow as she tried to remember everything she’d done that day and hoping for some clue as to her gloves’ whereabouts: ate breakfast, wrote to her father, bought a new hat, returned home and read a book in the sitting room…

Right. Sitting room. She’d look there.

She dashed out her bedroom door and down the front staircase. She slowed as she reached the bottom, giving the hall a cursory glance. Cummings, not surprisingly, seemed to have gone on an extended break once Beatrice and Charles had left and was not to be seen. She exhaled slowly with relief as yet another obstacle disappeared and threw open the sitting room door. She immediately spotted her gloves, in a crumpled heap on a Pembroke table on the other side of the room.

But she took only one step into the room before stumbling to a halt. It was already occupied. Charles was leaning back comfortably on the sofa, a rumpled newspaper spread out in his lap.

She backed up immediately, so that only her head and shoulders poked around the door. He’d be sure to wonder why she was wearing her cloak.

As it was, he was already looking at her curiously. “Eleanor? Is something wrong?”

She didn’t answer right away. Why was he still there? She’d said goodbye to them over an hour ago, but now Charles was back, looking as though he had no immediate plans to go anywhere. Although he was still in evening dress, he’d loosened his cravat and removed his shoes.

Trying not to sound anxious, she said, “I’m fine. Why are you not at the Dalrymples’ ball?”

He smiled rather smugly. “I’ve been granted a reprieve. Your sister felt unwell, and we returned home before we’d even got out of the carriage. She’s resting upstairs. You might bring her some tea since we’re short staffed. Do it m’self, but she blames me for her queasiness.”

“I’m afraid I have to leave.”

He frowned. “Why are you hovering in the doorway?”

“I…I’m visiting Miss Pilkington tonight, remember? Her carriage has just arrived and I don’t have time to talk.” Eleanor hardly looked at him as she answered. Her eye was drawn to the large south window, the one that faced the street. It was true: a carriage had just pulled up in front of the house, only it didn’t belong to Jane. It was quite a grand one—although not ostentatious—and it definitely wasn’t the sort of carriage a humble governess would take to meet her relatives. James seemed not to have worried about such details.

However, from Charles’s perspective it seemed perfectly natural that one of Eleanor’s friends should own such a smart contraption. “Oh, yes. Has she improved?”

“She’s convalescing slowly.”

“Don’t know how you manage to avoid your social duties, Eleanor. Thought Louisa would’ve forced you to go tonight.”

She shrugged noncommittally, hoping to mask her annoyance. What a time for him to start feeling expansive. “Bea’s very sympathetic. She knows what it’s like to be in my position, and she never told Louisa that I wouldn’t be going. But, Charles, I really must leave. I don’t want to keep her driver waiting.”

“I’ll walk you to the carriage,” he offered. “Cummings seems to have vanished into the ether again.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “What ridiculous ceremony! There’s absolutely no need for you or for Cummings. The carriage is right outside and I can walk to it perfectly well on my own. Besides, you haven’t any shoes.”

He looked down at his feet, realizing she was right. But when he looked back up at her, Eleanor was afraid she saw a tiny hint of suspicion in his eyes. Was it her imagination or had they narrowed just a tiny bit?

Luckily, though, she was saved by Beatrice’s lady’s maid, Meg, who walked briskly passed her into the room. Like all good lady’s maids, she was a snob, but she gave Eleanor’s unseasonable outfit nothing more than an unconscious look of disapproval before going straight to Charles. She appeared anxious, but Eleanor was unable to hear her whispered words. Beatrice obviously needed something, and for a blessed moment, Eleanor no longer mattered.

“Charles, I’m sorry, but I really must go. Give Bea my love.”

He nodded distractedly and waved her away, his concern now entirely focused on his wife’s condition. Eleanor crept out the door.

Eleanor’s deep blush began the moment James’s driver greeted her politely and helped her into the carriage, and lasted the whole way to the theater. Now, sitting in the parked carriage and waiting for the driver to open her door, she began to feel ill. And where was James? A large crowd had formed in front of the theater, and for all his promises of chaperonage, he was nowhere in sight.

She closed her eyes and slid back into her seat, allowing her head to fall back despondently. The whole situation still didn’t seem real to her; perhaps she’d wake up in bed any minute now, having dreamed the whole thing. It wasn’t her fault that she was there, considering he’d pretty much blackmailed her. If she hadn’t complied with him, he might have told Beatrice, and that would have meant that she’d be shipped back to her father’s house in disgrace or, even worse, that she’d be forced to spend the rest of the season with Louisa. She’d had no choice but to do as he told her.

She opened her eyes and sighed, knowing perfectly well that she was making excuses. She could have refused, if she’d really wanted to. It was just that a tiny bit of her wanted to be there, despite her nervousness. She wasn’t afraid of James, strictly speaking, even if she was afraid of the way he made her feel. But she could control her feelings for one night, right? What could he do to her in a crowded theater, anyway? She should be perfectly safe, as long as no one recognized her, and as long as she didn’t do anything stupid like talking to him or looking at him unless absolutely necessary.

And if he tried to kiss her again, well…it wouldn’t kill her, would it?

She closed her eyes miserably. She could not succumb to such reasoning or she’d really be doomed.

When she opened her eyes, the door was ajar and James was looking in. In the dim light he seemed positively sinful. His white cravat made him appear even darker, and the wind had tousled his hair. She wondered dumbly if he’d walked there. And she was staring. Again.

Why, oh why…

“Is everything all right, Miss Smith?”

She realized with a renewed blush that she was practically reclining in her seat, and she pulled herself up quickly to restore her composure.

“I…I was just getting bored of waiting. You’re late, Mr. Bentley.” She didn’t mean to scold, but she was so embarrassed she couldn’t seem to help it.

He smiled rather ruefully, and her heartbeat quickened. “Have you been longing for my company?”

“Like I’ve been longing for measles.”

“I do apologize. Shall we go inside?” He held out his arm to help her from the carriage.

Her mind was now clear enough for her to be wary of his chivalry. “I can alight unassisted, thank you.”

He shrugged. “If it pleases you.”

It was actually a rather difficult feat to climb from a carriage in long skirts without help, or to do so gracefully, anyway. By the time Eleanor had reached the pavement, she could plainly see that he was biting back laughter.

“Do I amuse you, Mr. Bentley?”

“Not at all. Will you be warm enough?” He waited for her answer, but her stubborn eyes told him it wouldn’t be forthcoming. He gave up. “Right, take my arm.” It was an order.

She looked at his arm, and then she looked at the large, jostling crowd gathered by the theater’s doors. She swallowed, gingerly placed her hand on his sleeve and pretended that doing so made her feel nothing. And they started to walk, left, right, left, right. She concentrated on her feet so as not to think about his arm. They’d nearly reached the entrance.

If only she’d been concentrating on what was happening around her, rather than keeping her gaze fixed on the ground, then she would have seen the scuffle that began between two men, just behind her right shoulder. She would have stepped out of the way before they crashed into her.