Page 21 of A Sham Engagement

Augusta dropped her gaze to her sewing. “Yes, Mama.” But she was not contrite.

“Am I to remain silent too?” Elenora asked.

Mama opened her mouth to make what looked as though might have been a tart reply, but the opening of the drawing room door cut her off. Papa came in, a little red in the face and nose, followed by Lord Broxbourne.

Elenora took a good look at her betrothed, having managed to forget his precise appearance overnight, trying to see him through the eyes of her two silent sisters. Yes, he was no longer in the first flush of his youth, like Jolyon and Matthew, but he had about him an air of maturity that wasn’t displeasing. Tall, lean, broad-shouldered, well-dressed, and even rather handsome. Well, very handsome in a devilish way, as had been mentioned earlier. For just a moment, she forgot that theirs was a pretend engagement and she wasn’t weighing him up as a prospective husband, and almost thought she liked the looks of him. But that was far too silly for words.

Lord Broxbourne made an elegant bow to Mama and Aunt Penelope. “Lady Wetherby, Lady Dandridge, how charming you ladies look, and how industriously occupied you and your charming daughters are.” Mama’s plan had worked. Just for a moment, Elenora remembered how well he’d effected the repair on her gown and wondered how he’d learned to sew so well. That skill seemed very much at odds with being a rake.

He turned to Elenora and made another bow. “Miss Wetherby, what an… exquisite gown.” A twinkle of mischief shone in his eyes.

Elenora bit her lip trying not to chuckle, as she was still wearing the old, dove-gray gown she’d insisted on donning earlier, while Augusta and Frances both had on the new ones Aunt Penelope had bought for them.

She got herself under control in time. “Lord Broxbourne, what an unexpected pleasure.” She held out her hand, conscious of the expectant, if slightly envious, gazes of Petunia and her sisters, who’d abandoned all pretense at sewing. Broxbourne took her hand in his, bent over it and bestowed a kiss upon it. No one had ever kissed her hand before and before she could steel herself to control her reaction, heat had swarmed up her cheeks.

“Do pray sit down,” Mama said, indicating the space beside Elenora. It looked like Papa would be standing up.

Lord Broxbourne, ever obedient, sat down next to Elenora and turned to face her. “Your father and I have just been sorting out the details of our engagement, Miss Wetherby. I think you would like to know that I have requested a long engagement so that you and I can get to know one another before our nuptials.”

Whew. At least he’d been good to his word. Not that she’d thought that he wouldn’t.

Elenora forced herself to lift her gaze from his mouth to his eyes for a moment. “Thank you, my lord.” How dark they were, and full of something she didn’t quite understand because reading people’s expressions had never come easily to her. She frowned.

“Now girls,” Mama said. “I think it’s time you younger three had a little rest in your rooms.” She rose to her feet. “I’m sure Lord Broxbourne would like a few moments alone with dear Elenora, his betrothed.”

“And I shall go and talk to Cook about dinner this evening,” Aunt Penelope said, standing up in haste.

Elenora glared at Mama. “Are you sure it’s quite proper for me to be alone with Lord Broxbourne?”

Papa opened his mouth.

Mama got in there first. “Of course it is now you’re properly affianced. Just for a few minutes, of course, and perhaps you’d like to take a turn about the garden together? That would be very proper and correct. The garden is not large and wholly in sight of the house at all times.”

In February? Was Mama mad?

Augusta and Frances, looking disappointed, followed their mother and aunt out of the room, Papa trailing after them like a lost puppy. Poor Papa. What say did he have in anything? Petunia was last out of the door, casting an envious gaze at Elenora as she went.

The door closed behind them.

Silence fell.

Elenora regarded her hands and her awful sewing. His had been much better than hers was ever likely to be.

Lord Broxbourne cleared his throat. Was he as nervous as her? “You like sewing?”

Elenora smoothed out her work. “Does it look like I do?” The stitchwork was blotted with blood spots and the stitches were everywhere.

He chuckled. “I know very little about such things, but it does seem to me that perhaps whatever you’re making could do without being dotted with blood.”

She nodded. “I am a very poor hand at sewing. If you were truly going to marry me, you would be sadly disappointed by my lack of useful skills. My mother despairs of me.” A little smile twitched across her face. “Although you have already proved to be an efficient stitcher of tears yourself so cannot be so ignorant as you claim.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps just a little. I daresay you, though, possess other skills that are commendable.”

She dared a peek at him. “Well, if you could count my interest in all things historical as a skill, I suppose so. Mama says it is not at all a feminine attribute. And I am said to be a veritable Valkyrie in the saddle.”

“So you like to ride?”

She nodded. “Not here, of course. Why would anyone wish to ride in Town? I hear Rotten Row is where everyone goes to do so, but it’s in a London park, and when you’re used to the open countryside as I am, that would be a poor substitute.”