Page 22 of A Sham Engagement

He shifted on the sofa, leaning back. “You are very candid.”

“Another of my faults. Mama constantly cautions me not to speak my mind, but I’m afraid I find it very difficult to dissemble.”

“As do I.”

She studied his boots. They were indeed as highly polished as Frances had reported. “You have very shiny boots.”

He laughed, a deep throaty chuckle that was rather attractive. “Do you always say what comes into your mind?”

She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I try so hard not to. It’s another of my faults. Please don’t tell Mama I was rude to you.”

“Of course I won’t. And I’m not in the least offended by your bluntness. I do indeed have shiny boots—courtesy of the boot boy, I imagine, at my establishment. Nothing to do with me. I don’t think my valet stoops to shining boots.”

Relief swept over her.

He stood up. “Your mother suggested you might like to walk in your aunt’s garden and I have a longing to see it myself, despite the time of year. The sun has deigned to come out at last, but it’s a little chill. Do you have a shawl?”

Of course, Mama had seen fit to make sure a thick shawl was on a table in the corner. For this very reason. Lord Broxbourne fetched it and held it up for her. Was she to let him wrap it around her? That felt too intimate a gesture. She took it out of his hands and folded it about her shoulders. “We can go out this way.”

As he held out his arm to her, she hesitated. Somehow, touching him now felt quite different to having him touch her hand or waist while they’d been dancing last night. Now it felt like an imposition. She’d never liked to be touched, and that whole feeling came thundering back. But if she didn’t take his arm, he would think her rude.

Very delicately she set her hand on his coat sleeve. Minimal contact only. And they went out through the double doors into the wintry garden.

Chapter Nine

At three in the afternoon, Aunt Penelope’s small garden was already in the shade of the houses surrounding it, and an uninviting chill hung over the drab flowerbeds and evergreen shrubs. Jack closed the drawing room doors behind them, and led Elenora down from the paved terrace onto the gravel pathway that traversed the garden. Lady Wetherby had been right when she’d said it was quite a proper place for a walk, as it possessed not the least nook or cranny to be private in. Not that he had any wish to tarry with Miss Wetherby in a discreet corner. Of course he didn’t. No. Definitely not.

His own defensiveness surprised him. Did he want a nook or cranny in which to be alone with this strange girl with her barely present hand on his arm? Was he interested in her further than as a lighthearted amusement? Absolutely not. Why on earth was he even letting this thought intrude into his mind? He gave himself a mental shake. In a few months their charade would be over and he could go back to what he did best—enjoying himself. Only… wasn’t he quite enjoying this? Ridiculous.

“I’m afraid Aunt Penelope’s gardens are nothing to write home about,” Elenora said, her tone a mixture of the matter of fact and apology. She kept her head turned away from him as she spoke, possibly deliberately. She seemed to have a strong aversion to looking him in the eye, as she’d already admitted, and even, now, to looking at the lower portion of his face. What a conundrum she was.

But she was right about the garden. And it was cold. He smiled. “I’m not walking in it for the pleasure of admiring its appearance.”

She stayed silent, perhaps trying to work out what he’d meant by that, and they reached the end of the garden, which did not take long, and the high brick wall that must separate it from the garden of the house behind, or maybe from the mews.

However, silence did not seem to suit her, and clearly she hadn’t worked out his meaning. “Then why are you walking in it?” She paused and he was forced to halt as well. Her head turned and she appeared to be regarding his chin. “And why have you chosen to walk in it with me?” Her rather blunt way of talking was not unattractive. Refreshing after the dissembling of every other young lady he’d ever met. It seemed that if she wanted to know something, she wasn’t going to beat about the bush.

However, now she’d asked the question, he wasn’t at all certain of the answer. “We are an engaged couple now.” Stating the obvious. “And we need to satisfy certain requirements in order to maintain the illusion. One of these is that I should call on you here at your aunt’s in order to spend time with you. And that is what I am doing now.” How stuffy and pompous that sounded. So unlike the open way she talked.

Her eyes rose for a moment to meet his, then dropped again to somewhere around his lapels. “Pray don’t feel that you must do this, Lord Broxbourne. I am quite certain that the fact you have requested my hand in marriage will be enough for my mother. She will think no less of you if you absent yourself from my aunt’s house for long periods.”

A sense of feeling affronted arose in Jack’s chest. Did she not want to spend time with him? Unused to this sort of reaction from women he met, whether ladies of the Ton or not, Jack felt piqued. “I fear your mother is not the only one who will be observing our behavior, Miss Wetherby. The eyes of the Ton will be upon us, for you have snared for yourself, or they must think that you have, one of the most sought after of bachelors. I bring you an earldom, or I would if our engagement were real, and they are few and far between. Many an ambitious mama will be watching the progress of our engagement with an envious eye. If we deviate from the normal, they will be quick to gossip. And I have no desire, as yet, to be the subject of the gossip of the old biddies who fancy themselves as arbiters of taste and good behavior.” As if he wasn’t already, with his so recently ended liaison with Louise and all that had gone before it. But best not to mention that.

“That is a very long speech to say you’ll be calling on me just to keep up appearances.”

Was she finding the situation amusing?

He shrugged and they set off again along the bottom of the garden, where the stunted, heavily-pruned rosebushes bestowed a sad appearance on the flowerbeds. “I am known for my long speeches when in my cups.”

Her eyes rose again, this time with a definite twinkle in her blue eyes. “And are you in your cups now?”

He burst out laughing. “You are a most original young lady. I begin to think that being engaged to you for the length of the season might be quite amusing.”

A frown marred her brow and the thought that perhaps her openness was rubbing off on him arose.

She pursed her lips before speaking. “Are you laughing at me? I must inform you that I do not like to be mocked.” Anxiety filled her eyes. Had others mocked her in the past, perhaps for the attributes he found the most attractive? How unkind. The longing to be kind to her, much as he had been kind to little Josie, swept over him. Good heavens. He must try to keep it in check. With children like Josie he could allow himself free rein with kindness, but with an impressionable girl like Miss Wetherby, he must be more circumspect. Josie might repay his kindness with trust, but a girl of his new fiancée’s age might take it quite the wrong way.

They turned the corner and started back toward the terrace, past a small pond with a Grecian statue at its center. He shook his head. “Heaven forbid that I should do that. My intention was to flatter you, Miss Wetherby.” He paused. “Although, as we are engaged now, perhaps you will allow me to address you as Elenora?” Such a pretty name, the desire to say it aloud waxed in his breast. He pushed aside the part of him that questioned the wisdom of such a move.