Page 8 of A Sham Engagement

Indignation surged up through Elenora’s body at his insinuation, and she took another step, tugging at her gown. More worrying ripping followed. “My family is not ruined, and it is very rude of you to imply that.” Lying didn’t come easily to her.

Broxbourne’s lips curled in a mirthless smile. “Your father is in the card room now trying to win back everything he’s lost, writing vowels out to those he owes money to. And your brothers are no better, if smaller losers. Don’t think this has gone unnoticed.”

Heat washed up Elenora, flushing her from her breasts to her cheeks, and with it, anger. “I must point out that it is very ill bred of you to draw this to my attention. It is not the done thing to speak of such things in public. You might be a lord, but you are clearly not a gentleman… my lord.” Obnoxious man. How dare he speak to her like this?

She looked back down at her gown, rage bubbling inside her. What she would have liked to have done was punch him. Matthew had taught her how to box a few summers since, and she’d once knocked him out. How she’d relish doing that to this dreadfully rude man. How she’d like to wipe that smug, self-satisfied, I’m-cleverer-than-you look off his face.

However, she had other things to think of, like how she was going to hide this rip in her lovely gown from Mama. From everyone in the ballroom who would really have something to stare at if she emerged like this. Then she remembered that, in her reticule, thanks to Mama, she had a needle and thread, a hussif, for just such an incident. Well, not an incident of this actual sort, more perhaps a catching of a gown on something sharp. She could mend it herself with a few stitches.

She looked down. A lot of stitches. And stitches were not her forté. “None of this is any of your business. You ask far too many questions about things that have nothing to do with you. And you need to release your hold on my gown, my lord, or… or I’ll scream.”

“And have people rush in here and find you in such a compromising position?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her, so she shut it again. How it pained her to admit he was right. She shouldn’t be alone in a room with a strange man, still less one who had ripped her gown and didn’t seem to care. Mama would say she was ruined which was most unfair as apart from the rip, nothing at all had happened.

His eyes narrowed. “You are a strange girl indeed. Not wanting to be married, and choosing this particular book.” Here he pointed his free hand at her book, still clasped in defense against her breast. “Out of all the books you could have selected you chose one on the antiquities of Greece.”

“That’s because I haven’t read it.”

“Nor have most girls your age. No, I doubt any girl your age has. In fact, I’d wager I could count the number of women of any age who have read it on the fingers of one hand. What makes you want to read it? It’s hard going, you know.”

“You’ve read it?” Elenora’s limited experience of young men, which mainly meant of her two older brothers and their friends, had not led her to assume any of them read any books at all. Not even those up at Oxford, as Matthew had been until recently. Her surprise at his claim to have read it distracted her from his slur on womankind for the moment.

He nodded. “Of course. My father bought me this particular volume when I was twelve. I’ve read them all.”

“Oh.”

A smile curled his lips. “No need to look so surprised. You can’t be as surprised as me, finding a girl as pretty as you are raiding my father’s library and choosing a book describing in great detail the antiquities of Athens and beyond.”

“Your father?” If this was his father’s library it must also be his father’s house, and his father must be the intimidating white haired old gentleman who had greeted them on their arrival. Lord Amberley. The Earl of Amberley in fact.

As he nodded, she managed to gather her wits. “I can see, my lord, that you have fallen into the trap of assuming all young ladies have the same shallow aims in life—namely playing the pianoforté, painting and finding themselves a rich husband.”

“And you do not aim for any of that?”

She shook her head with more than necessary vehemence. “Not at all. My mama and sisters will tell you that my musical skills are appalling. I cannot even sing in tune. And as for my artistic abilities—well, if I have to draw something historic, then I can do it, but young ladies aren’t schooled for anything more than demure watercolors, which I abhor. And I do not wish to be married—ever.”

“Why don’t you sit down?” He gestured to the seat opposite his. “That was what you had in mind when you came in here, was it not?”

She compressed her lips. “You are right. It was. But I did not for a moment think I would be sharing this room with anyone else.”

“It is my father’s library. Where else would you like me to sit?”

She perched herself on the edge of the second seat and he at last released her torn skirt. “In the card room, I think. Yes, that would be perfect. Perhaps you might go there now and we can forget we ever met?”

He leaned toward her and out of instinct she drew back. “How can I possibly forget I’ve met you, Miss Wetherby? I don’t think I’ve ever met a young lady quite like you before. One so charmingly pretty, but with no intention of marrying and a penchant for dusty books.”

She frowned. Was he referring to her blonde good looks, the bane of her life? Best to ignore this remark. “If you don’t mind then,” she said, opening the book on her lap to the dedication to the king, “I’ll get on with reading. I daresay I have a good three hours before all the guests depart, and I can read a lot in that time. I prefer silence while I’m reading.”

He burst out laughing. “And do you not think someone will start to wonder where you are? I daresay at this very moment your mother is scouring the ballroom wondering where her prize sacrifice on the bonfire of her family has got to. She’s probably even gone into the card room to tell your father you’ve vanished. Your brothers and your aunt are even now joining the search.”

“I didn’t think of that.”

“I can see that.”

She closed the book with a sigh. “Then I had best return your book to you and go back to the ballroom. No doubt my mother has found several more prospective husbands for me to meet and have trample on my toes.” She laid the book on the table between the chairs and stood up. Her gown flapped where it had been torn. Oh no. She’d have to patch it first and hope no one would notice.

Broxbourne rose to his feet as well. He towered over her, a distinctly masculine presence so unlike those of her much shorter brothers. He nodded at her skirt. “I see you hadn’t thought of that, either.”