Indiscreet

“You are a most kind and well-mannered man—there is where you will need to work on your role. Mr. Lassiter would never dream of pummeling a coachman or wrestling a poor defenseless woman to the ground.”

“Sounds like a dull dog to me.”

“He is not! He is a superior gentleman.”

“Well, your description makes me wonder why any woman would want to marry him.”

“You obviously have no understanding of women.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Mr. Lassiter respects women, and he believes that women are as intelligent and as capable as men.”

Benedict cast her a sardonic look. “Doing it rather too brown, aren’t you? Don’t you think he is a little too perfect to be believable—intelligent, gentlemanly, a man who prefers a woman to be a bluestocking?”

“No. I wouldn’t have agreed to marry him otherwise. He will be perfectly believable, as long as you act that way.”

“You may be stretching the limits of my acting ability.”

“You are stretching the limits of my patience. Now, will you kindly pay attention and do what you are supposed to?”

“I shall try my humble best,” he promised sardonically. “Pray go on. Tell me about my most excellent qualities.”

They spent the remaining minutes of the journey in conversation about the fictitious Mr. Lassiter, with Camilla trying to remember everything she had written her grandfather about the man.

Finally, just as they passed through the gates to Chevington Park, Benedict thought to ask, “Do I look like him?”

An odd look crossed Camilla’s face. “What?”

“Do I resemble this chap physically? Surely you must have described him.”

“Well…I certainly did not picture him looking like you,” Camilla admitted. “He would not be so large and so…physical.” Her brow wrinkled. “But I’m not sure I said anything to Grandpapa about his size. I might have said he was of average height.”

She looked at him doubtfully. Benedict’s six feet would hardly be called average. But at least she had not mentioned whether his shoulders were wide or whether his long legs filled out his breeches to perfection. She tried to remember exactly how she had pictured her imaginary fiancé, but she had some difficulty. She had not really thought that much about his looks, only about his characteristics, and besides, the actual man sitting in front of her kept intruding on the image she tried to conjure up in her brain. He had an irritating habit, she was finding out, of dominating whatever scene he happened to be in.

“I said his hair was brown.” Camilla looked at Benedict’s short, thick black locks. “That should be close enough.” She paused. “However, I think I said his eyes were gray.” There was no possibility that anyone could have mistaken this man’s gleaming dark eyes for gray. “Well, he probably won’t remember, anyway.”

“Hopefully.”

At that moment the carriage pulled to a halt in front of the house. Camilla pushed open the door before the lantern boy could get to it to open it, and stepped out. Benedict followed her. Camilla looked up at the venerable old house, warm affection on her face. Benedict followed her gaze. It was a graceful house, built in the shape of the letter E, and the white of its native stone gave it a warmth that was enhanced by the lights that blazed beside the massive front doors and poured out the windows.

“Oh, dear.” Camilla belatedly noticed the multitude of lights. She had been hoping that her family would have given up on her and already gone to bed, so that she and Benedict would not have to face all of them now. Obviously that was not the case.

As if to emphasize that fact, the double front doors were opened wide and held by two liveried footmen, and a rotund man dressed in sober black came rushing down the wide stone steps toward them, a grin stretching across his face.

“Miss Camilla!” he cried. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

“Purdle!” Camilla flew forward and gave him a hug. “You shouldn’t have waited up.”

“As if I could go on to bed, not knowing where you were, and leave you here to be greeted by the footmen?” The beaming man looked affronted by the idea.

“No,” Camilla agreed. “I can see that you could not.” She turned toward Benedict. “Dear? Do come here and meet Purdle. He is the butler, and has been running all our lives for years. Purdle, this is Mr. Lassiter. He—”

“Yes, yes, I know!” He grinned broadly at Camilla’s companion. “The Viscountess has told us all about him. Congratulations, sir. Much happiness, miss. ’Tis a wonderful thing. And, I must say, His Lordship is very happy. The news has picked him right up. He’s looking forward to seeing you, too, though I’m sure that comes as no surprise to you, miss. He wanted to stay up to greet you himself when you came in, but the draft the doctor gave him put him right to sleep after supper. The doctor said it was too much excitement for him. ’Course, the Earl will be mad as hops tomorrow morning, when he wakes up and finds out he missed your arrival.”

Benedict eyed the butler in fascination as he ushered them up the steps and into the house, talking without ceasing. He had never seen a butler quite like this one, beaming and chattering like a magpie. Of course, he reminded himself, he might have known that nothing and no one connected with this girl would be normal.

“It looks as though everyone else is still up,” Camilla said, a little questioningly, as Purdle swept them through the wide front hall.

“Oh, yes, the whole family,” he agreed, not noticing the way Camilla’s face fell. “Well, except the young master, of course.”

“Anthony?” Camilla named her cousin, who at eighteen, was the old Earl’s heir and the closest to her of anyone in her family. When her parents died, his mother, Lydia, had raised Camilla, and the two of them had grown up like brother and sister.

“Yes. He retired early this evening.”

“Anthony?” Camilla repeated in disbelief. Her cousin was the liveliest of souls, always getting into some mischief or the other. He would be the last person she could imagine going to bed before everyone else, especially when she was expected tonight. “Is he sick?”

“Oh, no, miss. He’s, well, he’s been retiring earlier the past few months. Since, um, Mrs. Elliot came to visit.”

“Ah.” It was clear to her now. Anthony abhorred Aunt Beryl, perhaps even more than Camilla did. She always seized every opportunity to lecture him about his duties as the future Earl and to opine about the fact that her own husband had been the second son and therefore Anthony would inherit instead of her own sons, who were, by implication, much more worthy of the honor and position than Anthony.

“Precisely. No doubt you will see him soon enough.”

“Yes. I am sure I will.” She was certain that Anthony was not asleep; she would slip down the hall to his room once the others were in bed.

“Here we are.” Purdle stopped before a double set of doors that stood open, leading into the blue drawing room, a large, formal room that was rarely used by her grandfather. Camilla was sure it was by Lady Elliot’s command that it was being used now. Though Lydia was higher in rank, being the dowager Viscountess and the mother of the future Earl, Camilla had no doubt that she had let Aunt Beryl take the reins of the household. Lydia was intimidated by the older woman’s poisonous tongue, and, moreover, she had little liking for running things, anyway. Aunt Beryl, on the other hand, lived to command.

Purdle stepped inside the room, addressing Aunt Lydia. “My lady, Miss Camilla has arrived.”

He stepped aside for them the enter. Camilla drew a deep breath and looked up into Benedict’s face. He smiled down at her, transforming the harsh lines of his face into handsomeness and startling her so that for an instant she could not move. Then she realized that he was assuming a loverlike expression for their charade. She tried to adjust her face into the same sort of look as she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

They stepped inside the room and stopped abruptly. It seemed as if the room were filled with people, and every eye was on them. For a moment the faces were an unrecognizable blur. Everyone in the room froze where they were, staring at Camilla and Benedict.

Then the multitude of faces resolved into several distinct people. The two young women were Aunt Beryl’s daughters, Amanda and Kitty. They had fair, painfully curled blond hair and vague-colored eyes that seemed about to pop out of their heads. Kitty was plump, and Amanda was as thin as a stick, but both were incessant gossips and gigglers, and Camilla was usually bored to death by their company within five minutes. Aunt Beryl, with the same pop eyes and fair hair, though starting to go gray, as her daughters, was seated in one of the wingback chairs near the fire, a shawl thrown around her shoulders to ward off the chill to which the low neckline of her evening dress exposed her.

The other older woman—though it took a second, longer look to realize that she did not belong to the same generation as Aunt Beryl’s daughters—was Aunt Lydia. Lydia was possessed of a creamy complexion upon which much care and many unguents were lavished, and her figure was as slender as if she had never borne a child. With her Titian red hair and vivid blue eyes, she was still one of the reigning beauties of London, and no one who did not know her would have guessed that she could have a son who was eighteen years old. She was staring at Camilla and Benedict as if she had never seen Camilla before.

These four women Camilla had expected to find at Chevington Park, though she had hoped that Aunt Beryl and her daughters would have gone on to bed by the time she arrived. What she had not expected to find here were the three men: her cousin Bertram, Aunt Beryl’s oldest son and one of the leading dandies of London, as well as two young men whom she had never seen before in her life.

“Aunt Lydia,” Camilla said, smiling and starting toward her aunt with outstretched arms.

“Dear girl,” Lydia murmured, rising to her feet and reaching out to enfold her niece in a graceful hug, all the while staring at Benedict with a peculiar look on her face.

“Camilla.” Aunt Beryl rose ponderously, though she did not extend her arms for a similar hug.

Camilla curtsied to her politely, exchanging greetings with her aunt and cousins. Her gaze flickered curiously toward the two strangers, but she hurried on, eager now to get her lying over with. She turned toward Benedict, holding out her hand toward him. To her relief, he started toward her with alacrity. She realized with amazement that he looked every inch the gentleman…and quite handsome, too. Amanda and Kitty were gazing at him with their mouths open.

Camilla drew breath to introduce Benedict, but before she could speak, Aunt Lydia flashed one of her sparkling smiles at Benedict and walked past Camilla, saying brightly, “No, you’ve no need to tell us, Camilla. We all know that this must be your husband.”