Page 26 of Season of the Scoundrel
Though once she learned that Ivy Bridewell was not the sort to strictly adhere to etiquette or stoop to tradition, the real fireworks were bound to start.
His mother always seemed to forget that he’d inherited her stubbornness. Once he made a decision, he rarely wavered from it. Plus, if there was a woman in England who possessed the mettle to stand up to his mother, it was Ivy.
Though the fact would likely horrify his mother, he’d never given a great deal of thought to the sort of lady he’d wish to pledge himself to. The role and duties of a duchess were obvious, and eventually, he assumed, he’d find a woman who’d fit that mold.
Though now, with the prospect in front of him, he realized that he did not want a woman who simply possessed aprescribed set of qualities, the ideal bloodline, and a sizable dowry.
He was not a duke who fully fit the mold himself, having devoted so many years of his life to commercial endeavors and championing policies in Parliament that caused him to fall out of favor with many of his more conservative peers.
As he settled into a chair before the fire in his study, he thought of the moment he’d slipped the heirloom ring on Ivy’s finger. It had fit perfectly, and it had felt shockingly right to hold her hand, to look into her eyes—as deep and lovely a green as the emerald itself—and slip that ring, a symbol of a promise, onto her finger.
But now, a sliver of guilt gnawed at his conscience too.
They had both agreed to this pretend engagement for their own reasons, yet Ross couldn’t help but feel he’d deceived her in one essential regard: part of him would not mind if their false betrothal became a true one.
Ross had meant every word he’d said to her—he would never force her in any regard. But he couldn’t deny the ember of hope inside him that, come the end of this charade, she would want it to become genuine too.
The next morning, he went to his desk as he usually did, as if he hadn’t made a decision the day before that might alter the entire course of his life. On most Mondays, he’d spend time going over business matters or respond to correspondence. Today, he found it hard to focus on anything but what he and Ivy had agreed to.
How would they announce the betrothal atThe Sentinel? To do so quietly seemed best, at least until a formal announcement was printed in the papers. He still had not heard from his mother, and he needed confirmation she’d received the news before a public revelation.
Among his correspondence, he found an invitation from Lord Grainger to attend a soiree at his residence the following night. Ross had apparently given Penrose sufficient hope that he’d invest in their scheme to cause the two of them to keep at him until he did.
Ivy would want to go to that soiree, he suspected.
He tried to push thoughts of her out of his mind and focus.
Hours passed. The cook sent up lunch and he ate alone in the dining room, suddenly feeling the emptiness of the space in a way he hadn’t in all the years he’d lived as a bachelor at Blackbourne House.
By late afternoon, he considered a trip to his club. Another Monday habit, as he was often too busy as the week progressed. But just as he prepared to head out, he heard his butler answer the front door.
“This way, Miss Bridewell,” Vickers said as he led her toward the drawing room.
“No need, Vickers,” Ross called as he descended the townhouse’s stairs.
His staid butler eyed Ivy, then Ross, then bowed and headed off down the hall.
Ivy looked up at him with an eager smile. “I have an idea.”
The part of him that was cautious, raised on duty and propriety, told him that he should feel a bit of apprehension at those words, but the eagerness in her eyes was infectious.
“Then come into my study and tell me.”
He could all but feel excitement vibrating from her.
When they stepped inside his study, she shut the door. It was only then that he noticed she was carrying a rather sizable bulging satchel.
“Have you come to stay?” he asked in a teasing tone.
It shocked him how much he liked the idea.
“No, I’ve come to strategize.” She plunked her satchel down, then approached. “Now, I know you may have misgivings, and I suspect you’ll say this is reckless, but will you at least hear me out?”
Ross leaned on the edge of his desk, arms crossed. “I’ll hear you out.”
She went to her bag and slid out a folio, much like the one she kept her writing in. “Penrose is to be at a charity gala this evening, hosted by a local gentleman’s club that I can only assume he’s a member of.” Ivy offered him a clipping from a newspaper that detailed the gala and a few of the expected noble attendees.
Ross lifted his eyes to hers. “Tell me you’re not suggesting we break into the man’s study again.”
