Page 21 of Marry in Scarlet
It was Penny Peplowe’s birthday ball and both Penny and Lady Peplowe were particular friends of the Rutherfords. Lady Peplowe had gone out of her way to befriend Emm and the girls when they’d first come to London and knew nobody. And Penny was a dear, jolly girl and George wouldn’t upset her for the world.
Besides, she’d been looking forward to Penny’s ball for ages.
Emm was no longer up to attending balls, and given the state of affairs between George and Aunt Agatha, she’d asked Aunt Dottie to play chaperone. Living in Bath as she did, Dottie rarely got to attend large and fashionable London balls and had been looking forward all week to donning a pretty new ball dress and catching up with old friends. There was also a certain perceptible glee in herdemeanor at being asked to play chaperone instead of her older sister.
George wasn’t going to break her word to Emm—not technically, anyway—nor ruin Aunt Dottie’s night. Nor Penny’s birthday, or Lady Peplowe’s ball. But she sure as anything planned to ruin Lord Towsett’s evening.
She’d come up with a Plan.
She would teach him that when she said no she meant it. She wouldn’t hit or kick him, and though there would certainly be a scene, inside the dark conservatory it would be perfectly, beautifully private.
She glanced down at the bucket of fishy-smelling sludgy liquid that Lord Peplowe kept for fertilizing his beloved plants. Her promise to Emm had made no mention of accidents with smelly buckets...
If Lord Towsett called her a naughty little puss one more time—and he would, oh, yes, he would...
She grinned to herself. She had a short, scathing speech of her own to deliver, to be punctuated with the contents of the bucket. Afterward she would show him to the back gate where he could make a discreet, reeking, squelching exit.
He’d never bother her again.
Fanning herself gently with a fern frond, she waited. It was a warm night; the air inside the conservatory was humid and the smell of the bucket... She wrinkled her nose. Covering the bucket with a large shallow saucer, she moved it onto a shelf closer to the doorway. It was better there, more conveniently to hand.
She moved back to where the smell wasn’t so bad. And waited. What was taking him so long? She was sure he’d seen her come in.
The conservatory door opened. Aha! George peered through the shadowy tangle of greenery. Was that him? He was just a dark silhouette, outlined against the bright globes of lantern light that illuminated the garden outside where Lady Peplowe’s servants had hung dozens of pretty Japanese-style lanterns.
The silhouette moved and she cursed under her breath.It wasn’t Lord Towsett after all. This man was taller, leaner, broader shouldered.
She edged farther back into the shadows. She didn’t want to be caught lurking in here by some stranger.
Slow, heavy footsteps came toward her, crunching over the crushed limestone that covered the conservatory floor.
George held her breath.
She jumped as the door burst open, and three ladies tumbled in, laughing. One called out, “Such a delightful tease you are, Hart.”
Hart?George stiffened. She only knew one person called Hart. The Duke of blasted Everingham. What on earth was he doing here? He never attended society balls. And what was he doing sneaking into the conservatory? She cursed under her breath.
She recognized one of the ladies—Mrs. Threadgood, a married lady with something of a reputation—her long-suffering husband was no doubt inside in the card room. She was with another lady of about her own age. The third was much younger, the other lady’s daughter, perhaps.
Mrs. Threadgood laughed coyly. “Naughty boy, you wanted us to follow you, didn’t you?”
The ferns rustled beside her. George stiffened. The duke had retreated into her dark corner. Over the rich, fecund scents of the conservatory—and the faint reek of the bucket—a crisp, masculine cologne teased her senses. He was close enough to touch. She was trapped.
Did he know she was there? She stood frozen, barely breathing. Curse him, curse him, curse him!
Two of the ladies had seized lanterns from the garden and were approaching down separate pathways between the plants, chanting, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” The lights bobbed and swayed as they came closer.
Any minute now she’d be discovered, hiding in the dark conservatory, alone with the duke.
“Get rid of them,” the duke murmured.
George jumped. He did know she was here. “They’reyour ladies, you get rid of them,” she whispered. She didn’t want to be found here at all.
“You want them to find us both here alone, together in the dark?” He sounded amused. Of course, no one would blamehim. It was always the women who were at fault in these things.
The ladies with their bobbing lanterns were getting closer. Curse them. Curse him.
George took a breath, then stepped out into the lamplight, saying coolly, “Were you looking for me, Mrs. Threadgood?”
