The Wayward Debutante

She just glared at him before turning her head away to face the stage. She would not answer him this time. Doing so had obviously only encouraged further impertinent questions.

“I don’t believe you are married.”

She could hear the laughter in his voice and cursed him silently. She picked up the thin program she’d been given upon entry and began reading it for a second time.

“If you’re not married—and you’re not—then you must be employed.”

Still without looking at him, she gritted out, “I never said I wasn’t married.”

He chuckled. “But you’re not, of course. You’re lucky you aren’t, too…if you were, your husband would be obliged to give you a thorough spanking for coming here alone. It’s not at all proper, you know.”

Eleanor didn’t turn her head for a moment. She was too shocked, not believing he’d really said what she thought he’d just said. Spanking?

Spanking?

With the word raging in her mind, she turned on him, eyes flashing, forgetting for the moment the dangerous effect he had on her. “You, sir, are not at all proper!”

He was unfazed by her indignation. “How are you employed, did you say?”

“I did not.”

“I see. Then shall I guess?”

“I am a governess,” she answered shortly, hoping that austere and respectable occupation would change the direction of his lecherous thoughts. Scathingly, she added, “And you are…what, a professional libertine?”

She’d meant to insult him, but her remark seemed only to amuse him further. “No…I rather wish, but…” He paused, perhaps realizing he’d baited her too much. “Don’t think I’ve introduced myself yet—perhaps I should start over. I’m James Bentley.”

“Do you intend to sit here all night, Mr. Bentley?”

“Just until I figure something out,” he said thoughtfully, his gaze roaming over her face. “You see, it’s a rather odd thing that a governess should be here alone. I mean, you ought to have an untarnished reputation, oughtn’t you? You ought to be at least as proper as the brats you look after.”

Eleanor swallowed hard, wishing she hadn’t come up with that particular profession. He was right. No governess would traipse off to the theater alone—not if she expected to keep her position, anyway. “It is not a crime to enjoy the theater. And I’m not employed. Currently, that is,” she blurted out. “I am looking for work.”

James leaned forward. “I can help you with that,” he said, his voice low and slightly thick.

“You can?” With his face so close to hers, she felt her train of thought begin to slip carelessly away. Her eyes wandered to his mouth. She was watching him speak, but not really attending to what he said.

“You’ve overlooked one crucial point, Miss Smith. You’re far too pretty to be a governess. No one will ever hire you.”

“No?” Her voice sounded small and faint.

He shook his head. “Afraid not. But I’d be happy to employ you.”

She blinked, not understanding at first what he meant. But when the meaning of his words slowly became clear, all the anger and embarrassment she’d felt that evening came back to her in one large dose. She opened her mouth to retort, but she had no insult to equal the one he’d just dealt her. So instead she said nothing and rose. He didn’t try to stop her as she pushed past him. What a fool she’d been. She knew he was watching her, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was leaving the building, finding her hack, and getting home as soon as possible. With her head down, she picked up her pace.

And then the next thing she knew she’d crashed into a large, solid object. It was the man who’d been sitting in front of her, the one who’d started her disastrous night off on such a sour note. She glared up at him. He was coming back to his seat for the second act, but unfortunately, he seemed to have had several pints of ale in the interim. He wasted no time latching his fat hands on to her shoulders.

“Well, ’ullo. What’s the ’urry, luv?” he slurred. She backed away from him quickly, but she tripped on the hem of her dress as she did so. With a startled cry, she fell backward.

She should have hit the floor, and she braced her body for the inevitable pain, but it didn’t come. She found herself instead being held by a pair of strong arms. She didn’t have to look behind her to know to whom they belonged. She went rigid, trying to ignore the unfamiliar sensation that washed over her, a feeling of both helplessness and safety, of anger and, most frightening of all, of thrilling pleasure. She took a deep, steadying breath and regarded the large man in front of her. Although she couldn’t see it from her position, something in Mr. Bentley’s expression—that handsome face that had been laughing and mocking her until just a moment ago—must have told him to retreat. Any menace the man had possessed was now replaced by an almost comic apprehension, and he nodded apologetically as he backed away. She shivered, wondering if Mr. Bentley really could be dangerous if provoked.

He turned her around in his arms and looked down at her face with concern. “Are you all right?”

She nodded shakily and tried to straighten. He was too close, and she had to crane her neck to look at him. Heavens, he was tall. She hadn’t noticed when he’d been sitting.

He brushed a finger across her cheek, and she realized he was wiping away a tear. She hadn’t been aware that she’d been crying. There was something…almost tender in his expression, something truly apologetic for having upset her. It only lasted a second—perhaps she’d even imagined it—but it sent a shock of uncertainty through her body. Was he to be her friend or her foe? At that moment it wasn’t clear which. One minute he was arrogant and insulting, and the next he was protecting her from harm. A tiny inexplicable part of her wanted to bury her head in his arms, even though prudence told her to kick him in the shins and run.

He was still holding her, still looking down at her face. She couldn’t look away. His head dipped and she was certain he was going to kiss her; it felt inevitable, like a force she was powerless to stop and didn’t want to stop, anyway. She’d never been kissed before and she didn’t know what to do. She closed her eyes and waited.

Nothing happened.

“Miss Smith?”

She opened her eyes. He was looking at her questioningly and holding up a long, chestnut-colored curl. With a startled intake of breath, she reached her hand up to feel her wig. It had slipped to the side just slightly, probably when she’d run into that man. He reached out his hand, too, and she stepped away quickly, concerned that he was going to pull it off.

They faced each other. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but she knew how she felt: nervous. There was no telling how he would react to this discovery. He might be angry, or feel deceived. He’d obviously be suspicious. But instead all that emerged from his guarded expression was…the same look of intense curiosity that she’d seen on his face several times that evening.

“You’re a bit of a puzzle, aren’t you, Smith?” he said, taking a step forward and stopping when only a few inches separated them. “But I’m afraid I’d rather like to figure you out.” His head dipped slightly again, only this time to whisper, “I was going to kiss you a moment ago. Unless you want that to happen you’d better run.”

She still wasn’t at all clearheaded, but for the first time that night she had no trouble making a decision and acting upon it. She took him at his word and turned and fled. She didn’t look back.

And James didn’t follow. He would have liked to, but he could tell from her expression that he’d frightened her. He just watched her dash up the aisle, long enough for her to disappear through the doors. Then he sat down on the closest seat, not yet ready to return to his box. Jonathon had doubtless observed the whole encounter and would be waiting to rib him. Normally James would have no problem handling his jokes, but for some reason this situation was different. He felt…disappointment at her leaving, and regret that he was the one responsible for her departure. It was an odd sensation since he didn’t even know her. She remained a mystery, and he’d stupidly frightened her off for good. He believed that she was exactly what she claimed to be: a governess who, for whatever reason, simply liked a bit of Shakespeare. Nothing wrong with that. It was actually rather endearing. Like a lot of governesses, she probably had no family and therefore no chaperone. So why, having determined that she was not a doxy trolling the theater, had he treated her like one?

The answer was pretty obvious. Because, in the short time he’d spent with her, she’d intrigued him more than any woman he could remember. Because she had the most remarkable eyes, and a face that was both sensual and intelligent, a rare combination. Because he did want to kiss her. Because he knew, whether she knew it or not, that she’d wanted him to kiss her, too.

The curtains parted for the next act and he sighed. He didn’t really want to sit through the play once more. He rose, but as he stepped into the aisle something caught his attention: a reticule, abandoned on the floor. She must have dropped it. He bent over to pick it up, noting that it was made of cream silk and embroidered with birds and flowers. It was obviously expensive. Perhaps it wasn’t hers after all…

He didn’t mean to snoop, but there was only one way to find out. He opened it, looking for some clue. It contained a long piece of frayed blue ribbon, a small leather-bound volume of the plays of William Wycherley, a mirror and several coins.

It also contained an invitation: to The Right Honorable Marchioness of Pelham, 5 Belgrave Square.

Now who was that?

Chapter Four

It was a perfect morning for a walk in the park. The sun shone softly through the trees, dappling the path with light, and a mild breeze gently teased Eleanor’s hair, loosening it from the knot at her nape. She carried her scratchy straw hat in her hand, at least for the time being. Eventually, Louisa would notice and insist she put it on once more.

Right now, though, Louisa was about ten paces ahead of her and gaining distance with every step. Beatrice walked stiffly by her side. They’d been arguing until just a few minutes ago, although Eleanor had been unable to hear what about. It hardly mattered, since Louisa picked fights just for fun. Beatrice had made a few murmurs of appeasement but now, knowing her efforts were pointless, had given up in favor of stony silence. Eleanor was thankful that her sister had come along, although she would have preferred to be alone with her. They hadn’t had a meaningful conversation in ages, and could hardly do so with Louisa listening in. Beatrice tended to understand her better than anyone else, and not that long ago, she’d also been a reluctant debutante. She’d have some words of encouragement or advice. And good heavens, did Eleanor need it, at least if she was going to survive the rest of the season. Of course, she couldn’t confess everything that was on her mind: James Bentley, no matter the impression he’d left on her, was simply out of the question.

For the moment, though, their conversation would have to wait. She hummed quietly, letting herself be lulled into daydreams by the satisfying crunch of her kidskin boots hitting the gravel path. She allowed herself to lag even farther behind and began to imagine herself away from Hyde Park, away from the stifling governance of spinster aunts, uncomfortable hats and tight stays. There was so much more to life than her petty existence. She had a mind of her own; she had interests that had nothing to do with finding a suitable husband and producing suitable children. What was all the fuss about getting married, anyway?

And why did the only man to excite her have to be distinctly unsuitable? What on earth did that say about her taste? Granted, he was handsome. Granted, he had wanted to kiss her, and that was certainly a novel experience. No one else had wanted to kiss her before; all the young men she’d met so far only wanted to kiss Lady Arabella Stuart or Lucinda Cator, the season’s two Most Desirables.

“Eleanor!”

She looked up with a small jerk, anticipating the reprimand that Louisa’s sharp tone promised. Louisa and Beatrice had halted several paces ahead, but were now standing, waiting for her to catch up. Both women looked annoyed.

“How many times must I say your name? And where is your hat?” Louisa demanded. She squinted directly into the sun, which made her look even crosser than normal.

Eleanor immediately began to rearrange her hat and walked briskly to reach them. “I’m sorry, Auntie. I wasn’t attending. Is something the matter?”

“I asked, Eleanor, why your sister denies having received an invitation to my dinner next week.”

Eleanor thought carefully before answering, not having the faintest idea how this question pertained to her. Both Louisa and Beatrice were staring at her impatiently. Hoping for a clue, she said slowly, “I didn’t know you were holding a dinner, Auntie. I’m afraid I haven’t put it in my diary.”

“You’re not invited. It’s for married ladies only. What have you done with the invitation?”

Eleanor wasn’t prepared for this interrogation, not right now, not when her mind had so recently been indulging in far more pleasurable thoughts. What did they want from her? “But I thought I wasn’t invited. Why would I have the invitation?”

Beatrice sighed at her continued confusion. “You aren’t invited, Eleanor. Louisa insists she gave you the invitation to pass on to me several days ago, but I never received it. Did you forget?”

“I knew I should have entrusted it to my footman,” Louisa added resentfully before Eleanor could reply. “But your sister was at my house for a visit, anyway, Beatrice, so I gave it to her instead. Useless girl. I repeat, Eleanor, where is the invitation now?”

Eleanor had gone pale as the memory came back. She knew where the invitation was, or at least where it had been when she’d parted ways with it. It had been in her reticule, along with other useful things like money to pay her driver. Luckily, she knew where Beatrice’s housekeeper kept a small supply of funds for day-to-day sundries, so she’d been able to pay him on arrival. But given the events of that evening, the invitation had been insignificant enough to slip from her mind entirely.

Louisa was still looking at her, waiting for an answer that she didn’t actually have. She certainly couldn’t admit that she’d left the invitation at the theater when she shouldn’t have been there in the first place. All she could do was be vague, but that would only send her aunt into a greater rage.

“It is possible I lost it, Auntie.”

“It is possible? Did you or did you not?” Her nostrils flared slightly.

Vagueness wasn’t working, so she tried bluntness instead. “Well, I don’t know where it is now. So I suppose that means I did lose it. Yes.”

Beatrice sighed deeply. “It no longer matters, Aunt Louisa. I never received it, and I’ve made other plans. Just this morning I told Lucy that I’d spend the day with her.”

Louisa shook her head. “You will have to change your plans. Your sister-in-law will understand.”

“I can’t just change my plans. I made a promise.”

“I’m so sorry,” Eleanor said, quietly but sincerely, hoping that her apology would placate her aunt enough so that they could change the subject.

“Your apology is noted, Eleanor, but not particularly helpful at this stage. I must have even numbers. Who ever heard of seating thirteen around the dinner table?”

“Well, I am sorry, Auntie.”

“Thirteen! It’s preposterous.”

Eleanor bit her lip, not wanting to retort. But she hadn’t slept well the night before and didn’t have her usual patience for her aunt’s histrionics. “Don’t you think ‘preposterous’ might be a bit strong?”

“What?” Louisa spluttered.

“It is hardly a crisis. No one will even notice.”

Louisa’s mouth opened and closed a few times, fishlike, before she could speak. “I…I am not accustomed to this impudence from you, Eleanor. Where does this boldness come from?”

Eleanor refused to answer her. She was sick of being treated like a child. She crossed her arms and stared back stubbornly.

Louisa’s gray eyes narrowed. Still looking at Eleanor, she said, “Beatrice, I am going home. We will finish our discussion there. I do not approve of flippant girls.”

And with a curt nod, she turned and marched off.

Beatrice shook her head as she watched her walk away. “Why did you provoke her, Eleanor? She’s going to be in one of her sulks for the rest of the day, and I’m the one who’ll have to talk her out of it.”

“It’s not as if I meant to lose your invitation. I hate the way she talks to me, and I can’t let her do it forever.”

“You won’t think that when she decides you’re becoming undisciplined and need to stay with her instead of Charles and me. I know it was an accident, Eleanor, but you’ve been terribly absentminded. Louisa has apparently been planning this dinner for many weeks. You weren’t very sympathetic.”

Eleanor wished she could explain why she’d responded as she had, but she couldn’t tell Beatrice how she’d really lost the invitation. Hopefully, she said, “You’d rather spend the day with Lucy, anyway. Perhaps I did you a favor.”

“That is not for your carelessness to decide.”

She flinched. Beatrice had never spoken to her so sharply before.

“I am sorry,” she said quietly.

Beatrice flushed with guilty embarrassment. “You needn’t apologize. I shouldn’t have spoken like that. Forgive me.”

“If you forgive me. I haven’t been myself…I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Yes, well, one’s first season will have that effect.” Beatrice looked up the path, where Louisa’s rigid figure was gradually growing smaller. “I have to go now if I’m to catch up. Don’t worry about Aunt Louisa. I’ll calm her down. Come home soon.”

Eleanor watched her sister move hurriedly off. She walked over to the nearest bench and sat down, feeling wretched. She’d never stood up to Louisa before, and she’d hardly ever fought with Beatrice. What did it take to please everyone? Perfect obedience? Perhaps her taste of independence had made her bold. At any rate, her reinforced backbone didn’t seem to be going over at all well.

Who was she?

James was growing more confused by the minute, and to make matters worse he was beginning to feel rather absurd, as well. He’d been following her, after all, for half an hour now. He’d first seen her when she’d emerged from the stuccoed portico of number five Belgrave Square, preceded by the two stately creatures who’d just left her stranded. Finally alone, she was sitting forlornly on a bench. And he was standing behind a tree, looking, no doubt, like a complete fool. He’d ducked behind the tree when her companions had turned around to remonstrate with her. Now that they’d both left he supposed he could emerge, only he still didn’t know what to say to her.

His intention had been merely to return her reticule, and it was a matter of pure coincidence that he’d arrived at the house just as she was on her way out. He hadn’t even been certain that it did belong to her, as he could come up with no explanation for why she’d be carrying around someone else’s invitation, or for why a governess would own such an expensive item. As he’d mulled the possibilities over in his head it had even occurred to him, albeit briefly, that she might actually be the Right Honorable lady herself. She certainly talked like a marchioness. But he quickly discounted that thought: she was too obviously innocent to be married. Some rudimentary detective work, carried out the day before—well, he’d just asked William—had revealed that the Marchioness of Pelham was tall, blond and visibly pregnant. She could only be the woman he’d just seen Eleanor talking to.

If she was an Eleanor at all. Perhaps she was a Jane, or a Maria. He still didn’t know why she’d be carrying the marchioness’s invitation, nor could he explain why she looked so different today. It wasn’t just that the horrible blond wig had been replaced by her own rather nice, sleek brown hair. She wasn’t dressed as she had been before, either. She didn’t look like a governess.

But the way those women had been bossing her about, not to mention the way she’d been walking ten paces behind them, suggested they didn’t regard her as an equal. He hadn’t heard most of their words, but it was obvious they were taking her to task for something. Words like impudence, carelessness and useless had a way of carrying.

So, again, who was she?

He began walking in her direction, his hands in his pockets. He hoped he looked nonchalant, but he didn’t feel that way at all. Although he kept telling himself that he had the upper hand, with both age and experience on his side, it didn’t change the fact that he was starting to feel like an untried schoolboy. He didn’t exactly have a plan, and there was a very real risk that she’d bolt the moment she saw him.

Luckily, that didn’t happen. She noticed him just before he reached her, but although her eyes registered surprise she didn’t so much as start. Perhaps her mind was too busy with other matters for her to react quickly; he thought he detected a fleeting trace of sadness in her expression, although it vanished before he could be sure. As he halted in front of her, her expression became masked. She straightened warily in her seat, as if preparing herself to spring at the slightest sign of impropriety.

James hadn’t assumed she’d make things easy, and clearly she wasn’t going to dash his expectations. He suppressed a sigh of frustration. “Miss Smith. What a pleasant surprise.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just continued to stare levelly back at him, allowing no indication of her feelings to enter her face. But inwardly, she was reeling. How was this possible? Was she dreaming him up…every detail down to his disheveled hair and gold watch chain? Was he as much a figment as Jane Pilkington?

No, no. Be reasonable, Eleanor. He is real, and he is dangerous. Find a way to leave, and do it quickly.

Only instead of following her mind’s advice by nodding a curt goodbye and departing immediately, she responded with a question of her own. She was too bewildered to do otherwise. “What are you doing here?”

James raised an eyebrow at the accusation in her tone, but her suspicion was perfectly justified. He probably should answer her question honestly and immediately by removing her belongings from his jacket’s inner pocket, but he thought it would be unwise to reveal his hand so soon. Better to pretend he was equally surprised by this meeting.

“I always walk in the park at this time of day…live quite close by, in fact. And you, Miss Smith? I don’t recall seeing you here before.”

“I rarely walk in the park,” she lied. She often walked in the park, but would now obviously have to change that habit. Blast him. Furtively, she glanced up and down the path. An elderly couple, some distance off, was strolling in their direction. They were hardly a threat, but what if someone she knew came along? What if she should be seen talking to him? She had to leave, and if he tried to stop her she’d…

Probably expire on the spot, but she’d worry about that later.

She rose. “Do enjoy the sunshine, Mr. Bentley. I wish you a good day.” But as she took her first step, he moved to the side to block her.

“Not so fast, Smith. I’m starting to think you’re following me. You’ll have to explain yourself first.”

Eleanor glared at that absurd suggestion. Speaking quietly through clenched teeth, she ordered, “Move out of my way, Mr. Bentley, or I will scream.”

He arched an amused eyebrow, almost daring her to make good on her offer. After a few seconds he asked, “Well? I’m waiting.”

She opened her mouth slightly, but not a scream, or even a peep came out. Her cheeks suffused with color. Of course she wouldn’t do it; she had no desire for public humiliation. The horrible man had called her bluff.