Page 11 of An Earl Like You (Games Earls Play #6)
It took everything in her not to squirm as he scrutinized her face. She’d never lied to Cass before, and already she could feel a guilty flush heating her cheeks.
“You’re a dreadful liar, Lady Harriet. Now, have you, or have you not come for the season? You seem reluctant to answer my question. I wonder why that is?”
“Perhaps it’s because you have no right to ask it. My plans are no concern of yours, Lord Windham.”
He flinched slightly at her use of his title, and a surge of satisfaction swept through her, only to dissipate at once in a hot rush of shame. Since when had she ever taken pleasure in hurting Cass? “As I told you, we’ve come to London to hear the London Horti?—”
“And as I told you, I believe you’re lying. If you have come for the season, I advise you to return to Kent at once. I insist upon it.”
She stared at him. What was happening right now? Was Cass truly standing here in front of her after all this time, his dark eyes as cold as stone, ordering her to leave London? “I don’t understand. Why should we?—”
“The sooner you take your leave, the better. Preferably before Lady Dumfries’s ball next week. A ton ballroom is no place for na?ve young ladies from the country.”
She wasn’t quick-tempered, but at his dismissive tone the first pangs of anger began to stir in her breast, and she raised her chin. “Are you ordering me out of London, Cass?”
Something flashed across his face then—hesitation, or shame, perhaps—but it was gone so quickly she couldn’t be certain, and then he straightened his shoulders and met her eyes. “Yes. You shouldn’t be here. You’re not fit for a London season, Lady Harriet.”
Not fit! Was he saying she wasn’t worthy of a season? Why, how dare he? That she hadn’t come for the season—and indeed, there were very few things less appealing to her than a London season—utterly slipped her mind in that moment.
“Have you forgotten that the Earl of Melrose is my brother? I’m the sister of a respectable earl, Lord Windham. The season was invented for aristocratic young ladies just like me.”
He was unnaturally still, his shoulders rigid. “For aristocratic young ladies, yes, but not for you , Lady Harriet. You haven’t the first idea how to manage the ton under the best of circumstances, much less during a season.”
It was true. There were dozens of rules young ladies were meant to follow during the season—hundreds of them—and she hadn’t the first idea about any of them. Johnathan and Emmeline didn’t care for London or the ton and assiduously avoided the season.
The cowardly part of her that always seemed to be lying in wait came lurching to the fore, and for a shameful moment she wanted more than anything to fly back to Kent and leave London far behind.
But she would not be bullied, not even by Cass.
She straightened her shoulders. “Lady Fosberry thinks otherwise. So, while I thank you for your concern, Lord Windham, where I choose to spend my time is no concern of yours.”
“Do you have any idea what sort of scoundrels come to London for the season, Lady Harriet? The worst sort of fortune-hunters, gamblers and rakehells. Do you suppose you can tell the difference between a gentleman and a rogue? I think not.”
Did he think her an utter simpleton? It was true she hadn’t spent much time away from Kent, but she wasn’t so dimwitted she couldn’t tell the difference between a villain and a proper gentleman.
Anger swelled inside her, sudden and searing, and before she could think better of it her mouth was opening, and words were tumbling from her lips.
No, not just words. Lies .
“I’m sorry you think so, my lord, but we’re here now, and we have indeed come for the season.”
God above, those were not words she’d ever imagined would fall from her lips, but they were out there now, and there was no taking them back. Even if she could, she wouldn’t. Cass—that is, Lord Windham—had no business ordering her about.
She’d do as she pleased, just as she’d told him she would. Not that a season was at all likely to please her, but the thing was as good as done, now.
Cass’s hands clenched. “You’re making a mistake, Lady Harriet. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself?—”
“As I said, my lord, I thank you for your opinion, but I will do as I please. Lady Fosberry has agreed to sponsor us, and we’ll be attending Lady Farthingale’s garden party tomorrow morning.”
He took another step toward her, his long shadow swallowing her, and to her everlasting humiliation, she took a small step backwards. Dear God, but he seemed utterly gigantic here in this diminutive garden.
“Is that so? I’ll just have a word with your brother about it first, shall I, my lady?”
Oh, no. No, no, no.
If Cass discovered she and her sisters had come to London without Johnathan and Emmeline—without their approval or even their knowledge—this ruse would be over before it could even begin. They’d be packed off to Kent so quickly their heads would spin.
What was she to do? There was only one answer.
Lie. Again.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. At least, not tonight. Even if it weren’t well past calling hours—and it is—my brother and Lady Melrose won’t arrive in London until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Tomorrow,” he repeated flatly. The dark eyes she remembered so well narrowed, but he couldn’t possibly know she was lying.
Could he?
“Yes. They were unexpectedly detained in Kent and are a day or so behind us.”
“You’ll do me the courtesy, my lady, of letting your brother and Lady Melrose know that I intend to call on them tomorrow.”
“Oh, I’m afraid that won’t do. You see, we don’t expect them until well past calling hours, my lord.” It was a desperate enough ploy and would only gain her another day at the most, but she’d already told half a dozen lies by now. What was one more?
“Tomorrow evening, then.”
“No, that won’t do, either, as they’re sure to be fatigued after their journey.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Fatigued by a drive from Kent to London? It doesn’t take more than half a day to make that drive, Lady Harriet. Unless Lord Melrose is a great deal more enfeebled than I recall, I find it difficult to believe he won’t have the strength for a brief meeting.”
Of course, he did, because it was a bald-faced lie, and she was digging herself deeper with every word out of her mouth, but she’d gone too far to give up the truth now.
“You may believe what you like, my lord, but it doesn’t change the fact that my brother and Lady Melrose will not be at home to visitors tomorrow evening.”
Or anytime. Not to Lord Windham.
He didn’t reply, but gazed down at her with an expression that would have flayed the skin from the bones of a lesser woman. He’d been in London for less than a year, but in that time, he’d perfected the withering aristocratic stare.
“Very well, Lady Harriet,” he said at last. “I’ll return the day after tomorrow to call on Lord and Lady Melrose. You’ll let them know to expect me?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Then I will bid you a good evening.” He offered her a coldly formal bow. “I will see you at Lady Farthingale’s garden party tomorrow.”
She remained where she was until he was gone, gazing at the spot under the cherry tree where Cass had been standing only moments before, every inch of her trembling as the clop of his horse’s hooves on the drive faded to silence.
When he was gone at last her shoulders sagged, and she collapsed onto a nearby stone bench, her legs shaking.
Dear God, what had she just done? She must have gone temporarily mad to commit herself and her sisters to a London season!
For pity’s sake, Johnathan and Emmeline didn’t even know they were here, and now they were about to embark on an endless whirl of social engagements, without her brother’s permission?
And that was saying nothing of the lies she’d told. She’d lied to Johnathan by omission, she’d lied to Cass about Johnathan, and worse, she’d embroiled her sisters and Lady Fosberry in her lie about the season.
God above, what had she been thinking?
She hadn’t been, that was plain, but Cass had been so dismissive, so certain she couldn’t hold her own among the ton that she’d lost her mind for a moment.
Or perhaps not.
If she was going to help Cass, she must be in his company.
That was by no means a simple matter, as there was little opportunity for a gently bred young lady to find herself in the company of a wicked earl.
Without the season to bring them together months could pass without her ever laying eyes on him.
But the season offered unique opportunities in that regard. He’d already said he’d see her at Lady Farthingale’s party tomorrow.
It was a start, at least. Perhaps tomorrow she’d get a chance to tell him…
To tell him…
Very well, so this part was a little fuzzy in her mind, but she’d think of something.
She had to.
Because Cass was still her dearest friend, regardless of whether he returned her warm sentiments. She’d never forgive herself if she stood by and allowed him to destroy himself without lifting a finger to stop it.