Page 27 of Not Just Any Earl
Johnathan watched it go, a smile hovering on his lips.
Lady Fosberry was right about one thing.
This season was proving to be a great deal more interesting than he’d expected.
Chapter
Seven
“Lord Melrose was in a good humor for a gentleman who’s the talk of every gossip in London, wasn’t he, my dears?”
“Perhaps he’s in a good humor because he’s escaped Lady Christine Dingley’s clutches.” Juliet’s lips curved in a wicked grin. “That reminds me, my lady. I heard Lady Quigley whisper Lady Christine’s name to you at the linen drapers. What has she got to do with it?”
“Oh, I nearly forgot! My dears, it’s the most shocking thing! You won’t believe it.”
Emmeline said nothing, but she suspected she would believe it, every terrible word.
Juliet gave a bored shrug. “I can’t imagine it could be anything too shocking. I’ve never seen a more perfect belle than Lady Christine. Did she stumble during the cotillion?”
“Or step on her partner’s foot? Spill lemonade on her silk gown? Would that be enough to earn the lifelong ire of the ton?” Emmeline tried to smile, but under her forced gaiety, her chest had gone as tight as a noose. She’d made a dreadful mess of everything, and now her own lies were closing in on her like a snare around the neck of a helpless rabbit.
Lady Fosberry’s eyes were wide. “All of London is clamoring to know the identity of the Lady in Lavender, as you know, and the ton had it that it was Lady Christine in the library with Lord Melrose, if you can credit it.”
“Lady Christine!” Emmeline exclaimed. “I don’t see what reason they have to suspect her. There must have been two dozen ladies wearing purple gowns last night.”
“Not purple, dear, but lavender. You do recall that bit of silliness in The Times about Lady Christine squabbling with Lady Philippa over a length of lavender silk?”
Emmeline stared at Lady Fosberry, horrified. “Do you mean to say the ton would ruin a young lady’s reputation over some absurd bit of gossip in The Times?”
“I’m afraid so. The ton doesn’t care one whit about accuracy when it comes to their gossip.”
“But it doesn’t make any sense it would be Lady Christine,” Juliet protested. “Why should she risk her reputation by trifling with a gentleman she’s likely to become betrothed to in a matter of weeks?”
“If she can bring him up to scratch. She hasn’t so far, you know, and it’s only a few weeks until the end of the season. The worst of the gossips are saying Lady Christine will do whatever it takes to become the Countess of Melrose.”
“Even ruin herself?” Juliet’s face darkened. “I don’t believe a word of it.”
Emmeline pressed a hand to her forehead and squeezed her eyes closed, but there was no shutting it out, no pretending it wasn’t happening. She had to tell Lady Fosberry the truth at once. She couldn’t allow an innocent lady to take the blame for her own disgraceful conduct with Lord Melrose. “My lady,” she began, her voice trembling. “I must tell you—”
“But you needn’t worry about Lady Christine,” Lady Fosberry went on. “Lord Cudworth overheard Lord Quigley gossiping about Lady Christine at White’s—rascals, the lot of them—and declared it could not have been her, as he’d just been dancing with her, and had returned her to her father only moments before.”
Emmeline released the breath she’d been holding, but her relief was short-lived. Lady Christine’s narrow escape didn’t solve her own predicament. If she didn’t tell Juliet and Lady Fosberry the truth—if she didn’t own up to her, er…how had Lord Cross put it? Her amorous encounter with Lord Melrose—the noose would strangle her.
But if she did tell them, she’d find herself the Countess of Melrose before the end of the season. No doubt every other young lady in London would be thrilled with such an outcome, but not Emmeline. A match between them went against every logical principle in the scientific realm.
And that was to say nothing of the human realm.
She couldn’t imagine two people less suited to each other than she and Lord Melrose. It would be like pairing a sun- and heat-thirsty tea rose with a shade-loving climber, and expecting them to thrive in the same part of the garden.
“Whatever is the matter with Lord Melrose’s friend, Lord Cross?” Juliet asked suddenly. “He never smiled once during their call this morning. He seems determined to be displeased with everyone and everything. It makes one wish to tease a grin out of him.”
Lady Fosberry sighed. “Poor Cross is destined to die a lonely eccentric. He’s dreadfully clever, you know, but so somber! None of the young ladies can please him, and they’re all terrified of him.”
Juliet, who was terrified of no one, let out a derisive snort. “Pity. I rather fancied a dance with him last night.”
“Well, dearest, better Lord Cross than Lord Boggs.” Lady Fosberry settled her skirts with an offended sniff.
Juliet smiled. “Ah, but Lord Cross never asked me, did he?”
