Never Trust a Rake

Lady Carelyon’s eyes flashed with annoyance, though she kept a smile pinned firmly to her lips as she replied, ‘How terribly correct of you. Not that I imagine you will have anything on that evening that could possibly prevent her from wishing to gain the entrée into my set.’

‘Don’t you?’ Henrietta rather thought that if the dress ball clashed with an event being thrown by a real friend of her aunt’s, or a useful business contact of her uncle’s, then they would be sending their apologies. They had no need of the patronage of such as Lord and Lady Carelyon. And she would rather walk a mile barefoot than to appear on friendly terms with anyone who so obviously hated her own brother.

And now, bother it, she wished she had not already spoken to Lord Deben about ending their involvement. If they weren’t careful, this spiteful cat would think it was her doing. She would gloat. She couldn’t bear the thought of doing anything to cause somebody to be able to gloat over Lord Deben’s discomfort.

Even before Lady Carelyon left, Henrietta could feel the beginnings of a headache nagging at the base of her skull. Why, oh, why had she ever embarked on this ridiculous charade? She was getting more deeply entangled day by day. Even trying to end it was fraught with problems.

But she was bound to see Lord Deben tonight. They must find an opportunity to talk and come up with a way to break free of each other that left him with his pride intact. For he was the one who would be staying in town and would have to deal with any gossip that might ensue. Eventually, she would return to Much Wakering, where people would only marvel that she had captured the attention of such a notorious rake at all.

Which was something that still frankly puzzled her. He need not have had anything further to do with her, after he’d thanked her for attempting to rescue him from Miss Waverley’s machinations.

Especially because he had not needed her to do any such thing. He’d told her he would never have been pressured into marriage, yet he had behaved as though he believed he owed her something. Had said that was why he had taken such pains to find her and thank her.

* * *

The puzzle occupied her thoughts almost as much as did the means of ending their strange entanglement throughout the rest of the day. Hadn’t he said something about her saving him from a fate worse than death? She’d been so cross—and without reason, too—that she had not been paying as much attention as she ought to have done. But it nagged at her now. Why should he have said anything about her saving him, if he had not intended to marry Miss Waverley at all?

The tension at the base of her skull drew so tight that just before they went upstairs to get ready, her aunt actually asked if she was sure she was well enough to attend the Swaffhams’ ball.

‘You look rather pale. And you have hardly eaten anything all day. I fear you may be sickening for something.’

‘I had a slight headache earlier,’ she prevaricated. She could not stay at home. She had to see Lord Deben. Had to speak to him. ‘But it is nothing, truly.’

‘Another one? Oh dear. I suppose it is almost time for your monthlies,’ her aunt concluded.

Face on fire, Henrietta did not attempt to deny it. Nor did she make any objections when her aunt sent her very own maid, Maudy, to rub lavender water into her temples. Although she did think it might have done her more good had the girl rubbed it into the base of her

neck, where the tension was reaching screaming point. She did not know what to do. About anything. That was the problem.

She just wanted to lay it all down at Lord Deben’s feet.

Though there would, of course, be a great deal of evening to endure before she was able to do so. The dances with the nameless young men, the false compliments from society ladies who followed the fashion by being seen talking to the right people. And perhaps, tonight, the gleeful speculation about whether Lady Carelyon’s assumptions might have some basis, if those who’d been present when she’d made them had managed to disseminate the story.

* * *

The night dragged as slowly as she’d foreseen, each minute seeming like an hour, each dance a major feat of endurance. She had just about given up hope of seeing him at all when he came strolling across the ballroom towards her, greeting a favoured few with an appearance of tolerance, or pretending not to see others he considered beneath his notice.