Sin and Sensibility Read online

  “I’m not speaking of your clandestine relationships with married ladies and opera singers,” she retorted. “I’m discussing a true gentleman with a genuine regard for a lady, one who wanted to demonstrate his honest interest by giving her a small gift.”

  A slight smile touched that famously capable mouth and vanished again. “You should have been more specific, then. I don’t know anything about that sort of nonsense. ‘Honest’ interest?”

  “You see?” she exclaimed, flinging out her arms in her brothers’ direction. “Not even Deverill knows what you’re talking ab—”

  “On the other hand,” Lord Deverill interrupted, “in the case of an ‘honest’ regard, Priestley should have joined the bracelet with a necklace and ear bobs. Then at least we could be assured that he didn’t just nick the trinket from his mother’s jewelry box. Which he likely did, considering that he has no money of his own and is after yours.”

  While Shay and Zachary laughed, Eleanor looked into those deceptively lazy green eyes, one of them obscured by a falling lock of coal black hair. Some mamas with impressionable daughters claimed that if the devil could choose a countenance with which to lure young ladies into sin, he would look precisely like Valentine, Lord Deverill. Thank God she knew how charming he could be. Of course it wasn’t much of a challenge to resist him when he never even looked at her askance. Her lips twisted. “Now I’ve determined to keep you off my side in this argument.”

  “I can understand that. I wouldn’t want me on my side either. You should be ashamed of yourself, anyway, allowing Priestley to approach and speak to you in public. Next you’ll tell me you were just standing there and he accosted you.”

  “That’s not the point, Deverill,” Zachary interrupted. “She didn’t have to accept the bracelet, regardless.”

  “Bravely said by a brother who should have done a better job of warning Priestley away from her in the first place,” the marquis said, his easy drawl deepening, “before the fellow could tempt her with a pretty trinket. Not that I’m taking sides, but it does seem to me that you three are the ones who made the error.”

  Shay’s complexion darkened. “We can’t be expected to—”

  “And you continue to err,” Deverill broke in, leaning across the billiards table to take his shot. “For instance, if you’re concerned over Lady Eleanor’s maidenly virtue, why the devil did you let me into the house yet again?”

  “I was just about to ask myself the same question,” Sebastian’s dry voice came from the doorway.

  “I think you should all leave,” Eleanor muttered, folding her arms across her bosom.

  At the beginning she thought Lord Deverill had been at least partly on her side, but declaring her brothers responsible for her actions didn’t precisely leave her feeling any better. In fact, it was almost more insulting than her brothers’ original argument. She could easily have turned Lord Priestley away if she’d wanted to, after all.

  It was far more likely that Deverill wasn’t on anyone’s side, and didn’t give a whit about the outcome. He did have a penchant for arguing simply because he enjoyed it. Which of course meant he was frightfully good at it, as he was at everything he attempted.

  “I was invited,” the marquis returned, unflappable as always.

  “So you were,” Sebastian admitted. “Care to join me in the stable?”

  Deverill tossed his cue to Charlemagne. “You still want my opinion of your new mount, then?” he asked, making for the doorway.

  The duke nodded, stepping aside to let Valentine pass. “I actually thought you might want to take him off my hands. The beast tried to nip Peep yesterday.”

  Eleanor stood there for a moment, her mouth hanging open. “Of all the nerve,” she finally blurted. “That is my horse, and Peep already said she was teasing him with an apple.”

  Valentine stopped in the doorway to look from her to Sebastian. “I won’t deprive a lady of her mount,” he said, and his lips curved in a sly smile. “Not without offering a suitable replacement, at any rate.”

  “Valentine,” the Duke of Melbourne said, his tone clipped.

  “I’m damned well not going to be pulled into the middle of a family feud. I canceled luncheon with L—with a very nice young lady to answer your summons.”

  “Lydia Franch, perhaps?” Shay suggested, rolling the “L” on his tongue.

  “Or Laurene Manchester?” Zachary put in.

  The marquis chuckled. “I never kiss and tell.”

  Oh, this was too much. “Excuse me, but I believe we were discussing my horse,” Eleanor interrupted. “Ask Peep if you don’t believe me. She promised to be more cautious.”

  Sebastian gazed at her with an expression in his eyes that could allegedly make grown men quake in their boots. Even though she’d grown up under his command, it made her want to either punch him or flee. The Lord knew she’d never asked to have a duke for an eldest brother. Lately that circumstance had been gnawing her insides raw.

  “Eleanor,” he said in the cool, patient voice that belied the glint in his eyes, “my daughter is six years of age. I trust my opinion over hers.”

  “You trust your opinion over everyone’s, Sebastian. And you are not taking my horse.”

  “No, I’m not. Deverill is.”

  “I haven’t even seen it yet,” the marquis cut in, “though I do have to wonder why you think I would want a lady’s animal.”

  “He’s not a lady’s animal,” Sebastian returned. “Eleanor’s been training him to tolerate the sidesaddle.”

  “I have trained him to do so.” She put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you dare take my Helios, Valentine Corbett.”

  “That is enough, Eleanor,” Sebastian snapped, the remaining humor leaving his voice.

  “Yes, it is,” Deverill seconded. Inclining his head in Eleanor’s direction, he headed past Sebastian out the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I may still be able to salvage my luncheon engagement.”

  As the marquis descended the stairs, Eleanor’s brothers stood glaring at her. “Scowl all you want,” she said, turning her back on the lot of them. “You may take my bracelet, and you may attempt to steal my horse, but that doesn’t make you right. It only makes you bullies.” She strode into the hallway.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Sebastian’s even, controlled voice came.

  “I think I’m going shopping,” she returned over her shoulder as she stalked to her bedchamber. It would have been more effective if she’d had something stronger with which to retort. “I’m going off to sea” or “I’m joining the army” would have sounded so much more defiant. Still, even shopping was something, and it did show the brothers Griffin that they didn’t rule her or her schedule entirely, as much as they might like to think so.

  Eleanor stifled a frustrated sigh. No, a declaration of shopping didn’t prove much of anything. And no distraction was as effective as it used to be at calming her desire to do something outrageous, something completely…wicked, something that wouldn’t show her brothers as much as it would show her that she could be free.

  She paused in her search for a pair of gloves to look out her bedchamber window. Below her, Valentine took his horse’s reins from a groom and swung into his saddle. Blast it, she envied the Marquis of Deverill, able to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted and with whomever he wanted. No one told him it wasn’t proper, or correct, or threatened to withhold his allowance, or even frowned at him—well, some of the old, tight-laced patronesses might frown, but he certainly didn’t care what they might think. He didn’t care what anyone thought.

  Drawing a deep breath, Eleanor pulled on her gloves. Hm. She did care about the Griffin name and reputation, whatever Sebastian might think. She therefore might not be able to gamble or smoke cigars or go about…fornicating with whomever she chose, but her brothers hadn’t won, yet. Eventually they would, when they decided they were tired of her rebellions and forced her to marry. She had no illusions about that. It would happen, and Seb
astian had such complete control over her finances that realistically she would be unable to refuse his orders.

  That was then, however, and this was now. And tonight she meant to make a stand.

  Chapter 2

  By the time Eleanor arrived downstairs for dinner, Zachary, Shay, and Melbourne were already seated, as was Sebastian’s daughter, Penelope. Peep’s presence might be a problem to her plans, but once the drama began Eleanor was fairly certain Sebastian would see to it that the six-year-old exited before any blood could be shed.

  “Good evening,” she said, relieved that she sounded calm. No hysterics, no shouting, nothing but calm and logic. That was how she would succeed tonight.

  “I believe I had your maid notified that dinner would begin at seven this evening,” Sebastian returned. “Do I need to have her dismissed for failing to pass on that information?”

  Calm. “Helen informed me. The fault is mine, not hers.”

  “I don’t doubt that. Take your place, if you please. Stanton, you may begin serving.”

  The butler bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “A moment, if you please, Stanton,” Eleanor countered, drawing the folded paper she held from behind her back. It had been so difficult not to clench it in her fingers, but wrinkles or sweat marks on the paper would have lost her the game before it began.

  Sebastian glanced toward her hand and returned his gaze to her face again. “What do you have there, Nell?”

  If he was using her nickname, he’d already realized something was afoot. Damnation. He knew “Nell” made her feel like a child. “It’s a declaration,” she said, moving forward to hand it to her eldest brother.

  “A declaration of what?” Zachary asked, as she reversed direction to take her seat farther down the table.

  She’d considered standing defiantly beside Sebastian while he read her missive, but putting a little distance between them had seemed wiser. “Of independence. My independence, in case that was your next question.” She’d come to the table prepared for a battle of wits and wills, so they might as well get on with it.

  Peep, sitting beside her, leaned closer. “Aunt Nell, the Colonies got in trouble for having one of those.”

  “Yes, I know,” she whispered back. “I’m likely to have the same difficulty.”

  “Oh, dear,” Peep whispered, shaking her head so that her hair bounced in dark, curling ringlets.

  Sebastian hadn’t opened the paper. He hadn’t even looked at it again, but instead kept his gaze steady on Eleanor while she gazed back at him. This was serious, and the sooner he understood that, the better.

  “Stanton,” he said quietly, “please escort Lady Penelope upstairs to Mrs. Bevins, and then inform Cook that dinner will be slightly delayed.”

  The Duke of Melbourne understood.

  “At once, Your Grace.”

  “I don’t want to go,” Peep protested, even as the butler moved around to pull her chair out from the table. “I want to help Aunt Nell.”

  “No, you don’t,” her father replied. “Upstairs. I’ll have your dinner sent to the playroom.”

  The butler and his charge exited, and after one look from Melbourne, the two footmen who’d remained behind also made themselves scarce. It would have been more fair if Sebastian made Zachary and Shay leave, as well, but of course they’d all hate to miss an opportunity to gang up on her. Eleanor folded her hands in her lap and waited, and tried to ignore the sick flutter of butterflies in her stomach. She’d thought this out; she could do it.

  Once the door closed, Sebastian turned his attention to the folded paper in his hand. He opened it, read perhaps a line, and looked up at her again. “This is ridiculous.”

  “It is perfectly serious, I assure you. As am I.”

  Shay reached for the paper. “What does it—”

  The duke avoided his brother’s grasp. “In the interest of saving time, allow me. ‘I, Eleanor Elizabeth Griffin,’” he read aloud, “‘being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare the following. I—’”

  “Sounds like a bloody last will and testament,” Zachary muttered, sending a look in Eleanor’s direction. “Hope it’s not prophetic.”

  “Don’t interrupt me,” Melbourne said, his clipped voice the only indication that he was less than tranquil. “‘I am of legal age to make my own decisions. I am competent to make my own decisions. I am aware of the consequences of poor decisions, and I am capable of taking responsibility for any and all of my decisions, poor or otherwise.

  “‘Further to this point,’” he continued, “‘I hereby request—no, insist—on being permitted to make my own decisions without restriction, up to and including the selection of a husband. No further tyranny or bullying will be tolerated, or I shall be forced to note in public my dissatisfaction with my treatment in this household.’”

  Eleanor thought Sebastian’s voice shook a little as he read that part, but her own nerves were unsteady enough that she couldn’t be sure. At any rate, he didn’t hesitate to continue. “‘In consequence, I hereby absolve my brothers, Sebastian, Duke of Melbourne; Lord Charlemagne Griffin; and Lord Zachary Griffin of any responsibilities for my life from hereon, and in the event of any untoward circumstance, shall make clear to anyone necessary that the other members of the Griffin family are not to be held at fault in any way, form, or manner for my actions.’ We then have the signature, dated 23 May, 1811.”

  For a long moment no one spoke. From his overall tone Eleanor couldn’t tell whether Melbourne was reading a list of laundry items or a declaration of war with France. Her brothers were easier to decipher, though she almost wished she couldn’t do so. Zachary, the closest to her in age and temperament, looked aghast, while Shay’s jaw was clenched tight with obvious anger. Well, she’d thrown down the gauntlet. The only question was who would take it up first.

  Finally Sebastian’s dark gray eyes lifted again to meet hers. “‘Tyranny’?” he repeated slowly, curling the word into something that made her flinch.

  “When you refuse to listen to my side of a story, or to take into account my feelings or wishes, and instead make sweeping declarations which are counter to any hope of happiness on my part, then yes, I call that tyranny.” She sat forward. Vesuvius was erupting; look out, Pompeii. “What would you call it, Your Grace?”

  “We’re your older siblings,” Shay bit out. “It is our obligation, our duty, to offer guidance and to—”

  “Offer? I hardly th—”

  “I would assume that in addition to your absolute freedom you would require a continuance of your monthly allowance?” the duke interrupted, as though she and he were the room’s only two occupants.

  Ah, the threats. “I’m not removing myself from reality,” she responded. “This is not some flight of fancy. I will merely be making decisions on my own behalf. I have no wish to estrange myself from my family.” She’d known this would be the stickiest point, and she’d spent hours considering her response. “I insist that my choices be independent and free from your interference.”

  “Interfe—” Shay started to say.

  “Done,” Sebastian stated.

  Charlemagne snapped his mouth closed. “What?” he blurted, his face darkening. “Melbourne, you can’t be serious.”

  “I’m very serious.” The duke tucked her letter into his pocket. “Your independence is granted—under one condition.”

  Ha. She knew there would be a catch. “And what might that be?”

  “I have no intention of letting your ‘declaration’ be bandied about in public, any more than I would permit you to publicly air your grievances with this household. And whatever you put in writing, you cannot absolve this family from a scandal of your making. Therefore, if a scandal involving you comes to public attention, this agreement ends.”

  Eleanor took only a moment to consider that. She’d actually thought he’d have something much more heinous in mind. “Done.”

  “I’m not finished. Not only will this agreement end,
but once I’ve dealt with whatever trouble you’ve caused, you will agree to marry the gentleman of my choosing, without—”

  “What?”

  “Without delay, and without protest.” Sebastian picked up the bell sitting at his elbow and rang it. Immediately footmen appeared to begin placing dinner on the table. “Did you think there wouldn’t be consequences?” he continued in the same even tone.

  “You are…evil,” she sputtered, images of a dozen dull gentlemen crashing about in her skull.

  “I am a tyrant, I believe,” he returned. “There’s always a price for freedom. If you wish to play, you must be prepared to pay. Are we in agreement?”

  If she refused, he would use both her declaration and her cowardice against her at every opportunity. And he would probably force her to marry the first insipid man he encountered just to prove his point, anyway. Eleanor took a breath. The greatest difficulty in this was deciding to fight a battle when the outcome of the war was already a given. She was a Griffin, and she would never forsake her family. Any husband she selected would have to be at least marginally acceptable to Melbourne. But it was the moments before she made that decision—or before it could be made for her—that would count.

  She at least had forced open a door. She only needed to go through it, and she could have a moment of freedom, and a voice in deciding her own matrimonial future. “We are in agreement,” she said slowly.

  “No we are not,” Shay growled. “This is ridiculous, Melbourne.”

  Blinking as though he’d forgotten his brothers’ presence, the duke turned his attention to the other side of the table. “Eleanor and I have made an agreement. You will honor it. Is that clear?”

  For a moment she thought Shay might have an apoplexy, but with a strangled growl the next-oldest brother nodded. Zachary, looking as if he was torn between horror and laughter, followed suit. “By God, Nell, you’ve got a pair,” he murmured.

  “A pair of what?” she asked sweetly, though she knew perfectly well what he was referring to. One didn’t grow up with three older brothers without hearing the occasional vulgarity, most of it involving the male—or female—anatomy.