myself to you, Matthew. I have come to tell you to leave. Before Father finds out you have returned. You are not wanted.’
Matthew grinned mirthlessly. ‘Not by you,’ he said, ‘but I knew that, anyway. Besides, my being here is not negotiable. This is my house. Yes,’ he said in response to Claverley’s look of surprise, ‘I own it. Outright.’
‘If you are indeed that flush in the pocket, you are in a position to repay Father for the debts you left behind for him to settle.’
‘And whose fault was it that I was not here to settle those debts myself? You made damned sure I had no choice.’
‘Do you think we should have allowed you stay here and continue to taint the family name?’
‘But I had done nothing.’
‘You had done plenty, even before that night. Debauchery and profligacy. You were a disgrace to our family.’
Matthew clenched his jaw. ‘In your eyes, maybe, but then you always were a sanctimonious bore. You are wasting your breath and my time, brother. I have business interests here in London and I am here to stay.’
Claverley’s face darkened. ‘Do what you have to do, but don’t think Father will forgive you, for I shall do my utmost to make sure he does not.’
He stalked from the room, leaving Matthew staring at the half-open door. Claverley had become even more self-important and self-opinionated in the years Matthew had been away. What was it about some people that their opinion of themselves grew out of all proportion to reality as soon as they were placed in a position of authority—even if that position was simply due to the random chance of being firstborn?
Still, his brother’s visit had achieved one thing. For the first time since his return to England, there was a glimmer of hope that his father might forgive Matthew. Surely Claverley would not be so agitated otherwise?
Whether Matthew could forgive his father...well, that was another question.
‘This,’ said Aunt Lucy, as they wound their way up the magnificent staircase at Beauchamp House in Grosvenor Square, ‘is the ball of the Season. Everyone who is anyone is invited, and no one—unless they are on their deathbed—refuses.’
‘It was good of the duke to send us an invitation,’ Eleanor said, as they waited their turn to be greeted by their host—the widowed Duke of Cheriton—and his family.
‘It was indeed. Although he could hardly hold the ball of the Season without the Catch of the Season gracing his ballroom with her presence, could he?’ Aunt Lucy took great delight in teasing Eleanor about her newly minted title.
Eleanor was saved from replying by the duke himself.
‘Indeed I could not,’ he said, his deep voice warm with amusement. ‘And grace my ballroom you most certainly will.’ His silvery-grey gaze skimmed Eleanor in her blue-silk gown, his appreciation clear. He bowed. ‘You are both very welcome.’ His expression sobered and he leaned towards Eleanor, lowering his voice. ‘I have doubled the footmen on duty, Lady Ashby, so you need not fear for your safety in this house.’
‘I...’ Words failed Eleanor. How did he know?
‘And if there is anything I can do to help, you have only to ask,’ he added. ‘Now, please allow me to introduce my son, Avon—’ the youthful Lord Avon was the spitting image of the duke as he bowed elegantly ‘—my sister, Cecily, and my brother, Vernon.’
Lady Cecily and Lord Vernon—both unwed, as Aunt Lucy had informed Eleanor in the carriage on their way to the ball—smiled as they greeted Eleanor. They were very alike, with auburn hair and green eyes, in contrast to the duke’s dark colouring.
‘Most of our guests have arrived by now, Leo, so you won’t miss me from the line-up,’ Lord Vernon drawled, eyeing Eleanor with as much appreciation as his brother. He stepped forward and crooked his arm. ‘Might I escort you into the ballroom, Lady Ashby?’
‘Why...yes. Thank you, my lord.’
Eleanor shot a look at Aunt Lucy, who merely raised her brows in response. Lord Vernon Beauchamp’s caution in never allowing his name to be linked to any woman was common knowledge, as was his determination never to marry. Was he, like the duke, privy to her personal business?
As they descended the short flight of steps into the glittering ballroom Eleanor frowned as she noticed a seemingly casual, but consistent, movement of the people nearest to her. What was going on? A distinct area of clear space materialised at the foot of the steps. Stationed—really, there was no other word for it—around the perimeter of the clearing were five tall, broad-shouldered gentlemen whom she recognised as some of the most eligible bachelors in the ton. Not one of those gentlemen had formed part of her court since her arrival in London—they were the older bachelors, the most pursued and, from Eleanor’s observation, the most determined to avoid matrimony. She had danced with some of them, but it was clear none were on the lookout for a wife. They had indulged in a little light flirtation with her—as was to be expected from men of their ilk—but none had subsequently called upon her, or sent her flowers.
So why were they now so focused on her? For focused they were. Even as their gazes ceaselessly scanned the other guests, she could feel their attention.
‘What,’ she whispered to Lord Vernon, ‘is going on?’
Vernon glanced down at her, eyes crinkling, as he led her deeper into the ballroom. The other men formed a rough circle around them, keeping the other guests at bay.
‘We take care of our own. Ah, here comes Damerel. I shall leave you in his capable hands.’
He bowed and sauntered over to speak to another of Eleanor’s self-appointed guardians.
‘Well! Really!’ Eleanor hissed to Aunt Lucy. ‘What on earth do they think they are doing? And who, I should like to know, told them about me? I knew we shouldn’t have told Sir Horace what has been happening.’
‘Ellie, please do not throw such accusations around without good reason,’ Aunt Lucy said. ‘Why, it could have been...well, it might have been the servants. You know how they gossip between the households. Or Mr Damerel, even. Why do you not ask him?’
‘Ask me what?’ Matthew said, as he reached Eleanor’s side. ‘Good evening, ladies. May I say how very charming you both look this evening?’
His eyes lingered on Eleanor’s décolletage, igniting sparks that flickered along her veins, heating her skin. She curled her fingers against the desire to tug her neckline higher.
‘Why, I appear to be the centre of attention of some of the most powerful gentlemen in the ton,’ she said. ‘Please tell me you have not told them of my...my predicament.’
‘Of course I have not. I...oh! Deuce take it! Stephen?’
Stephen Damerel stood chatting with Lord Derham, who also formed one of Eleanor’s ‘guards’, as she had come to think of them. At the sound of his name, Stephen strolled over to Matthew and Eleanor.
‘Matthew?’ He raised an elegant brow.
‘You told your brother?’ Eleanor hissed. ‘What made you think it would be acceptable to me for anyone to know my business? And now...look!’ In her agitation, she swept her arm aloft, indicating the surrounding gentlemen. ‘The very last thing I wish is to be the centre of attention like this.’
She glared at Matthew, whose jaw firmed. ‘I told Stephen because he was full of conjectures as to why I appeared so interested in you and I needed to nip them in the bud.’
Of course, it would never do for anyone to presume he was interested in her as a woman, would it? She could quite see how