The Tutor (House of Lords) by Meg Brooke Page A

in, and instead she disappeared. What will they think?”
    “Oh, for the love of everything holy, Imogen, it isn’t as if I’ve ruined her reputation,” he ground out.
    “No, you’ve ruined yours,” she shot back.
    He stared at her. “What do you mean?”
    “Everyone thinks you’re a rake. They’ve only been polite to you because you’re a duke and they haven’t had proof until now. But you showed them. What will people say now? How can I show my face around town when my brother is a shameless libertine who embarrasses gently bred young ladies on the ballroom floor?” She pushed away from the table, stood, and swept towards the door. “I’m going to call on her this afternoon, to beg her forgiveness for your behavior,” she said. “I only hope she will forgive me, for she is a decent, lovely young woman.” Then she was gone.
    Charles stared after her.
    Had it really been as bad as all that? He tried to picture now how they must have looked, waltzing across the floor, his lips so close to her ear that he could almost taste her smooth skin. What must people have thought when she rushed from the ballroom like that? It had been rather startling, even to him. Still, it was not quite bad enough to ruin her reputation.
    His, on the other hand...well, Imogen had been correct.
    Gillian came in, glowering at him. “What did you do to Imogen?” she demanded.
    Charles shrugged. “She’s upset about something that happened at the ball last night.”
    “Oh?” She raised one dark, delicate eyebrow.
    He gave her a condensed version. He was sure that Imogen would tell her the whole tale, sooner or later. When he had finished, she said, “Oh, Charles. You’re not an idiot, you know, and yet sometimes you can be so...so...stupid!”
    “I have already been informed of that fact,” he said evenly.
    “Have you offered for her yet?”
    He nearly spit coffee all over the tablecloth. “I don’t think it’s quite that bad yet, Gilly.”
    She buttered a piece of toast and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. At last, she said, “Perhaps not yet. But you mark my words, by this time tomorrow, it will be.”
    Charles groaned and ran a hand over his face, as though he might wake himself up from this nightmare. “I think I’ll go to Spitzer’s,” he said, and he escaped before Gillian could make another pithy comment. It was only when he reached the hall that he began to imagine the scene that would unfold at the fencing club should he show his face there.
    He would give it a little more time, he thought, and he turned up the stairs instead.
     
    “Lady Imogen Bainbridge is here,” Mallory said. Cynthia looked up at him, then over at the clock above the library mantle. It was not yet noon.
    “Where is she?”
    “I have put her in the parlor, Miss.”
    “Well, I suppose I shall have to go down and see her. Tell her I shall come directly.”
    Mallory nodded and went out.
    Cynthia stood and crossed to the shelf to replace her book. She had not really been reading it, anyway. Her mind had been otherwise occupied. And now the sister of her preoccupation was in the parlor. Cynthia smoothed her skirts and went downstairs.
    The instant she walked into the parlor, Lady Imogen was on her feet. “Oh, Miss Endersby,” she cried, taking Cynthia’s hands. “I’ve come to apologize for Charles’s shocking behavior.”
    Cynthia stared at her for a moment. She had expected Lady Imogen to demand an apology from her , or to inform her that her services were no longer required by the duke after last night’s unfortunate events. “I...Lady Imogen, there really is nothing to...that is, I do not require an apology.”
    “I am relieved to hear you say that, and yet you must accept it. Charles was a cad, and he knows it.”
    Cynthia could not resist asking, “Then why are you here and not he?”
    Lady Imogen colored prettily. “Because he is—”
    “A cad?”
    “Yes!” she cried.
    “Lady Imogen, please don’t trouble yourself.