Chapter Six

Clayton cracked open his eyes, and immediately wished that he had not.

Am I dead? No, I don't think so. I wish I were dead, though.

The ball had been fine, as gatherings of that kind go. Balls were stiff, formal things, in Clayton's opinion, full of disapproving, overbearing mammas, bored middle-aged gentlemen, dandies who could barely mince around, and anxious, fluttery young debutantes, terrified of putting a foot wrong. And rightly so – the scandal sheet authors, safely anonymous, would be there, ready to report any misdemeanor, any embarrassment to the world at large, the very next day.

Clayton did not think that Society was interesting enough to write so extensively about, but some people read those gossip columns religiously. Ugh.

He turned over gingerly in bed, glad that he'd had the foresight to close the curtains around his bed before he collapsed into it.

Actually, come to think of it, it was almost certainly his valet who had done that.

Clayton had made his excuses from the ball somewhere around one o'clock in the morning, and he and some friends had gone onto more savoury establishments, where the liquor was stronger and served unreservedly, and there was much less dancing.

Not that Clayton had danced much at the ball. He'd asked Lady Juliana to dance, as she was his hostess, and she'd simpered so much he was inclined to leave her right there on the dance floor. A married woman should probably not flirt quite so much.

But then it was over, and he'd been studiously avoiding all other ladies. Stretching his arms above his head, Clayton yawned widely. He had no idea what time it was. The sun had been rising by the time he made his way home, and his valet knew better than to disturb him before he was ready.

A certain type of woman sought him out these days, he'd noticed. Young widows, or ladies on their second or third Season. The debutantes might look at him wide-eyed, but assiduous mammas or watchful friends would soon steer them away.

He was more than happy with that.

Although, come to think of it, Lady Isolde was unlike any woman he'd met before. Firstly, she'd cannoned right into him, which was amusing. Then she'd been so deeply annoyed by his presence he'd had to fight back laughter. He ought not to have asked her to waltz, but it had gotten the attention off the two of them, had it not?

He bit his lip, remembering how she fought to keep her eyes from his face, but they kept travelling up anyway. She was very pretty. She hadn't smiled, not once.

I could make her smile. I'll win this wager yet.

The thought of the wager effectively doused his blurry, warm happiness, as if somebody had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.

He could understand why she was called Ice Queen. He didn't believe she was haughty, but she certainly kept men at arm's length. In Clayton's experience, women who did that generally had a reason. A good reason, usually.

He heard a door slam somewhere in his house, and flinched. Not any of his household – they crept around on velvet feet at the best of times, and certainly when he was home from a late night out. Who was making all that racket?

The answer came sooner than he expected. The door to his bedroom was shouldered open, and Lucas came stamping in, whisking open the curtains around Clayton's bed.

He gave a yelp, covering his face with a pillow. "What are you doing, you fool? My head feels like it's about to split apart."

Lucas tossed a paper onto his bed. "Read this."

"I just told you, I have a headache. I'm not reading anything. You read it to me."

Lucas bit back a curse, snatching back the paper. He read out the title, and Clayton went quite still.

"The Ice Queen Dances With London's Most Infamous Rake. There you are, you see? You hear that, Clayton? That's Lady Isolde and you, dancing together last night. It's in all of the gossip columns."

"Well, that is irritating," Clayton acknowledged. He made no move to get out of bed.

Lucas gave a growl of frustration. "Is that all you have to say? That it's irritating?"

Clayton propped himself up on his elbows, eyeing his friend. "What would you like me to say? Should I track down the author, and make them take it back? Cleverer people than me have tried and failed. I can't control what's written in those useless columns. I think that if people are foolish enough to read them, they get all they deserve."

"But individuals do peruse them. Indeed, everyone does so, thus I fear it holds significance what is inscribed therein."

"It shall pass. This folly always subsides."

Lucas shook his head. "Not for ladies. You know as well as I do that the world doesn't work in women's favour."

Clayton bit his lip and said nothing. That was unfortunately true. He remembered his mother trying to separate from Auric, many years ago. It was not permitted. Nobody helped her. Nobody sympathised with her. The world could be a cruel place, especially for a woman.

He shifted uncomfortably in his bed. "Well, what does the rest of it say?"

Lucas read out the whole wretched article, sparing no detail. Clayton listened in silence, biting harder and harder on his bottom lip until he tasted copper.

When at last Lucas finished reading, there was a long pause.

"Well," Clayton said at last.

"Well," Lucas agreed. "Now, what are you going to do about it?"

Clayton didn't answer immediately. It was fairly clear that the gossip column article was skewed against Lady Isolde. Most of their articles were. She was described almost like some man-crazy harpy, full of regret for not snaring a husband earlier, coming after Clayton with marriage in mind.

Well, that simply wasn't true. The Lady Isolde he'd met last night wanted nothing to do with him, and she'd made it clear.

But who was going to believe that? Not any of the gossip column's readers, that was for sure.

"Those things should be banned," Clayton huffed, nodding at the scandal sheet. "Absolute nonsense."

"Perhaps so," Lucas agreed, "But people read them, even so. Do you have any idea what an article like this could do to Lady Isolde's reputation?"

"Lady Isolde? What about my reputation?"

Lucas snorted. "You don't have one. And you're not a lady."

"I certainly am not," Clayton agreed, flinging back the sheets.

His bedroom was fairly untidy. He'd come home from the club last night, and apparently simply thrown his clothes and shoes every which way. His valet, a placid middle-aged man by the name of Thomas, had not been up by the time Clayton returned home. He'd always thought it unfair for servants to stay awake, fighting against nodding off while they waited for their masters and mistresses to come home. After all, the servants had to be up early the next morning, the masters and mistresses did not. So Clayton always told Thomas to get himself to bed, and they could clear up any mess in the morning.

And his room certainly was a mess. Crumpled clothes were tossed everywhere, and his fine ruby cravat pin seemed to have rolled off the dresser and landed on the floor. He was lucky it hadn't gone under the rug, never to be found again. The bedsheets were twisted up, half hanging off the mattress, and there were empty bottles of liquor on the bedside table. There was also a distinct haze in the air, probably from cigar smoke. A little self-conscious, Clayton went over to the window and threw it open.

"Better get some air in here," he said lamely, throwing an awkward smile at his friend.

Lucas did not smile back. He sat primly on the edge of Clayton's unmade bed, lips pressed into a thin line. Clayton sighed, hands on his hips.

"Pray, enlighten me as to the matter that brings you here. You appear quite vexed."

"Do I? Why do you think I'm furious?"

"I'd guess it's about the wager."

Clayton turned his back on his friend, pulling open the wardrobe. His clothes were in there, all well-pressed and tended. Thomas really was worth his weight in gold. Auric had never permitted Clayton to have a valet. He said that a gentleman should be able to dress himself.

Perhaps he had a point there, but he would also fly into a rage if Clayton appeared dishevelled, or if his clothes for the day did not suit Auric's idea of what a gentleman should wear.

As if to highlight that point, a particular garment jumped out at Clayton. He reached out with a half-smile, pulling it from its hanger.

"What do you think of this waistcoat, Lucas?"

His friend, obviously balanced on the precipice of a lecture, was taken aback. He frowned at the waistcoat.

"Well, it is quite striking in its hues. Charming, indeed! A style I could readily envision you adorning. However, pray tell, what seems to be the matter with it?"

Clayton held the waistcoat up in front of himself, standing in front of the long mirror. Tipping his head to one side, he smiled softly, tracing the exquisite embroidery with one fingertip.

It had been an expensive purchase. At the age of eighteen, Clayton had not had much money to waste, but the waistcoat was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

It was yellow silk, trimmed in gold and silver, with green embroidery swirling around the edges. The body of the waistcoat featured a long, sinuous dragon, sewn on in red and orange, curling around the buttons. Perhaps it was a little gaudy, but Clayton was tired of plain cloth waistcoats, and fashions were changing. He had bought it for himself and had been so very thrilled to wear it for the first time.

In hindsight, he should not have worn it at the dinner table in front of his father.

"He went purple when he saw it," Clayton murmured, mostly to himself. "Started bellowing at the top of his voice. Eliza, bless her, tried to speak up for me, saying that all the young gentlemen wore things like this. It didn't work, of course. He tore it off me, and said I'd never wear such a thing again."

He traced the thick black stitching where the garment had been sewn together. Clayton could still hear the awful sound of fabric tearing, the sound of his father ripping something apart with his bare hands. Thomas' eyes had popped when Clayton finally summoned up the courage to present him with the garment, shortly after hiring him.

"I can fix it, sir, but it'll not be pretty. Not wearable," Thomas had said, frowning at the damage.

"That is quite acceptable, Thomas. Simply do what you are able."

Clayton bit his lip. He couldn't wear the waistcoat in public, of course. Thomas had made it whole again, but the damage was far too noticeable. He sighed, carefully hanging the waistcoat back on the hanger.

"Do you know why I keep that waistcoat, Lucas?"

His friend shifted. "I don't know. Because you bought it for yourself? To prove a point?"

"No. To remind myself that I will never again allow anyone to exercise authority over me. I had to stand there and watch my father tear up something that belonged to me. Oh, I'm sure some parents do worse to their children than rip up waistcoats, but I promised to myself then and there that I would get out from under that man's thumb and never allow anyone else to tell me what to do. I am my own man, Lucas."

He hung the waistcoat back in the wardrobe and took out a sequinned pink-and-green one to wear that day. It would stand out nicely with his black velvet suit. The suit looked too funereal by itself.

"Nobody is trying to tell you what to do, Clay," Lucas said firmly.

"Of course they are. Father tries. Eliza tries too, although I'm more likely to listen to her. Simon tries, and so do you."

"I'm trying to give you advice. This wager is a bad idea. What would happen if the scandal sheets got wind of it?"

He shrugged on a clean linen shirt and began the business of tying his cravat. Thomas made it a point to have several starched and ready for Clayton every morning. Of course, Clayton always got the knot right the first time. His father's no-valet rule had given him that skill, at least.

"I imagine they'll write about it, Lucas. Not a great deal I can do."

"You keep saying that, but if you simply chose not to continue the wager…"

Clayton rounded on Lucas. "Simon calls me a coward. Not a gentleman, he says. My father used to say exactly the same thing. The only difference was that with my father, I believed him for longer than I should."

Lucas raked a hand through his hair. "That's terrible, of course it is, but it doesn't mean that you have to prove yourself to Simon over and over again. You know you aren't a coward. You know you're a gentleman. Who cares what they think?"

Clayton turned back to the mirror. "I am not doing any harm, Lucas."

"You are trying to win Lady Isolde's heart without any intention of doing anything with it," he responded flatly. "I keep imagining it's one of my sisters, the subject of a wager like that."

Clayton's hands stilled on the knot of his cravat. He gave himself a little shake and began tying again. Holding the linen for too long would make the starching fade, and the cravat would go limp. With an effort, he recalled Lucas' sisters. He had a horde of them, it seemed, but the oldest was nearly seventeen, and would likely be coming out next year. She was a pretty, eager young girl, intelligent and confident.

Society would probably knock that out of her.

He glanced over his shoulder at Lucas.

"Emmeline won't be the subject of any wagers."

"How do you know?" Lucas responded bitterly. "It's wrong, Clayton. It's plain wrong."

He bit the inside of his cheek. The cravat was done, and Clayton inspected it closely. Perfect, as usual. He picked up the ruby cravat pin from last night – might as well use it, as it was already out – and secured it in place.

"I do not intend to hurt Lady Isolde. I just want her to smile at me, I think."

"Simon will require more than that."

"Then that is my concern. I know what I'm doing."

"That's what worries me," Lucas shot back. "I wish you'd leave the girl alone."

"I will leave her alone, soon enough."

"Didn't you like her at all?"

Clayton was glad he had his back turned to Lucas for this part.

The answer, quite simply, was yes. He had liked Lady Isolde. She was beautiful, certainly, and it made a change to dance with a woman who didn't flutter over his looks and languid confidence. She said she preferred books to gossip, and he certainly believed her.

What sort of books? Novels, perhaps? Poetry? Something improving?

I hope it's novels, Clayton thought, before catching himself.

It doesn't matter, fool.

He remembered the feeling of her hand in his, the curve of her waist under his palm. He'd waltzed with countless women before, some so beautiful they could silence a room just by walking into it.

What made Lady Isolde so different?

"Do you have a plan, then?" Lucas asked, cutting into his thoughts.

"Not really. I didn't have a plan last night, and Lady Isolde more or less threw herself into my arms."

"She tripped," Lucas corrected. "Although that vile scandal sheet will have people thinking she all but jumped at you."

"I have said it before and I will say it again. Anyone fool enough to believe what's in those papers deserves to be deceived. As for Lady Isolde, don't worry. My reputation goes before me. She might grow fond of me, but she won't risk her heart. A lady doesn't get the nickname of Ice Queen without learning how to protect her peace of mind. Everything will be fine. I shall go on my own way, and trust others to move aside. I'm not hiding anything, am I?"

Lucas got to his feet, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket.

"You always have an answer for everything, don't you, Clayton?"

"Well, I suppose so," he responded, a little taken aback. "What are you getting at?"

Lucas smiled mirthlessly. "You go on your own way and trust others to move aside, do you? So any hurt caused by you doing whatever you like is their own fault. How convenient."

"I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that… that… well, I'm a rake, Lucas!" Clayton held his arms out to either side. "What should you expect from me?"

Lucas didn't smile. He glanced over at the window, expression closed.

"It's a mistake we've all made," he muttered. "Expecting too much of you. Or anything, for that matter."

He left abruptly, not giving Clayton the chance to say a word. The door was left swinging open behind him.