Ivy wept.

Chance was certain, although his gut told him her tears couldn’t be attributed solely to the captain’s boorish behavior.

Allen stared after his sister’s fleeing form before facing Chance, a question in his hooded eyes. “I say, what was that about?”

“I’m sure I have no idea why she pelted off in such haste.” Raising a brow, Chance met Allen’s shuttered scrutiny.

He did, but the niggling thought was scarcely more than a heartbeat. Her response to him hadn’t been that of a sister. He needed time to reflect on the notion. He must tread carefully if he had any hope, no matter how remote or seemingly impossible, of making her his.

Staring at the now empty pathway, Chance rubbed the side of his nose. “Perhaps Ivy feared someone would see her in disarray.”

“No, not her abrupt departure. I meant telling Kirkpatrick my sister is promised to someone else.” Allen eyed him, expectancy written on his features.

Damn, Allen wouldn’t let that falsehood go unaccounted for.

“Ah, that.” Chance offered a weak chuckle. “Not one of my cleverer moments, I’ll confess.”

He traced the scar on his cheek, recalling Ivy’s gentle touch. She hadn’t seemed the least repulsed by the jagged mark.

“I said the one thing I thought would make the boor leave off pursuing her.” He didn’t elaborate how he’d bitten his tongue to keep from saying, “Promised to me.”

If only he’d dared to. What would have happened?

Mrs. Washburn’s freckled face, immediately followed by his sire’s disproving countenance, flashed to mind. Hell, with that ridiculous millstone about his neck, Chance must proceed with the greatest of caution.

He rubbed his arm then his hand. He might indulge in a bit of laudanum tonight—to take the edge off the pain. More on point, the drug would numb his mind and the tormenting thoughts of Ivy, which guaranteed another sleepless night.

Allen drew in a gusty breath and ran his hand through his dark hair. “I’m heartily sick of the captain, I can tell you. I don’t trust the sod one whit. He’ll not let this fabricated affiancing story die a quiet death. Of that I’m positive.”

“Why is he here tonight if you and Ivy find him so offensive?” Chance’s arm throbbed. He needed to say his farewells soon. “Did your mother invite him?”

Allen snorted. “Absolutely not. Mother cannot abide Kirkpatrick, either. The bugger hangs on the coat sleeves of others. I’m sure he wrangled an invitation to accompany one of his business cronies.”

Allen exited the bower ahead of Chance.

“I’ll speak to Mother. I’m thinking she needs to further refine her guest list.”

“Indeed.” Chance followed him outside, grateful for the fresh air filling his lungs. He’d guess no part of Kirkpatrick had seen the inside of a tub in a good while. Imagining Ivy with the man set Chance’s teeth on edge once again.

“So, this is where you got off to.” Grinning, Allen gestured toward the alcove. “Thought you were in the library, but when I checked, you’d disappeared. I wondered where you’d sequestered yourself.”

He threw an arm across Chance’s shoulders. “No need to hide, Faulkenhurst.”

Chance winced as pain speared his arm and hand. “I wasn’t hiding. I wanted to reacquaint myself with the grounds, and you have to admit, the air within the house is intolerable.”

Not nearly as intolerable as the arbor.

Truth to tell, he had been avoiding the throng inside the manor.

He’d arrived this evening, terrified he’d encounter Ivy and equally desperate to do so. He hadn’t expected her to dash into the bower while he lurked there. Rather awkward to be caught skulking in the garden alcove. He’d opened his mouth to tell her he stood behind her when the sea crab appeared.

Her fear of the man tangible, Ivy had needed safeguarding. So, Chance remained silent and, in some measure, grateful he had a legitimate reason not to return to the ball.

Pasting a fake smile on his face and pretending nonchalance about his crippling injuries took a greater toll than he’d imagined they would. He’d endured more pitying glances and ignored more horrified gasps and looks of revulsion than anyone ought to in a single night.

Wonder what long-toothed Mrs. Washburn and her father will think of my condition?

Didn’t matter what they thought. Chance had no intention of honoring his father’s ludicrous proposal. Although the blame for the bumblebroth lay at Father’s feet, the delicate situation needed discrete handling.

Excusing himself from the ball early on, Chance had drifted to the library. Reading had proved futile. Laying the book aside, he’d wandered to the French windows and stared blankly at the night. The lure of the arbor called him.

He’d been unable to resist a visit to another time, when he’d dreamed Ivy might be his. She’d dwelled in his thoughts, and though he’d been no monk, he’d never desired another as much as her.

When a man gave his heart to a woman, other females might temporarily satiate his physical desire, but his soul continued to yearn for its mate, seeking the wholeness no other could offer.

Yesterday, when Allen insisted he join him at his table at White’s, Chance had posed several subtle questions regarding the family’s health, business ventures, and finally, he’d dared to inquire about Ivy.

Allen had smiled knowingly, as if he’d expected the conversation to shift to a discussion about his sister. Peculiar that. Chance had never confided in his long-time friend, never hinted he held Ivy in any special regard. He couldn’t contain his broad smile or the joy that had swept him upon learning she remained unmarried.

“There’s no shortage of damsels inside eager for dance partners.” His arm about Chance’s shoulders, Allen set their course toward the bustling mansion. “Unless you forgot how to perform Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot in the wilds of India.”

Chance didn’t want to dance with those ladies. A sable-haired, hazel-eyed sprite with a beauty mark beside her left nostril was the only woman he ever wanted to hold in his arms. And if he’d heard correctly in the arbor, she didn’t dance anymore.

“I’ll tell you, I could use a stiff swallow of French brandy after that nonsense with Kirkpatrick.” Allen withdrew his arm and quickened his pace.

Their shoes clicked on the limestone pavers as they neared the house.

“I’d not say no to a nip of cognac,” Chance admitted.

“Let’s find you a dance partner, and I’ll make sure the Jack Nasty Face took his leave." Allen tossed Chance a familiar teasing grin. “Then we’ll both indulge in a finger’s worth or two.”

The drink sounded wonderful.

The dance Chance would pass on. Dancing required the touching of hands.

Allen’s grin widened. “I do believe that scar on your cheek improves your devilish good looks. Makes you seem mysterious and debonair. Second son or not, the ladies will be vying for your attention.”

Chance stopped and yanked off his modified glove. He raised his disfigured hand. “Even with this? I think you over-estimate my attraction, my friend.”

“Does it pain you still?” Brow creased, Allen stared at the two nubs where Chance’s middle and forefinger used to be.

A long, jagged scar disappeared into the wristband of his coat sleeve.

“Some. It’s been less than six months.” He tugged the glove on, not without some difficulty. Thank God Allen didn’t offer to help. Chance crooked his lips upward.

“You should see the scar on my forearm. Nearly lost the thing. I imagine I look a bit like that creature in that new novel. What’s it called?”

He sent a contemplative glance skyward.

“Ah, I remember.” Chance lowered his voice to an eerie growl. “Frankenstein.”

Allen’s expression grew serious. “Don’t be absurd. Mangled arm and minus two fingers, you’re more of a man than ninety percent of the coves here tonight.”

“Only ninety?” Chance quipped to hide the emotion Allen’s kind words aroused.

Lost in thought, Chance ascended the terrace steps. The veranda swarmed with guests, no doubt seeking fresh air.

Allen stopped on the top riser and gave him a broad grin. “I’ve missed you, Falcon. We all have.”

“There you are, Allen, Faulkenhurst.” Lord Wimpleton, his usually jovial countenance severe, strode in their direction. Upon reaching them, he gave a cursory glance around.

No one paid them any mind.

His brow furrowed, the viscount dropped his voice. “Please explain to me if either of you have the slightest idea why, in the last ten minutes, I’ve had several guests offer me congratulations on my daughter’s betrothal.”