Chapter Three

“You’d think these men had never seen a lady older than five-and-twenty before,” Julia said. For the past three hours she’d been stuck on the sidelines, only able to watch the spectacle of the Weatherford ball. A shame, because she hadn’t danced in ten years and particularly loved it. Her feet tapped in time with a waltz, her right heel wobbling away.

“All these men have the debutantes memorized,” Lady Weatherford said. “Along with the size of their dowries.”

“My first plan doesn’t seem to be working.” Julia sighed. “Time for my second strategy: knock some fellow on the head and place him in a bag.”

“A most useful accessory for the London Season.”

“The Husband Bag would net me a solid fortune indeed.”

The women laughed. At least Julia had finally been able to spend time with her oldest friend. Laura Daldry, now the Viscountess Weatherford, had become one of London society’s most esteemed hostesses. Throughout the evening, an assortment of gentlemen had come over to thank the viscountess for such a splendid event. Laura had urged the bachelors to meet Julia, her “particular friend.” The men were quite happy to make her acquaintance. More than one gentleman smiled as his gaze trailed up and down her form. An older fellow had even licked his lips while staring at her bosom. But admiration never translated to an invitation to dance, or further conversation. The men always moved on to circle some doe-eyed girl of eighteen or twenty.

“At least Susannah’s doing well.” Julia smiled to see her stepsister waltzing about the ballroom in the arms of the Earl of Wilstshire’s eldest son. Beautiful, rich, and sweet as sugar, Susannah might find her match this very night. “Laura, are there really no older widowers hunting for a bride?”

“There was one. Sadly, Baron Pomfrey married a young heiress whom he met in Bath only last month.”

“Baron Pomfrey? Is he not all of seventy-eight?”

“A spry seventy-eight, so he says. And the girl is barely eighteen.”

All men were the same. They wanted innocence and youth, a wife who would accept everything they told her with a loving smile.

“If only I’d been in town these past ten years,” Julia said. “I might have found someone even as wonderful as the viscount.”

“Well. I may be partial, but I don’t believe Lord Weatherford can be matched.” Laura beamed, her cheeks still brightening after almost ten years of marriage. She laid a hand upon her stomach, where Julia knew the bump revealing the Weatherfords’ third child would soon begin to show. Julia smiled at her friend’s happiness, even as her heart sank. As a girl, she’d dreamed of marriage and family.

Ten years ago she’d almost had both.

Wishing for the past would change nothing. Julia had to be assertive, but carefully so. It was important to let men believe that everything was their idea, even though it very rarely was.

“Perhaps I might swoon,” Julia whispered. Lady Weatherford laughed.

“We must be on the lookout for a single gentleman of good fortune who appears adept at catching fainting women.”

“I doubt that describes most men here,” Julia drawled, surveying the ballroom of handsome but decidedly pampered-looking prospects. “I daresay most have never caught anything more challenging than a cold.” She lowered her voice further. “Or even the clap.”

“Julia!” Lady Weatherford almost choked on a laugh. “Darling, you really must keep a civil tongue in your head until after your wedding day.”

“True. A man must never suspect a woman of having a personality until it is far too late.”

There was a sudden commotion on the ballroom floor. Heads swiveled as people watched someone make their way through the crowd.

“Oh dear.” Lady Weatherford sighed. “I’m not surprised he’s late.”

“Who is he?”

“The Duke of Ashworth.” Laura sounded shocked by her ignorance, but the name meant nothing to Julia. “Oh, I forgot. You’ve been hidden away in the country for the past ten years. You don’t know him.”

“Has he murdered someone?”

Half of the ballroom appeared incensed at the man’s approach. The male half.

“The married women of London were quite delighted when the duke returned from his travels abroad,” Lady Weatherford said slyly.

As the man appeared, Julia understood their excitement.

This duke was the most handsome creature she could have imagined. He moved through the crowd with the innate grace of a predator, causing the lesser men to simply melt out of his path. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with hair of a dark, gleaming sable that curled in a most becoming way. Julia imagined running her fingers through that hair; her hands tingled with the mere thought.

She caught only his profile, but the face would have been beautiful if not for the masculine lines of his jaw and nose. His lips were full, though, and his high, sharp cheekbones set off a glittering pair of eyes. Julia wondered what color they could possibly be.

Goodness, her mouth had gone dry. She swallowed as the duke glided past, the eyes of the room turning with him.

“I imagine he’s unmarried,” she said.

“I’d introduce you, but I’m afraid it would be a waste of time.” Laura sighed. “Ashworth really is a decent man beneath it all, but he has a most active social life. He’s told Weatherford that marriage is not for him, nor he for it.”

Of course. Besides, a man that breathtaking would have all of London in a tizzy. If he were to ever marry, he would choose a wealthy debutante like Susannah. Ah well. At least Julia had been able to glimpse such a gorgeous beast.

Susannah arrived, escorted back by the earl’s son. The young man bowed and left the women. Julia’s stepsister was positively glowing.

“Look!” She displayed her nearly full dance card. “Lord Caldwell was most insistent on two waltzes. Can you imagine?”

“You deserve it.” Julia smiled tenderly. She wanted Susannah’s happiness more than anything, though when her stepsister married that would leave Julia all alone with Constance. Julia pursed her lips. There had to be some way…

“Pardon.” A woman abruptly shoved Susannah aside.

“Excuse me!” Julia said, but the woman didn’t look back. She merely rushed through the crowd, cutting a path toward the other end of the ballroom. “What on earth was that?”

“Mrs. Worthington.” Lady Weatherford clucked her tongue in disapproval. “I feared this might happen. She would love to be the duke’s particular—”

“Friend,” Julia said. They mustn’t scandalize Susannah too terribly.

“Poor Ashworth. If he isn’t careful, he’ll have a third duel before the month’s out.”

“A third? In a month?” Julia gaped.

“The duke has been a ‘friend’ to nearly every married woman in this room at one time or another,” Laura remarked. “Their husbands are only too ready to call him out.”

“He doesn’t seem particularly interested in Mrs. Worthington’s friendship.” Julia noticed the duke duck out of the ballroom. Mrs. Worthington vanished after him in hot pursuit. Well. That was the risk a handsome rake took in their society.

Feeling parched, Julia went in search of a glass of lemonade, leaving Susannah under Lady Weatherford’s expert eye. On the other side of the room, Julia sipped as she watched all of London society on display. She sighed as the clocks struck the hour; she hadn’t made headway with a single man, no matter how old or awkward he might be.

Perhaps Constance truly had won. Perhaps it was Julia’s fate to tend to the woman, fluffing her pillows and pouring her tea.

She set her jaw. No. She refused to let that happen.

“Excuse me.”

Julia startled as a florid-faced man stormed past her, out the ballroom and into a corridor.

“Worthington,” someone said with a chuckle. “Missing his wife?”

Worthington. Oh dear. Julia set her glass down and watched Mr. Worthington stalk away in hot pursuit of the duke. Julia imagined that this Duke of Ashworth was about to be called to that third duel. One he actually might not deserve.

…

How had the woman found him so quickly? This Mrs. Worthington must have been a randy bloodhound in another life. He’d never even met her before, but she’d certainly known him, introducing herself the instant he entered the ballroom. He’d only just managed to get away.

Gregory hurried down the corridor before slipping into a darkened parlor. He shut the door and breathed out in relief. In all the tumult, he hadn’t even been able to greet his hostess. Damnably rude. But he’d never dreamed some woman would literally be lying in wait. His notoriety must have somehow increased in his absence. How was that possible?

Gregory walked to the window and looked out upon the Weatherfords’ back garden. He noted a little rope swing that hung from the branch of an oak tree. Yes, the viscount doted upon his children. Not only that, but he was clearly still in love with his wife after almost a decade of marriage. Whenever Gregory came to dinner, he’d see the many soft looks and casual touches that passed between them.

The Weatherfords proved that love existed. Gregory gave a grim smirk. If only it weren’t so bloody rare. He adjusted his cravat and straightened his lapels. Enough time must have passed. Surely he could return to the party.

Just then, the door flung wide open.

“Your Grace,” a woman said breathily.

Oh shit.

Mrs. Worthington shut the door and pressed her back to it. She had wild, curling dark hair, and a carefully penciled mole at the corner of her lip. The woman thrust her chest forward. “I knew it was fate that we should meet.”

“Fate? You chased me in here.”

“We have only so long before my husband should find us.” The woman loosed a ribbon on her bodice, and the front of her dress dropped away to reveal a red satin shift. Well, she’d certainly come prepared. “Ravish me.”

“I don’t know what they told you about me,” Gregory said, “but at least some of it was a lie. Now kindly put your bosoms away and allow me to pass.”

“You mustn’t tease me.” She moved toward him, arms open, breasts jiggling. Gregory dodged around her. “Your Grace!”

The door flew open to reveal a furious-looking man, stopping Gregory cold. The fellow’s jaw quivered with rage as he beheld the underdressed woman. “Gladys!” he cried.

“Philip!” she shrieked.

“Fuck,” Gregory said.

“You have sullied the honor of my wife, sir!” Mr. Worthington tugged out his handkerchief and threw it in Gregory’s face. “I must demand satisfaction!”

“How can you have satisfaction? I haven’t had it yet!” Gregory attempted to talk the man down. If he had to fight one more duel, he was going to fall asleep with his finger on the trigger. He’d never been this exhausted in his life. “This is all a misunderstanding. The lady followed me in here.”

“Are you calling my wife loose?” Worthington’s face grew beet red.

“Well, she’s not exactly screwed in tight, is she?” Gregory had an inkling that had been the wrong thing to say. Mrs. Worthington made a furious, squished noise.

“It wasn’t my fault, Philip! He dragged me in here. He wished to ravish me!” She flung herself onto a chaise and sobbed dramatically.

“You blackguard! I can contain myself no longer.” Mr. Worthington snatched up his handkerchief and threw it again. This time, it landed on the toe of Gregory’s shoe; the duke didn’t have the energy to pick it up. “You shall answer for this insult to my wife. Pistols at dawn!”

“Could we make it a mid-afternoon duel? I’ve been up for two days straight,” Gregory said.

All three turned as the door opened yet again.

“Your Grace?” A woman spoke in a low, musical voice. “There you are, my dear duke. I wondered where you had got to.”

Gregory came face-to-face with a goddess.

She was tall, dressed in a gown of periwinkle satin that highlighted the extraordinary blue of her eyes. Her golden hair curled in becoming ringlets; Gregory imagined that hair tumbling about her naked shoulders. He could only dream of the generous curves hidden by this gown, if the ample swell of her bosom were anything to go by. The woman smiled, which drew attention to a full lower lip. Gregory became hypnotized by that lip. He wished to bite it. He wanted to hear that sultry voice whisper in his ear, Gregory. Oh, Gregory.

Blood thundered through every part of his body. Who was this vixen? He’d never seen her before, but she had to be married. No one this gorgeous could be still on the shelf.

“Lady Weatherford wondered where you might be, Your Grace.” The beauty gestured. “Come. You promised me the next dance.”

“Ah yes, my dear Lady Somersome.” Gregory gargled the name as he left the Worthingtons to their astonishment. “I couldn’t find you.”

“Is that why you came all the way over here? Looking for me?” The woman beamed, a dimple forming in her left cheek. No dimple had ever made Gregory hard before, but this one was doing the trick.

“I would look for you anywhere, my lady. You have all my attention this evening.” Gregory checked the Worthingtons and saw that the ingenious woman had played this scene faultlessly. Mrs. Worthington appeared crestfallen, while Mr. Worthington blustered.

“It appears I, er, made an error, Your Grace. My apologies.”

“Think nothing of it. Good evening, sir. Madam.” Gregory closed the door on the Worthington marriage and moved into the hall. The delectable lady kept a few steps ahead of him. Gregory felt a stirring throughout his whole body. It was the thrill of the hunt. “Might I know the name of my rescuer?”

“Rescuer is far too grand a title.” The lady sounded breezy, but also a bit nervous. “We must hurry. I can’t be seen dallying in private with…well, with you.”

“Yes, you must have a care for your reputation.” Gregory swept in front of the woman. She looked at him with such an earnest expression in those blue eyes that he felt momentarily dumbstruck. But only momentarily. “At least, you must take care your husband shouldn’t find us.”

“Well. On that score, at least, we needn’t worry.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Miss Julia Beaumont, Your Grace.”

Miss? Gregory nearly snorted at what had to be a joke. The woman was in her mid- to late twenties. What kind of depraved society would allow such a creature to mellow into spinsterhood? It was evil that no one had kissed those lips or stroked those supple curves. She had a body designed for touch. For ecstasy.

But Gregory was a rake, not a cad. He had never compromised an unmarried woman. No, this vixen couldn’t be his. He ought to escort her back to the ballroom, thank her for the assistance, and leave. Anything further ran a risk for both of them.

But this Julia Beaumont had appeared in the midst of dreary London society like an oasis in a desert. And Gregory was dying of thirst.