by Darcy Burke
Forcing her voice to remain calm and even, she asked, “What morsel is that?”
Lydia glanced around to ascertain if anyone was listening. When her gaze settled briefly on a pair of matrons within earshot, she raised her voice. “He was seen at Lockwood House.”
Philippa’s stomach flipped over, and heat suffused her body. Again, she tried to maintain her equilibrium. “Why is that news?”
“Surely you know what Lockwood House is.” Lydia rolled her eyes again. “Goodness, Philippa, I’m beginning to think you were actually ill.”
Audrey shook her head at Lydia. “Can’t you just tell her?” She turned to Philippa, but did not adopt Lydia’s too-loud tone. “He was there with a woman.”
Philippa recalled what the criminal Jagger had said about Sevrin the other night. Did people really believe he preferred men? She couldn’t imagine that was true. He’d kissed her. Twice.
“Why is this notable? I should think someone like him would be expected to visit Lockwood House.”
“Yes, but he’s never been seen there with a woman. Though she was masked, rumor has it her form was quite beautiful. There are at least a dozen wagers at White’s as to her identity.”
Philippa’s interest sharpened as her insides twisted. “Who do they think she is?”
“Most of the names are courtesans. But there’s a wager she’s Quality.” Lydia gave her a sly smile. “And unmarried, to boot.”
Philippa’s discomfort vaulted to full nausea.
Audrey shook her head again. “Absent a specific name, this is all ridiculous conjecture. Honestly, men will wager on the color of the sky.”
Lydia patted her immaculate hair. “I, for one, am determined to learn the identity of this mystery woman.”
Philippa nearly choked.
Audrey’s expression turned sympathetic. “I feel sorry for her, whoever she is.”
“Oh, don’t,” Lydia said. “She had the wherewithal to attend a party at Lockwood House. Like as not, she’s looking for a bit of notoriety.”
Philippa finally found her tongue. “If that were true, don’t you think she would have foregone a mask?”
“You would think, but apparently that just isn’t done at Lockwood House. Unless you’re Sevrin, but then he’s made it clear he doesn’t follow the rules.”
“And what will you do when you identify this poor woman?” Audrey asked.
Lydia blinked. “Accept the accolades for discovering her, of course.”
“Oh, well, I only wondered if you meant to somehow collect on the wager at White’s.” Audrey winked at Philippa. They often provoked Lydia—good-naturedly—about seeking notoriety.
“Of course not.” Lydia grinned. “That would be incredibly gauche.”
Audrey shook her head. “I still don’t understand why you would focus on Sevrin of all people. He’s so far outside our circle—I’m certain you can count the number of times you’ve seen him on one hand. He’s a scoundrel.” She shuddered. “The things they say he did.”
Philippa snapped her attention to Audrey. Things plural? “Refusing to marry the girl he ruined, you mean?”
Lydia’s eyes lit. “Oh, there’s a bit more to the story than that—”
Further discussion was cut off by a dull roar spreading through the ballroom. It seemed to originate at the door, which could only mean the arrival of a Terribly Important or Interesting Person. Philippa swung her gaze with the rest of the crowd. Or a Terribly Scandalous Person. For standing in the doorway garbed in devilishly dark attire, his sable hair combed back from his handsome face, was none other than the scoundrel himself.
Chapter Seven
AMBROSE had braced himself for his arrival at Lady Dunwoody’s ball, but he’d clearly underestimated the effect of his presence. After his hostess stuttered her way through their greeting and his host glanced nervously away while Ambrose executed a formal bow, he thought he’d seen the worst of it. Now, however, with three hundred of the ton’s most elite citizens staring wide-eyed at him, he was quite…perturbed. Why had he decided to suffer this again? Oh, yes, Philippa, and her peculiar absence from Society the past three days. Since their night at Lockwood House and beyond. He’d grown concerned.
He scanned the ballroom for her form and found her standing off to the side with two other young women. She might be the only person in the room who wasn’t slack-jawed. His lips curved into a smile. But he didn’t move toward her. Yet. He had to do this correctly.
He searched the cavernous room with its fussy decorations and cloying scent of lilies for the tall, blond Saxton. There, in the opposite corner, naturally. Which meant he had to cross an entire ballroom of gaping, prurient ninnyhammers in order for Saxton to formally introduce him to Philippa.
To hell with Society and their rules. He was the Vicious Viscount, and he did whatever he damned well pleased.
He was halfway to Philippa before he stopped. He couldn’t just walk up to her. He could ignore Society’s demands, but she could not. He was helping her for that very reason, wasn’t he? To approach her without proper introduction would damage her reputation in just the way he was trying to avoid.
He turned on his heel and went toward Saxton instead. Thankfully the grinning jackass had the grace to meet him part way.
The sonorous rise in conversation that had heralded his arrival had drifted to near silence, save the music, but damn if the dancers hadn’t fumbled as they’d strained to see the commotion. Now there was a sharp and boisterous return to regular discourse—about him, he’d wager—given the frequent glances directed his way.
“You do know how to make an entrance,” Saxton said.
“I merely walked in. Perhaps I should have leapt through the balcony doors. Or sprung from behind the refreshment table.”
“Yes, that would have been much better.” His grin faded. “You only drew such notice because of the wagers at White’s.”
Dread stole up Ambrose’s spine. “What wagers?”
Saxton’s brows rose. “You haven’t been to White’s today?”
“Not at the top of my agenda.” Saxton knew better than to mistake him for a dandy.
“Right.” Saxton led him to the side of the room, not terribly far from where Philippa stood.
“There are a handful of wagers about the woman you were seen with at Lockwood House. It’s notable you were there with… a woman.” He averted his gaze for the briefest moment, but Ambrose caught it. They’d never discussed his lack of female companionship, but Saxton had to wonder. “The wagers center around her identity. Some say she’s a courtesan, others Quality, and others…” he glanced away again, “assert she’s not a woman at all.”
Clearly none of the latter wagers had been placed by anyone who’d been there. There could be no question his companion had been a woman. And an exceedingly beautiful one at that. His gaze found Philippa, but he could only see her back. However, instead of aquamarine silk, he saw the gently curved expanse of pale flesh he’d glimpsed at Lockwood House as she’d changed her gown.
He turned his attention back to Saxton. “I don’t allow innuendo to trouble me, so you needn’t either. Given everyone’s reaction, I assume the masses are aware of these wagers.”
Saxton inclined his head. “A fair assumption. Given that, I wouldn’t blame you if you left.”
“But I won’t.”
“I can’t imagine why you wanted to come here in the first place. When I dragged you to a few events last fall, you complained bitterly.”
“Not true. I only complained the first time. Then I rather enjoyed watching you make a cake of yourself over Lady Saxton.”
His pale blue eyes frosted, but they lacked the icy heat of his pre-marital days. Saxton was a happily married man, and it showed. “I’m glad I could provide you entertainment. If you won’t leave, what do you plan to do? The card room is through those doors.” He pointed to Ambrose’s left.
“I want you to introduce me to Lady Philippa Latham.” Ambrose hadn’
t bothered stating his goal when he’d asked Saxton to secure his invitation. He’d doubted Saxton would have done it if he’d known what Ambrose had planned.
Saxton’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Why not?” He knew why not, but also knew he had to convince Saxton why he should.
Saxton exhaled, darting a glance at Philippa’s back. “Because I like her, and introducing you to her would be presumptuous. She’s the daughter of an earl, you’re a—”
“Viscount, in case you’ve forgotten. It is precisely because she is such an estimable young woman that I want to make her acquaintance. However can I redeem myself in Society—as you’ve so often encouraged me to do—if I don’t aim high?”
Saxton shuttered his eyes briefly and when they opened, there was a hint of mirth. “You’re a cunning bastard.” His expression grew serious. “But I’m warning you not to play with her. She’s a nice girl, and I owe her better than to leave her to you.”
“I don’t mean to damage her reputation at all.” I’m trying to keep it safe.
“Fine, but Olivia’s coming with us.”
“Excellent, I’m delighted to pay my respects to your better half.”
Ambrose spent the next hour watching Philippa dance with a parade of men. Short men, tall men, fat men, too-handsome men, old men, young men—in fact, her current partner looked as if he was barely out of university. Ambrose leaned toward Saxton. “Who’s she dancing with now?” He didn’t have to identify the “she” in question since they’d been awaiting the proper opportunity to orchestrate their introduction. Primarily, they’d been waiting for the fervor surrounding Ambrose’s presence to die down.
They were still waiting.
“I’m not entirely certain, but rumor is he’s her houseguest. Her father returned from the continent a few days ago with company in tow.”
Ambrose followed Saxton’s line of sight to Philippa’s father, the Earl of Herrick. He was standing quite close to a petite blonde whose high, tinkling laugh carried much too far in a crowded ballroom. Watching their intimate behavior—the way she gazed up at him, Herrick’s casual stroking of her arm—Ambrose immediately understood why Philippa’s mother had sought companionship elsewhere. Ambrose felt a wave of sympathy for Philippa and cursed his weakness for her anew.
Perhaps he should go. He could see that she was fine and well, untouched by Jagger. Why the devil did he need to actually speak with her? Just as he was about to cry off, the music ended and she and her partner were close enough for Saxton’s lady to intercept them as they left the dance floor.
“Lady Philippa, you look lovely this evening,” Olivia said with a bright smile. Though she’d been raised by one of London’s most notorious courtesans, Saxton’s bride was the epitome of charm and grace. Saxton didn’t deserve her, but then scoundrels like them rarely did.
Philippa paused, her hand curled annoyingly around the arm of that moon-faced boy. “Lady Saxton, what a pleasure to see you. May I present Lord von Egmont from Amsterdam?”
The boy bowed and lightly took Olivia’s hand. Ambrose dared to look at Philippa and was surprised—pleasantly so—to find her studying him with her delicious ale-colored gaze. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Olivia turned her head and gestured for her husband and Ambrose to step forward. “Saxton, meet Lord von Egmont.” The two men nodded in greeting. “And this is our dear friend, Lord Sevrin.” Olivia turned to Philippa with just the right amount of innocent curiosity. “Lady Philippa, have you met Lord Sevrin?”
Philippa’s gaze widened just slightly, but probably only Ambrose caught it. “I have not.” She dipped into a curtsey and lowered her gaze. The submissive gesture stoked a primal, lustful, thoroughly inappropriate reaction. Ambrose shifted his weight and prayed for a cool breeze from the open doors, which were much too far away.
He forced himself to take her hand though he knew touching her was bound to increase his discomfort. He was not mistaken. Though their hands were gloved, the spark that leapt between them was both palpable and disconcerting. Her gaze came up too quickly, and her lips parted in response.
Hell, hell, hell. He said the next stupid thing that came to mind. “May I claim this dance?”
Of all the foolish, disastrous, wrong-headed things to do. But he couldn’t take it back now. He could only pray they wouldn’t become the most talked about thing in the ballroom. Though he suspected he had a better chance of obtaining eternal salvation, which was to say nil.
If Philippa registered any of the shock he felt at his outrageous question, she didn’t show it. “Yes, you may.”
She withdrew her arm from the boy with a smile. “Thank you for the dance.” A warm, genuine smile that made Ambrose perversely jealous. Which was absurd since he didn’t want such affection from a woman.
The boy nodded at her. “My pleasure.”
Ambrose resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Surely Philippa could do better than that green lad. More absurdity. He shouldn’t care who Philippa danced with and resolved at that moment not to.
After the boy left, Ambrose presented his arm as the music started. He shot a glance at Saxton whose gaze held a smidgeon of glower. Just the right amount to remind Ambrose of his place—far beneath that of his dance partner.
He swept her onto the dance floor, ignoring the enticing heat that radiated from her palm clutching his sleeve. “A minuet? I hope I can recall the steps.” It was the sort of self-deprecating comment he made without thinking, but he actually nursed a touch of anxiety. He hadn’t danced in years. Five, to be precise.
Philippa’s brow creased. “Lady Dunwoody always includes a minuet—it’s her favorite dance. Would you prefer to leave the dance floor?”
“Not at all. I shan’t embarrass you.” He winked at her to let her know he was jesting, but by the twinkle in her eye, she already knew. How could she know him after just one—albeit long—night?
She looked at him closely. “Are you wearing cosmetics?” Her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “Yes, you’re wearing face powder. To cover the remains of your bruises. Were you terribly hurt?” She raised her hand as if she meant to touch his face then dropped it quickly as she realized she couldn’t. Not here. And the fact that he wanted her to made her the most dangerous woman of his acquaintance.
His mouth curved up. “Your ability to see right through my façade is more than a bit unnerving.” In so many ways.
As they moved into position, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “I heard about the wagers. Should I be concerned?”
Glancing around to gauge the distance of the other couples, he adjusted the volume of his voice accordingly. “No. It’s nonsense men participate in to amuse themselves. No one is ever going to learn the real identity of the woman I was with at Lockwood House.”
She’d told him only retainers had seen her face, and he was nearly certain he’d been the first to see her in the drawing room. Because he was only nearly certain, he was concerned. But he wouldn’t worry her.
They touched and stepped away and touched again. Each brush of her fingertips sent a wave of desire racing through his long-deprived body.
When they came together again, she said, “My friend, Lady Lydia Prewitt, is determined to discover your mystery woman’s identity. I wish I possessed your confidence, but you don’t know Lydia.” She peered up at him inquisitively, as if she were assessing his worth. He hated to disappoint her, but he surely would. “If only you weren’t so interesting to people. You’ve created quite a stir just by coming tonight.”
Yes, and he was stoking the fire into a full-blown blaze by dancing with her. “I’m quite boring, actually.”
She arched a slender brow. “Somehow I doubt that. What with your fighting skill, visits to Lockwood House, and scandalous background. Pity you don’t have any normal hobbies, such as riding.” She blinked. “Do you ride? I’ve never seen you in the park, but surely you must.”
&nb
sp; Ambrose inwardly flinched. She’d asked a benign question, completely unaware of the unwanted memories it provoked. But then people often asked probing, intrusive questions—did he ride (he didn’t), where did he live (over a tavern), and why didn’t he marry the girl he’d ruined (because he hadn’t wanted to)—which he chose to ignore. Indeed, he rarely answered anything at all. Though he liked Philippa better than most, he didn’t plan to answer her either.
“Who told you about the wagers?” he asked.
If she was bothered by him ignoring her question, she didn’t show it. Likely because returning to the topic of the wagers had caused her forehead to crease with concern. “Lady Lydia told me,” she said. “She knows everything.”
He heard the anxiety in her voice. “She doesn’t, and she’ll never know about that night.”
He danced away from her. He’d keep an eye on Lady Lydia and somehow ensure she discovered nothing. He knew precisely how rabid a gossip on the hunt could be. It was just such a scandalmonger who’d eagerly shared news of his past transgressions when he’d come to London. How much about that did Philippa know? Surely she wouldn’t be dancing with him if she knew the truth.
Dancing with her reminded him of the life he’d forfeited. The life he could never return to. The life he didn’t deserve. Christ, he despised such maudlin thoughts. He fought to push them away, annoyed they’d even intruded.
They came together again and he asked, “How are things at Herrick House? I couldn’t help but notice your father and Lady von Egmont seem close.”
Philippa’s eyebrows drew together but she forced her features into a serene smile. “Soon all of Society will be well aware of my parents’ affairs.” Her smile faded and a bit of the scowl crept back. “And they expect me to find a husband in such an environment.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing with your dance partners tonight? Husband hunting?” The notion filled him with a disturbing sense of nausea.
