by Darcy Burke
“Yes.”
They danced apart again, and Ambrose took the opportunity to mentally review the men he’d watched her with. When they came together, he said, “That foreign boy, you danced with him out of obligation, not because you’re considering his suit?”
She smiled up at him, her ale-colored eyes sparkling beneath the glow of hundreds of candles. “Oh, stop. I’m not considering his suit, but he’s perfectly charming.”
“Charm is your chief requirement in a husband?”
Her body moved with precision and grace. “Along with honor and kindness.”
“You might do better with a dog.”
She laughed as they danced apart again. Such a warm, lovely sound. He would miss it.
When they came together, she gave him a contemplative look. “Is there a breed you recommend?”
“Something loyal who’s ready to defend you.”
“Like you?” She gazed at him alluringly and he had to work to focus on the dance steps.
“That is not how I’d describe myself.” Unfaithful, selfish, arrogant… those were far more accurate adjectives.
“But your ability to defend me and my honor is well-established. And here you are with me again tonight.” She shook her head, her lips set firmly together. “I’m dubbing you loyal.”
He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Please, stop. You’re going to reverse my black reputation. I can’t have that.”
She winked at him and then whispered saucily in return, “Then you have only to tell everyone I am your mystery woman and abandon me without a second thought.”
Though meant as a flirtation, her words chilled him to the bone. What would he do if her identity became known? He couldn’t think of a way to salvage her reputation in that instance. He needed to distance himself from her. Now.
Thankfully the music was drawing to a close.
“Pity the dance is ending,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’d walk with me on the terrace?”
Christ, no. They’d drawn more than enough notice. “No. I’m leaving.” He offered his arm to lead her from the dance floor. Softly, he said, “Don’t expect me to dance with you again. You know we can’t be friends.”
She glanced around them at the interested looks directed their way. “Regardless, I shall think of you that way.” She flashed him a brilliant smile before whispering, “Privately, of course.”
Privately, he would try not to think of her at all.
Philippa watched Sevrin stroll through the ballroom, his tall, athletic form cutting through the throng of people with careless grace. People stared, some covertly, others with unabashed interest. And those who weren’t watching him were looking at her. Wondering why he’d asked her to dance. Would anyone who’d been at Lockwood House somehow realize she was his masked mystery woman? Her head felt light, and her breathing shortened. She shouldn’t have danced with him.
And he shouldn’t have danced with just her. She held her breath, willing him to dance with someone else. Anyone.
As if he could hear her thoughts, he lingered on the other side of the room with Saxton and his wife. Saxton introduced him to a group of people and a few minutes later, he led Miss Lucinda Clark onto the dance floor.
A stab of jealousy overshadowed Philippa’s relief. No, it was good he was dancing with someone else. Necessary, even. Hadn’t she just wished for this very thing?
She mentally shook herself. She couldn’t feel jealous. Not even for a moment.
Instead of meeting von Egmont as promised, she decided she needed air. And privacy.
She threaded her way toward the terrace doors, but was cut off by her mother of all people. Her expression was dire. “Let us take a quiet stroll on the terrace, Philippa.”
So much for privacy.
Philippa exited the ballroom with her mother who led her to a dim corner of the terrace. She’d barely come to a halt before Mother had turned on her with eyes spitting fire. “What do you think you’re doing dancing with Sevrin?”
“The minuet?”
Mother pursed her lips in disappointment. “You’re supposed to be looking for a husband, not squandering your precious time with wastrels. And you were doing so well before that. Lord Allred’s grandmother had already given you her stamp of approval, now she may rescind it.”
As if it were an actual stamp emblazoned on Philippa’s forehead. She fought to keep her temper in check. “Remind me again why I need to find a husband yesterday? Oh, yes, your impending departure from Herrick House. I hope you plan to give Father this same dressing down. His behavior with his mistress is appalling. If it weren’t for the both of you, I could manage quite well.”
Mother’s lips tightened even further until the flesh around her mouth was so pale as to be translucent. Words didn’t come, however, and why should they? Philippa spoke nothing but the truth.
“If we’re finished here, I’d like to get back inside.” She gave her mother a cool stare. “I’ve a husband to find.”
Mother’s features softened, and she lightly touched Philippa’s arm. “I’m sorry. Sevrin’s just so inappropriate. He would only make you miserable.”
If the rumors about him were accurate, she was right. But so far Philippa had only seen a man who’d gone to great lengths to spare her reputation and keep her safe. This simply didn’t conform to what everyone said about him.
Was she prepared to defend an association with him? He’d just finished telling her they couldn’t even be friends. “Mother, there’s nothing between me and Sevrin. I met him after dancing with von Egmont, and I had a vacancy on my card. He was only being polite.”
Mother’s eyes narrowed. “Men like him are never polite. I’m sure there was some hidden agenda. Do yourself a favor and stay away from him.”
What was the point in arguing? After all, Philippa was going to stay away from him.
Philippa returned to the bright, sultry ballroom, and immediately felt weary. However, she still had a few more men to evaluate this evening before she could go home. Her gaze found her father and that woman and she realized she had to wait until they were ready to go home. Or perhaps they’d send her home alone. She could only hope.
In the meantime she turned toward the refreshment table only to be cut off once again, this time by Lydia and Audrey.
Lydia linked her arm through Philippa’s. “Come, you must tell us everything. What did you discuss? Why did he dance with you? Does he smell divine?”
While Philippa had expected this from Lydia, she’d really hoped to postpone the interrogation until tomorrow. She was on a firm deadline and there were still three men she needed to speak with.
“Well?” Lydia blinked at her as they stopped at the periphery of the ballroom.
“We discussed the weather. He danced with me because I had a vacancy, and he just happened to be there. He smells…” The words caught in her throat as she recalled his scent. Sandalwood and sage—unique and incredibly stirring. Horrified, she realized she’d ceased speaking. “He smells normal.” At Lydia’s frown, she added, “What is he supposed to smell like?”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Never mind. I can’t believe you only discussed the weather. If I had him alone like that I would’ve asked about his scandalous past. Why he refused to marry that girl after ruining her so thoroughly. And—”
Philippa recalled that Lydia had been about to impart some information earlier and leaned slightly forward in case she meant to disclose it now, but a gentleman was bearing down on them. It was Sir Reginald Johnson, one of the men Philippa had hoped to see. She affixed a welcoming smile, but he approached Lydia and asked her for the next dance.
After she’d gone, Audrey sidled closer. “I’m surprised he asked Lydia to dance, but glad. I was sure he’d come to dance with you.”
“I was too.” But she was pleased he’d asked Lydia to dance.
Audrey shook her head. “Oh, you shouldn’t. He’s awful.”
Had she
misunderstood Audrey? “But you just said you were glad he’s dancing with Lydia. Yet you don’t want me to dance with him?”
“I’m glad he asked Lydia because she never receives enough invitations. But I would rather you both stay clear of him. He has a terrible gambling problem, and he’s horridly mean when he’s in his cups.”
Philippa turned all of her attention to Audrey. “Does Lydia know that?”
“Yes.”
“Then why would Lydia dance with him?” As soon as the question left her mouth, she knew the answer. “She just wanted to dance.”
Audrey nodded. “She and I don’t have many choices. Or any choices. At present anyway.” She smiled, taking the gloom from her words. “We’re not like you. You can choose any of them. If you want.”
Unfortunately, want had become need. “How do you know about Sir Reginald?” She expected the answer to be Lydia and was already thinking how she might enlist Lydia’s help with potential husband evaluation.
“My cousin told me. He was at university with Sir Reginald. Before my cousin bought his commission, he warned me about certain blackguards I was to avoid at all costs.”
How lovely to have a caring family who looked out for each other’s best interests. All Philippa had were two self-involved parents. Suddenly she felt overwhelmed by her plight. Find a decent husband in the next thirty days who wouldn’t make her miserable for the rest of her life. She’d always found Sir Reginald to be charming and witty. She could very well have accepted his suit or even a proposal of marriage. And then where would she be?
She couldn’t do this.
Would it be so awful if her mother left her father? It might ruin the rest of the Season, but what was another year? Philippa had waited this long to marry already. But then she’d be stuck at Herrick House with Father and that woman. She supposed she could move in with Mother, but if she was carrying on with Booth-Barrows, such an environment would reflect poorly on Philippa. She’d be damned no matter where she lived.
Hang them all, she simply needed her independence and the only way to attain it (or at least more than she currently enjoyed) was through marriage.
She turned toward Audrey. “Are there other gentleman you can warn me about?”
Audrey nodded enthusiastically. “Certainly.” She proceeded to list several gentlemen, including three others on Philippa’s rapidly dwindling list. When she finished, she said, “I’m sorry I never told you before. I wasn’t sure you wanted that sort of information.”
“Of course I do. I would hate to find myself leg-shackled to a profligate or a fortune hunter.”
Audrey’s gaze grew guarded. “Why haven’t you married? You’ve had a few very good offers.”
They may have seemed good, but they hadn’t been good enough. Each man Philippa had rejected had fallen short in some way. “I wasn’t sure I could love any of them. And I’m worried I’ll never find someone I can. Or worse, that I’ll love him and he won’t love me back.”
Audrey smiled softly. “I understand. Why marry at all then?”
Philippa pondered her astute question a moment before asking, “Why do you want to marry, Audrey?”
“Because every girl does. Or should.” She shrugged, her smile broadening. “Oh, I don’t know. Because there’s nothing else to do?”
Philippa laughed. “That is what we’re meant to believe. I’m still hopeful, but I’d be ever so much more so if I had someone like your cousin to help me. Someone who could ferret out the Sir Reginalds so I don’t make a ghastly mistake.”
“You’ve been selective so far.” She regarded Philippa with something akin to admiration. “I’m confident you won’t make a mistake.”
Philippa watched Lydia dance with Sir Reginald and was relieved to have avoided him. But her mind ran over the remaining men on her list and she wondered if any of them were mistakes. One face rose in her mind—Sevrin. Oh, he’d be a mistake of catastrophic proportions. Too bad because he’d been so kind and considerate, a right hero if the truth were told.
A hero… he could help with her search! As a gentleman—or at least as a man—he could gain information about her potential suitors that she could never hope to attain. Information that could mean the difference between a happy marriage and a mistake.
The idea gained traction in her brain until she was convinced it was her best approach, given her ridiculously short timeframe. But how to request his assistance? She’d no idea when or if she’d see him again.
She’d just have to find a way. Secretly of course. The thought caused a tremor of anticipation in the pit of her belly. And warning bells in her brain.
In the interest of adhering to the deadline her mother had imposed, she chose to ignore them both.
Chapter Eight
THE following evening Ambrose went to one of his favorite places to watch a good pugilistic bout. He cut through the main room of the Lamb and Flag Tavern toward the boisterous shouts coming from the back room where fights were held—the notorious Bucket of Blood.
Sometimes he felt a pull to fight, but not tonight. He’d already spent a grueling two hours sparring with Hopkins at the Black Horse, his first bout of training for the prizefight that would take place in a little over a week.
The Bucket of Blood was filled to its walls with spectators. Ambrose recognized only one of the combatants. Presumably the other was new to the sport—and since Ambrose had been a part of London’s pugilistic community the past five years, he would know.
He worked his way through the throng of working class men—and a few women—seeking a better vantage point. A large-bosomed woman stumbled against him. “Pardon me, milord.” She raked him from head to foot and licked her lips. “You here to watch the fight or something else?”
She was attractive, but Ambrose had spent too many years fighting his baser urges. Now that he could recall Philippa’s scent and touch and taste, he didn’t have to work very hard to ignore this woman’s advances.
“I’m here for the fight. Excuse me.” He brushed past her.
“Sevrin.” His name came from a few yards distant, a deep, dark voice he knew well.
Ambrose moved to stand beside the massive speaker. “Lockwood.”
They’d met here a few years ago, but had kept to themselves, each preferring his own company to that of anyone else. It was that shared preference for solitude that had perhaps finally drawn them together several months ago, when Lockwood had invited Ambrose to one of his vice parties. Ambrose had been surprised because while his reputation was rotten, he wasn’t known for bed-hopping or skirt chasing. When Lockwood had quietly informed him that his parties offered opportunities of every flavor, the implication had been clear—Ambrose could indulge his proclivity for male companionship, if that was his choice.
It wasn’t. He’d chuckled, not the least bit offended. His lack of philandering since coming to London had been noted—everyone expected a known ruiner of women to leave a trail of discarded females—and explained by a sudden preference for men instead. At least by some. They reasoned his mistakes in Cornwall had changed him so that he now sought the company of men instead of women, not that anyone had ever seen him with a man. The irony was that his mistakes had changed him, but not in the way they imagined.
While he wasn’t interested in men, he’d kept himself from being interested in women. Which hadn’t been difficult following the catastrophe that was Lettice. The thought of bedding another woman had sickened him—not physically, but mentally. Fighting was a much less complicated and disastrous way of exercising one’s physical needs.
However, when Lockwood had invited him to his party, Ambrose had wondered if he’d abstained long enough. He’d certainly felt lust for women over the years, but had always tamped it down by beating the pulp out of someone instead.
After mulling over the invitation a few months, he’d decided to go—just to see if he was ready. If not, he’d at least enjoy the high stakes gambling with no harm done. Except within ten minutes of
entering the sexually charged drawing room, he’d been propositioned by a woman. A curvaceous blonde who’d borne a striking resemblance to Lettice, even though he couldn’t see her face. Or maybe he’d simply recalled Lettice since she was the last woman he’d lain with. For whatever reason, he’d left immediately and hadn’t returned until four nights ago.
That visit had gone much better, for he’d gone straight to the card room, simply bypassing the drawing room. After an hour of emptying his opponents’ pockets, he’d departed—without thinking—via the drawing room.
Where he’d seen Philippa.
He couldn’t say what had caused him to rush to her side. Her beauty? The lost look in her eyes? Her palpable sense of uncertainty? All of it. But he hadn’t really needed to kiss her, had he? A moot question because he’d been powerless to resist. The lust he’d subjugated for five long years had roared back, and he’d indulged for just a moment. With the most unattainable of women. He could no more capitulate to his desire for her than he could ever return to Cornwall.
He turned his mind to the fight, which was just starting. “You see this new bloke—Ackley—before?”
Lockwood shook his head. “My money’s on Locke, though.”
The din rose loud enough to obscure further conversation, so they fell silent to watch the fight. Though clearly less experienced, Ackley was fast. Locke was a heavier man and his punches were powerful and precise. Ackley dodged the first several, but one finally caught him on the side of the head. Ambrose winced.
Dazed by the blow, Ackley stumbled into the rope strung around the ring. Locke pushed forward and drove two more punches into Ackley’s middle.
Ambrose’s gut tightened as he watched the young man struggle to stay in the fight. Ambrose had always been drawn to the weaker, less experienced fighters, which hadn’t always won him much money when he wagered. However, the money was nothing compared to that jubilant feeling when the fighter he backed was victorious—almost as heady as his own win. And it was no secret, at least to him, why he supported such men. Growing up with a brother like Nigel meant he looked out for the weak, the ridiculed, the disdained. Not that such concern had stopped him from dealing Nigel the ultimate injury. He pushed his mind away from the painful memories and focused on Ackley.
