Never Love a Scoundrel (8 page)

“He fell through a window.”

She felt a pull of allegiance toward Lockwood, probably due to Locke’s cavalier attitude. A thought occurred to her, one that might explain the divide between them. “Did you push him?”

His shoulder lifted in a slight shrug. “I might have.”

Again, not even a sliver of remorse, but also no note of triumph. What had happened between these men? “Why?”

He was silent a moment as he turned her around and directed them back they way they’d come. “It’s a very long story, I’m afraid. And somewhat tedious. Probably not very appropriate ballroom talk.”

Probably not, but she didn’t care. She was inexplicably fascinated by Lockwood. Perhaps she could goad Locke into telling her. She pretended to pout. “It’s very unsporting of you to only give me half the story.”

He laughed. And yes, his eyes crinkled attractively. “Such a minx! We had a disagreement. Leave it at that.”

She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “A disagreement? That’s what fights are. Fine, if you won’t explain, at least tell me why you’ve come to Town now and where you’ve been.”

“I’ve been . . . around. And I’ve come to Town because my dear friend Lady Aldridge lost her husband.”

If Lady Aldridge was his dear friend, why hadn’t he been to visit her before? What did “around” mean? She bit the questions back in favor of showing the proper respect due to Lord Aldridge. “Such a shame what happened to his lordship. Frightening, too. To think that an earl could be involved in such criminal activity and then murdered.” She shuddered.

“Indeed,” he said. “Lady Aldridge is still quite bereaved. I believe I’ve finally convinced her to retreat to the country. She’s been reluctant to leave the house where she and the earl spent so much of their time.”

Lydia frowned. “I called on her the other day. Her butler said she was ill.”

“She is, which is why I’m hoping she’ll go to the country.”

Lydia was about to ask how he knew Lady Aldridge in the first place when an older, broad-shouldered gentleman with dark gray hair stepped in their path.

“Locke. Lady Lydia.” The Marquess of Wolverton gave her a slight bow.

Lydia’s gut tightened. Wolverton never spoke to her. He was an Untouchable—one of the few members of Society whom Aunt Margaret had declared immune to gossip. She and Aunt Margaret stayed clear of him and went so far as to quash any rumors about him.

His appearance in their path gave Lydia more than a touch of anxiety. “My lord,” she said with a curtsey.

Wolverton gave her a patronizing smile. “It’s terribly rude of me, but do you mind if I steal Locke? I’ve a matter to discuss with him.”

Wolverton and Locke had matters to discuss? This was a wonderful tidbit and one she could thankfully repeat to Aunt Margaret since Wolverton had addressed him in the middle of the ballroom.

Lydia gave her sunniest debutante smile and withdrew her arm from Locke’s. She masked her disappointment, keeping her voice as pleasant as her face. “It’s not rude at all, my lord. Mr. Locke and I had a delightful turn.”

Locke inclined his head toward her and gave her a mischievous little grin. “We did. And I look forward to the next time.”

“As do I.” She transferred her smile to Locke.
“Soon
.
”

They turned from her and strode away through the ballroom. Lydia pivoted, working hard to tamp down her anxiety. It had been a fruitful promenade in that she’d learned he’d argued with his brother and probably pushed him out of a window, which had scarred his face. This was undoubtedly new information since Lydia hadn’t heard it yet, which would thrill Aunt Margaret, who’d demanded Lydia get to the heart of Lockwood’s declaration that Locke had given him his scar. She scanned the ballroom for her aunt, but she was hard to find, being so petite. Failing in that search, she looked instead for Audrey. As expected, she was against the wall near where Lydia had left her.

Halfway to Audrey, Lydia was stopped by Lady Trevett. “Lady Lydia, I saw you strolling with Mr. Locke.”

Lydia gave her a patient smile. “Yes, we discussed Lord Lockwood’s visit to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s yesterday.”

Lady Trevett’s eyes widened. “Did you? Did he admit they’re brothers?”

“Why would he? Because we discussed Lockwood’s shocking reappearance?
Everyone
is talking about that,” Lydia said with a touch of impatience. It was dreadfully difficult to shed one’s image as a gossipmonger when people continued to approach her for gossip. “Please excuse me, I see Miss Cheswick and wish to speak with her.” Lydia gave her an apologetic, graceful smile and took herself off.

However, Audrey was no longer by the wall. Fortunately, a moment’s scan revealed her in an alcove. She was turned away from Lydia talking to a gentleman. A very tall, massively-built gentleman . . . Lydia’s steps slowed as she neared them. Tucked into the alcove they were practically invisible to anyone else, but Lydia had been looking for her friend.

Lydia came to a stop behind them. Her gaze settled on the scar disfiguring Lockwood’s beauty—and goodness, was he beautiful in his evening attire. She’d never seen a man fill out a suit of clothing better.

He peered around Audrey. “Lady Lydia.”

Audrey stepped back, allowing Lydia into their little circle. “Look who I’ve just met, Lydia, it’s your Lord Lockwood.”

“He’s not mine,” Lydia said quickly, an inexplicable shiver running through her frame. She focused on Lockwood. “Did you sneak in unannounced? I didn’t hear your name, and surely you’d be mobbed by now.” She glanced back over her shoulder. Everyone seemed oblivious to his presence.

“I was allowed to enter through a side door. Miss Cheswick was the first person I encountered, and she seemed . . . approachable.” He threw her a commiserative smile, and Lydia marveled at Audrey’s aplomb.

“You see,” Lydia said to Audrey with a wink, “I said you wouldn’t faint if you met him.”

Audrey’s cheeks pinked, and she cast Lockwood an apologetic smile. “Please don’t take offense. I’m intimidated by many people.”

Thankfully he didn’t look the least offended. “But not by me, I hope.”

“Oddly, no,” she said with a tiny head shake.

“I’m delighted, Miss Cheswick.” He slid his gaze to Lydia. She stared at his eyes—they were the same shape as Locke’s, but the gray was actually slightly different. Lockwood’s were darker, stormier. Stormier? When had her thoughts turned so fanciful? When she’d met Lord Lockwood.

“Lady Lydia, would you care to dance?” He glanced at Audrey. “My apologies, Miss Cheswick, since we haven’t been formally introduced, I can’t ask you.”

Score one social point for the elder Lockwood brother.

The set was finishing. If Lydia was right, a waltz was next. Did he know how? By all accounts, he hadn’t been to a ball in ages. “It’s a waltz,” Lydia said.

“Is it?” He sounded careless. “Excellent.” His gray eyes looked into hers with an intensity that made her toes curl. What was he about this evening?

She took his arm, and they left the alcove. With each step toward the dance floor, Lydia was aware of attention turning toward them, of heads turning, of conversation ceasing. By the time they took their places and the music started, the ballroom was almost deadly quiet, except for the strains of the waltz. As he swept her into the dance, the other couples remained still. For a few moments they moved about the center of the ballroom, his hand at her back, her hand on his shoulder, their fingers clasped. It seemed they were the only things moving in the entire world. Time had ceased to advance. Everyone around them was frozen in some eerie tableau.

But Lydia was most aware of him. His wide shoulders, his warmth, that jagged scar . . .

“Why do you stare at it so much?” he asked.

She shook her head and raised her gaze to his. “What?”

His eyes held the same intensity as they had in the alcove. “My scar. You always stare at it.” His voice grew soft. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” she said the word before she even contemplated her reasoning. Why
did
she stare at it? She wasn’t the least bit repulsed by how it looked. “It makes me sad. I wish you didn’t have it. I wish I could make it go away, and not because it disfigured your face, but because it’s a reminder of something I’m sure you’d rather forget.”

She heard his breath catch. Her heartbeat doubled. She knew what it was like to want to forget, to erase memories from your mind and maybe create a history that could make you smile instead of weep. His eyes bored into hers and she thought he understood.

The moment shattered as other couples started dancing and conversation picked up again. She looked up at him, prepared to query him about his half brother, but the questions died on her lips. He was still looking at her in that intensely . . .
hot
way. Maybe whatever moment they’d shared hadn’t broken apart. Maybe this was more than a moment.

Lydia’s gaze locked with his as the waltz continued. For the first time ever she simply enjoyed the dance. She wanted to laugh at doubting his skill—he was exquisite. He moved gracefully and effortlessly for such a large man, but then his build was athletic. What did he do to achieve such results? Suddenly the questions burning her brain became far more personal. What did he do for leisure? How had he learned to dance so well? What made him happy?

But she said nothing. She was too afraid to ruin this blissful interlude where she was simply a young lady enjoying a waltz with a handsome man.

Unfortunately the music began to wind down. Lydia’s pulse quickened with anxiety. She didn’t want it to end, wished time would freeze again, and they could dance forever. Tears blurred her eyes. She never cried. Why now?

The music ended, and she blinked rapidly lest she break down.
Goodness, pull yourself together, Lydia!

Reality forced its way back in as they made their way from the dance floor. People were openly staring again, and the sound in the ballroom came to a slow but definitive halt. Even the musicians remained silent.

And then Lydia knew why. Emerging from the throng of people to greet them as they exited the dance floor was the only other person who could cause such a furor.

She looked up at Lockwood, her arm clutching his as if she could give him strength. Later she would have to consider this sudden and surprising allegiance to him, but for now, she only hoped he was all right.

His eyes were dark and they fixed on the figure standing directly before them.

Locke’s lips spread in a wicked smile. “Good evening, brother.”

Chapter Five

SO THIS
was how Ethan planned to go on? Jason knew they were going to have to admit the familial tie—they were too similar to hide it. But here, in the middle of the first ball Jason had attended in forever? The audacity didn’t surprise him. Ethan would choose whatever suited him and damn anyone else.

No, what surprised him was Ethan’s appearance in a bloody ballroom. He looked . . . respectable.

Lady Lydia’s fingers dug into his forearm, drawing Jason back to the present. He forced his muscles to relax and his mouth into the semblance of a smile. “‘Locke,’ is it?”

Ethan cocked a smile in return and then bowed. Jason stifled the urge to kick him to the ground.

Lydia stood on tiptoe and whispered toward Jason’s ear, “We should move off the dance floor.”

All of Society was watching and wondering if he would suffer a mental break in front of their very eyes. Several were probably even hoping for it. He kept his features schooled into a pleasant mask. “Yes, we should.”

“Lockwood, perhaps you’d care to take refreshment with me?” Ethan asked.

Jason would rather have dined with the devil, but since he’d come here to determine Ethan’s motives, he went along. “I should be delighted.” Had anyone noticed if that last word sounded strangled?

Lady Lydia steered him toward a doorway. “The refreshments are through here.”

The people surrounding them still stared, but the music began again.

He glanced down at Lady Lydia’s blond head. What was she doing? She shouldn’t be a part of this. “You should go,” he said quietly.

Her answering look was full of concern. “I’m not leaving you with him.”

She meant to protect him? Why? Given his experience, he was generally suspicious of people, particularly when they offered kindness. He couldn’t begin to fathom why this young woman would want to come to his aid.

They moved into a room set with tables of food and drink. A handful of Society’s finest were inside. Every single one of them turned to gape.

Ethan came around Jason’s side—his left side. His gaze flicked to the scar he’d caused. “I assume you’d like something stronger than ratafia?”

“I’ll drink whatever you’re drinking,” Jason said, hoping against hope a footman would come by with a large bottle of whisky.

Ethan inclined his head and a footman brought champagne. It would suffice.

After first presenting Lady Lydia with a glass, Ethan offered one to Jason. Their eyes met and Jason wrapped his fingers tightly around the stem of the glass as he accepted it. Ethan’s eyes were like his, though the color was a bit lighter, more like their father’s. In fact, looking at Ethan in this environment, in those clothes . . . he looked so much like their father as to be uncanny. No one would doubt their kinship. At least no one with decent eyesight.