The Heart of a Scoundrel (3 page)

“Honoria,” her daughter corrected.

“—Fairfax,” she went on as though Gillian hadn’t spoken.

The young gentleman flicked his gaze disinterestedly over Honoria’s trim frame and ivory skirts. “Charmed.”

“Undoubtedly,” she muttered under her breath.

Pride swelled in Phoebe’s breast at her friend’s unerring pride in the face of the rude young nobleman.

Next, Lord Hargrove passed his blue-eyed stare over Phoebe. His gaze fell to her décolletage, his eyes lingering overly long on her too-generous bosom. When he looked at her, a glint of lust reflected in the depths of his eyes. She shivered, willing to trade her left hand in this moment for her friend’s cashmere shawl.

“I was mentioning how very graceful you are, Gillian,” the marchioness said sharply. By the hard glint in her eyes as she alternated her gaze between Phoebe and Lord Hargrove, she’d detected the dishonorable gentleman’s interest in a woman other than her daughter. “His Lordship has asked that I coordinate an introduction so he might ask you to dance.”

With seeming reluctance, he returned his attention to the by far loveliest of the scandalous trio. “My lady, will you do me the honor of partnering me in the next set.”

A desperate glint lit the young lady’s eyes, but then her mother fixed a black glare on her and Gillian spoke on a rush. “It would be a pleasure, my lord.” He held his arm out. Gillian hesitated a moment and then with the same enthusiasm as Marie Antoinette being marched to the guillotine, she placed her fingertips upon his satin coat sleeve and allowed him to escort her off.

The marchioness stared after the departing couple and then without a backward glance for her daughter’s wayward friends, turned on a huff, and beat a hasty retreat.

“A lovely lady,” Honoria said. “Why, I give thanks every day that it is just my aunt, so I do not have to contend with an overbearing mama and her scheming ways.” She gave a mock shudder. “A mother who would turn her daughter over to such a dandified fop, a shame, indeed.”

Phoebe opened her mouth to agree just as her gaze collided with Lord Allswood. She bit back a curse.

“What is it?”

She ignored her friend’s quietly spoken question. The determined gentleman moved through the crowd with a singular purpose in his step. Phoebe hopped to her feet. Honoria looked up at her and then followed her attention across the ballroom. She immediately rose in a flurry of white skirts. Having made too many hasty escapes from the determined Lord Allswood, they immediately sought refuge behind the towering Doric column, and proceeded to skirt the edge of the crowded ballroom. Their ivory and white skirts pressed together, they made their way to the back of the ballroom and slipped past the crimson red drapes, into an alcove.

The ladies shared a conspiratorial smile. “I wish we could stay in here forever,” Phoebe whispered. Or at the very least until Lord Allswood took himself off to the card tables set up in Lady Delenworth’s back room. “Why does he persist?”

“Because you’re perfectly lovely and clever.”

She snorted. A cad such as Lord Allswood would hardly care whether she was as empty between the ears as a plaster wall. He was, if nothing else, tenacious.

“We cannot remain here all night.”

No, no they couldn’t.

A spark glinted in Honoria’s eyes and then she fiddled with her haircombs while chewing her lower lip in deep concentration.

Phoebe furrowed her brow. “What are you—?”

“Aha,” she said, with a pleased smile as she managed to untangle the haircombs from her dark tresses. She stuck them between her teeth and spun Phoebe around.

“What—?” She winced as with her hasty efforts, Honoria tugged too hard at her hair. She gave one more tug and tears sprung to Phoebe’s eyes.

Engrossed, Honoria tossed the butterfly combs onto the small, velvet chair where they landed with a soft thump. She took the rose, diamond-encrusted combs worth more than any and every bauble shared by Phoebe and her younger sister, Justina, combined and tucked one into Phoebe’s brown hair. “Gentlemen do not look carefully enough,” she carefully arranged the other diamond-encrusted comb. “They see white skirts and certain garments.” She removed her ivory cashmere shawl and draped it over Phoebe’s shoulders, and then guided her around. “Such as my shawl, and then don’t see beyond that.”

Phoebe widened her eyes as her friend’s efforts made sense. Honoria thought to deter Lord Allswood’s efforts. She made a sound of protest. “I cannot take this from you,” she said, shrugging the delicate slip of fabric from her shoulders. As long as she’d known the other woman, this scrap of cashmere had been the dearest item in her friend’s possession. She was never without the garment.

“You’re wearing it incorrectly,” Honoria scolded, ignoring Phoebe’s concerns. She carefully arranged it just below Phoebe’s shoulders. “And yes, you can. Come. I imagine he’s since gone and now you may move freely.” They slipped outside the curtained alcove and startled gasps escaped them.

“Father,” Phoebe murmured, dropping a hasty curtsy. Her friend followed suit.

He ignored their polite greeting, his frown deepened as he looked between them. “There you are, gel,” he said at last. “Been looking for you,” he snapped.

Having learned long ago to not rile him, as he was always unpredictable in his temperaments, she calmly said, “I’d torn my hem and it required repairing.” The lie came effortlessly.

He ignored her words, turning to Honoria. “Miss Fairfax,” he said.

“My lord,” she returned.

Wordlessly his beady blue eyes went to her décolletage and Phoebe fisted her hands at her side, knowing there was supposed to be a sin in putting one’s hands upon one’s father, but, by God, she wanted to bloody his bulbous nose for the way he leered at Honoria. Guilt at having commandeered the other woman’s shawl filled her.

Sorry
, she mouthed as regret and mortified embarrassment lapped at her conscience.

Except, when the viscount picked up his gaze there was a detached coolness there. “Come along,” he commanded and wrapped his fingers about Phoebe’s wrist, all but dragging her away. “There is someone I wish for you to meet.”

She cast a longing glance back at her friend who stood staring commiseratively after her, and then returned her attention forward to where Lord Allswood waited, a triumphant grin on his hard lips.

“…Lord Allswood…”

Phoebe groaned. “No.” She dug her heels in, either forcing him to stop or drag her to the floor.

He stopped and scowled at her.

“I require a moment of air,” she said quickly, her mind turning entirely too slowly.

Her traitorous father scratched his bald, sweating pate. “Air?” he said it as though she sought the king’s crown.

Nonetheless, she nodded once. “Air. The heat of the ballroom is too much,” she finished lamely.

Before he could issue protest, she spun swiftly on her heel in a flurry of whispery skirts and all but sprinted away from her father, away from Lord Allswood and away from the ballroom—in desperate search of peace.

E
dmund passed a cynical gaze over the tedious activity of the crowded ballroom. Foppish swains converged upon the Diamonds of the First Water. Couples twirled in a kaleidoscope of colorful satins. The tinkling of giggling ladies grated. He’d quite studiously avoided such infernal crushes. Not for the reason of avoiding the marriage trap. Even the simpering ladies knew better than to seek his favor. He belonged less in this polite world than the devil did in that fabled heaven.

The rare appearances he made were never without purpose and certainly not without reason. This night was no exception. He skimmed a hard stare over the lords and ladies present. White gown upon white gown created an almost cloud-like effect of debutantes. The unfortunate lady he’d selected as the lead player in his scheme was no exception. He eyed the dark-haired young woman with her nondescript features, brown eyes, white gown, and that silly shawl. Though in fairness to that otherwise useless scrap of fabric, tonight it had served its purpose. So, this was Miss Honoria Fairfax, Margaret’s niece, and also the young woman he’d wed.

From her narrow-waisted frame, to her pale complexion, there was nothing that roused even the hint of lust in the young woman. A hard smile played on his lips, which sent a dandy in yellow satin breeches who’d been passing too close, scurrying in the opposite direction. The taste of revenge, however, would serve as a potent aphrodisiac when the time came to ruin her. One of Lady Delenworth’s liveried servants stepped into his line of vision, holding out his silver tray of champagne flutes. Edmund flicked an icy stare over the young fool who’d dared interrupt him. The man stumbled back, nearly upending his burden, and then scrambled off.

Edmund returned his attention to the drab wallflower he’d eventually take to wife, but the pale blonde beauty on her right leaned forward, restricting his view. He’d taken care to learn everything and anything about Margaret’s niece; he knew she donned that silly shawl, as though to protect herself from leering eyes. He scoffed. As though one would leer at one such as her. The lady enjoyed reading. And she’d made the fatal mistake of taking two women as her close friends and confidantes. The sad creature had yet to realize that those ties to other people, be it friends, family, or lovers, invariably weakened one. She would learn, and then she’d never again make the same careless mistake.

The blonde beauty more suited to his tastes, leaned back and revealed the other dark-haired young lady—Viscount Waters’ daughter, Miss Phoebe Barrett. He passed a quick, methodical gaze on the woman whose familial connection would lead him to Miss Honoria Fairfax. A delicate jaw, high cheeks, and a pert nose, she may as well have been any other young English woman. He made to return his attention to the woman he’d trap, when Miss Barrett’s full lips turned down at the corner. Even with the space between them, he detected the hard, disapproving glint in her eyes. For one moment he believed she’d noted his scrutiny, which was, of course, preposterous. One such as she could never glean a hint of his treachery. He followed her stare.

Unaware of his scrutiny, she boldly glared at Lord Allswood. A mirthless chuckle rumbled up from Edmund’s chest as the two studied one another. Ah, so the lady had a lover, and by the furious set to her mouth—she was an angry lover. Then, he looked to the fop, Lord Allswood, and followed the other man’s gaze to the woman’s generous décolletage. A wave of unexpected lust slammed into Edmund. The otherwise ordinary lady possessed the lush, tempting form he’d long admired. An angry, lush, lover. Never before would he believe himself capable of envying that fool Allswood. He did in that moment.

As though she felt his gaze upon her, Miss Barrett snapped her head up and looked about. Edmund shifted behind the column, escaping her notice…and waited. He’d grown adept at waiting. For triumph and victory was made all the sweeter with the wait. In addition to the lesson on weakness he’d learned as a youth, he’d also come to know the importance of masterful timing, and so he remained fixed to the marble floor, behind the column, occasionally shifting so he might steal furtive glances at the lady he sought.

Edmund swallowed back a curse at the now empty row of chairs. He quickly scanned the ballroom for a glimpse of the lady and found her in moments. Others might have failed to note the rapidly fleeing Miss Honoria Fairfax as she made her way down the perimeter of the ballroom, but as one who’d perfected subterfuge, he recognized it in another. He immediately started moving after those nauseating white skirts. He gave thanks for that ivory cashmere shawl; the one identifier of the dark-haired woman who represented all on his quest for revenge.

With a purposeful step, he strode through the thick crush of bodies. Gentlemen paled as he cut a swath through the crowd. The married ones frowned, pulling their wives closer. The mamas glowered, pulling their innocent daughters even closer. A hard smile formed on his lips. Then, one of the benefits of being the most feared, unrelenting lord was that it spared him from inane company and made his orchestrated meeting with Miss Fairfax all the easier.

Edmund exited the ballroom and strode down the narrow, dimly lit corridor just as the lady turned down the end of the hall. He quickened his step and then a splash of ivory caught his notice. He drew to a slow stop, a humorless grin turning his lips upward at the corner.

Fate proved once again the undeniable truth—the devil loved a sinner. He swiped the modest fabric off the thin carpet and without breaking stride, stuffed it into the front pocket of his jacket and continued walking forward, after the unsuspecting young lady. Edmund turned at the end of the hall and silently cursed. He ducked back as the dark-haired debutante froze. “Hullo,” she called out.

Either the lady met her lover or courted her own ruin. He paused, counting his good fortune. He’d interrupt any possible assignation between the lady and the young swain she’d meet. There was also the surprising good piece in not requiring the viscount’s assistance in this, maintaining the debt he held over the man. Edmund waited several moments and then peered around the corner. But for the handful of shadows playing off the floors from the lit sconces at each end of the hall, the corridor remained empty. If he were meeting a lover, where would he arrange that assignation? Just another benefit of having taken countless lovers in countless ballrooms in countless trysting spots. Edmund started down the hall, bypassing doors already passed by the lady herself. He made his way to the row of floor-length windows, hardly conducive to concealment, but certainly beneficial when one welcomed the pleasure of a voyeur.

With excitement thrumming through his veins, he silently pressed the handle. He shoved the door open and wordlessly stepped out onto the stone terrace.

“Blast.”

He stilled.

A flurry of cursing rent the quiet of the night.
Riiiiip
. “Bloody hell.”

And for the first time since he’d set his scheme into motion involving the dull, hideously plain Miss Honoria Fairfax he felt the faint stirring of interest. And if he were a less cynical, less practiced rogue, he’d have been intrigued by the cursing, too loud for a tryst, young lady at the far end of the terrace.