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Authors: Elizabeth Rolls
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anyway.
‘It should be entertaining to watch them all trying to work out precisely how great an indiscretion can be glossed over with fifty thousand pounds.’ There was an odd snap in his voice.
‘What indiscretion?’ growled Richard.
Julian’s brows drew together, and he nodded to another acquaintance. Then he said lightly, ‘The imaginary one they are talking about, of course, Ricky. And do, please, unclench your fists.’
Looking down, Richard was startled to discover that his fists were indeed clenched. Since Julian hadn’t even glanced at his hands…He glared at his friend.
Braybrook raised a dark brow. ‘Your voice, old chap. It always gives you away.’
Behind them the matron continued, ‘Well, I can’t say I should like the connection for Marianne, but
—’a tinge of scornful condescension crept into her voice ‘—I dare say Aberfield can’t afford to be fussy getting this one off his hands; after all, Dunhaven does need an heir.’
Her companion tittered in agreement.
All consideration of discretion crashed to splinters as Richard spun and skewered the startled women with a glare that could have felled a gorgon. He didn’t waste time on words, merely stared at them coldly as they flounced and muttered, before hurrying off through the crowd. Dragging in a deep breath, he turned and looked again…this time he found her.
Every nerve taut in shock, tension rippled through him. What the hell did she think she was doing?
No longer the grey mouse who had snapped his head off at breakfast, but a vision in shimmering rose-pink gauze. A soft, dusky shade—exactly like…like something waiting to be plucked. He backed right away from that analogy. The light brown curls were piled high, a pink bandeau holding them in place, gold lights glinting in the blaze of candlelight…but it wasn’t the change in her appearance that had fury simmering through every vein.
Aberfield had lost no time at all in offering his daughter up on the altar of political expedience—
Lord Dunhaven hovered beside her like a dog guarding a juicy bone.
‘Ah.’ Braybrook nudged him. ‘That is Miss Winslow over there, is it not? In rose pink?’ A brief pause and then Braybrook added, ‘With Dunhaven.’
‘Yes,’ Richard grated. Inside him something growled, and Braybrook’s less-than-parliamentary remark about old goats went unanswered—Richard was already forging a path through the crowd.
Braybrook blinked. Then his gaze narrowed. How very unlike Ricky not to think a strategy through first. And while a full-frontal assault might be sufficient, a little flanking manoeuvre would not go astray.
Thea had completely underestimated the speed with which news could travel through fashionable society. Any number of people had seen her in the park and realised her identity. And of course all the people to whom Lady Arnsworth had presented her had been only too happy to mention their acquaintance with the latest heiress. Mrs Dallimore had been swift to bear the tidings to her sister, Lady Fothergill, who had dashed off a charming note assuring Lady Arnsworth that of course she would be delighted to welcome dear Lady Arnsworth’s protégée to her little party that very evening.
In Thea’s book, Lady Fothergill’s assembly did not qualify as a little party.
She had forgotten what it felt like to be one of three hundred people squashed into one house. The roar of conversation, mingled with the half-heard strains of the small orchestra made it almost impossible to hear what was said to one. And the heat of all those bodies, the mingled aromas of perfume, cologne and overheated humanity, rose in an almost overpowering wave. Chandeliers and wall sconces blazed with wax candles, adding to the heat. At least this was only an assembly.
There would be no dancing tonight.
Once that would not have pleased her at all. She had loved dancing. Loved the music, melody and rhythm sweeping her along in delight. Now she fought to
‘It should be entertaining to watch them all trying to work out precisely how great an indiscretion can be glossed over with fifty thousand pounds.’ There was an odd snap in his voice.
‘What indiscretion?’ growled Richard.
Julian’s brows drew together, and he nodded to another acquaintance. Then he said lightly, ‘The imaginary one they are talking about, of course, Ricky. And do, please, unclench your fists.’
Looking down, Richard was startled to discover that his fists were indeed clenched. Since Julian hadn’t even glanced at his hands…He glared at his friend.
Braybrook raised a dark brow. ‘Your voice, old chap. It always gives you away.’
Behind them the matron continued, ‘Well, I can’t say I should like the connection for Marianne, but
—’a tinge of scornful condescension crept into her voice ‘—I dare say Aberfield can’t afford to be fussy getting this one off his hands; after all, Dunhaven does need an heir.’
Her companion tittered in agreement.
All consideration of discretion crashed to splinters as Richard spun and skewered the startled women with a glare that could have felled a gorgon. He didn’t waste time on words, merely stared at them coldly as they flounced and muttered, before hurrying off through the crowd. Dragging in a deep breath, he turned and looked again…this time he found her.
Every nerve taut in shock, tension rippled through him. What the hell did she think she was doing?
No longer the grey mouse who had snapped his head off at breakfast, but a vision in shimmering rose-pink gauze. A soft, dusky shade—exactly like…like something waiting to be plucked. He backed right away from that analogy. The light brown curls were piled high, a pink bandeau holding them in place, gold lights glinting in the blaze of candlelight…but it wasn’t the change in her appearance that had fury simmering through every vein.
Aberfield had lost no time at all in offering his daughter up on the altar of political expedience—
Lord Dunhaven hovered beside her like a dog guarding a juicy bone.
‘Ah.’ Braybrook nudged him. ‘That is Miss Winslow over there, is it not? In rose pink?’ A brief pause and then Braybrook added, ‘With Dunhaven.’
‘Yes,’ Richard grated. Inside him something growled, and Braybrook’s less-than-parliamentary remark about old goats went unanswered—Richard was already forging a path through the crowd.
Braybrook blinked. Then his gaze narrowed. How very unlike Ricky not to think a strategy through first. And while a full-frontal assault might be sufficient, a little flanking manoeuvre would not go astray.
Thea had completely underestimated the speed with which news could travel through fashionable society. Any number of people had seen her in the park and realised her identity. And of course all the people to whom Lady Arnsworth had presented her had been only too happy to mention their acquaintance with the latest heiress. Mrs Dallimore had been swift to bear the tidings to her sister, Lady Fothergill, who had dashed off a charming note assuring Lady Arnsworth that of course she would be delighted to welcome dear Lady Arnsworth’s protégée to her little party that very evening.
In Thea’s book, Lady Fothergill’s assembly did not qualify as a little party.
She had forgotten what it felt like to be one of three hundred people squashed into one house. The roar of conversation, mingled with the half-heard strains of the small orchestra made it almost impossible to hear what was said to one. And the heat of all those bodies, the mingled aromas of perfume, cologne and overheated humanity, rose in an almost overpowering wave. Chandeliers and wall sconces blazed with wax candles, adding to the heat. At least this was only an assembly.
There would be no dancing tonight.
Once that would not have pleased her at all. She had loved dancing. Loved the music, melody and rhythm sweeping her along in delight. Now she fought to
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