Code of Honor Excerpt

Excerpt:

Even the slightest movement caused a grimace to pass over the well-chiseled features. One eyelid slowly pried itself open, then fell shut at the sight of a hazy but eminently recognizable bottle of brandy perched on the delicate gilt side table.

Good Lord, had he really polished off that one too?

With a groan he rearranged his long, muscled legs, only to find them entangled with a pair of much shorter, softer ones. A slender hand ran lightly over the dark curls of his chest, across the hard planes of his stomach, then roamed even lower.

“My lord,” murmured a sultry voice. “It appears you are ...awake. Quite awake.” A pair of lips pressed against his shoulder, a tongue teased the tanned flesh.

Stifling another groan, he pushed her lush hips back into the satin sheets and rolled on top of her.

A half hour later, the Earl of Branford sat on the edge of the rumpled bed. The dull ache in his head only mirrored the one deep inside. After briefly massaging his temples, he finished pulling on his boots and then reached for his shirt.

“Must you go? The raven haired beauty let the sheet slip ever so slightly to bare one rose nipple.

The Earl didn’t even cast a glance her way as he essayed to tie his cravat into some semblance of neatness. He stood up and, with a slight shake of his head, shrugged his broad shoulders into an impeccably cut coat of navy superfine. Reaching into one of the pockets, he removed a small box, exquisitely wrapped in embossed paper, and dropped into the swirl of satin.

The lady unwrapped it. Her jaw tightened slightly as she draped the filigree gold bracelet winking with diamonds and emeralds around her wrist.

“It is indeed beautiful.” After a moment of silence she added,”So this is goodbye?”

“It is time, Serena.”

She gave a toss of her head, sending the dark ringlets cascading over her alabaster shoulders—even in anger, he thought cynically, she managed to look perfect.

“I suppose I should feel flattered that I’ve lasted longer than most of your mistresses,”

“No, you should not. In fact, it is nothing personal.” He straightened the gold signet ring on his little finger. “My banker will make the necessary arrangements, though with your charms, I doubt you will be without protection for very long.”

“You are a hard man, my lord.”

“Come now my dear, do not play the injured party with me. You know very well you expected no less.”

He turned and left the bedroom, quietly but firmly closing the door after him.

Outside, the raw chill slapped at his face. He turned up the collar of his greatcoat and settled the curly brimmed beaver hat on his long locks. At the corner his carriage was waiting. It was nearly four in the morning and though he was dead tired and feeling muzzy from the effects of the brandy and the boudoir, he couldn’t face returning home. He rubbed a hand over his stubbly jaw, then rapped on the roof with the tip of his silver chaised walking stick.

“White’s,” he called out in his rich baritone. Then he settled back against the squabs and closed his weary eyes.

Despite the late hour, there was no dearth of activity at the exclusive club on St. James’s Street. Gentlemen—many in far worse condition than the earl—were still at play in the gaming room while others nursed port or brandy in the comfort of the well-appointed rooms.

Branford handed his greatcoat to the porter and entered one of the main rooms. A hush fell over the small group of men gathered before the roaring fire. A number of wary eyes followed his progress as the earl made his way towards a vacant leather wing chair and ordered a bottle of claret to be brought posthaste. He settled his lanky frame into the soft leather and stretched hiss boots towards the warmth of the blaze. The wine appeared almost immediately. He poured a glass, but instead of raising it to his lips, he merely cradled it in his lap. His eyes fell half closed, an impenetrable look on his handsome features.

The frisson of tension eased. The buzz of conversation slowly began again as it became evident there was to be no immediate victim of the earl’s sardonic tongue. Though some of those gathered there at that hour made up a rather reckless set, much given to heavy drinking, deep play and short tempers, none cared to cross swords—verbal or otherwise—with a man of Branford’s reputation.

“It’s outside of enough,” muttered one of the gentlemen by the fire, a middle aged viscount with darting, ferretlike eyes set in an otherwise unremarkable face. “Is it true, Hammerton, that the chit behaved in such a manner? What is her aunt thinking of?”

“Her aunt is too busy with her nose buried in her late husband’s writing to see beyond her spectacles. It’s not like the girl has any prospects anyway. Why, she’s as good as on the shelf— she must be at least three and twenty.”

“What’s she done?”

A stout gentleman, whose receding ginger hair would have given him the look of a monk were it not for the the obvious effects of dissolution etched on his face, leered suggestively. “She went to view the statues that damned fellow Elgin brought back from Greece. Alone.”

The man who had asked the question furrowed his brow. “Thought chits were allowed to look at art.”

The ginger-haired man’s leer stretched wider. “They are of horses and men. Buck naked men.”

A shocked gasp came from two of the group, but another of them, a baronet with the high shirtpoints and fussy waistcoat of a budding dandy, rocked his hips suggestively. “Likes horses does she? Perhaps she’d like a good mount.”

There were guffaws all around. another bottle of brandy was ordered. Emboldened by the response, the baronet took another long draught from his glass and continued. “ You know these country gels. Her groom has probably been having at her. Wouldn’t mind joining the sport myself, even though she’s no diamond of the first water. Has spirit, though. Heard her arguing—arguing, for God’s sake—with a man at the Haverly’s rout. I like a filly with spirit between my legs.”

“Aye, Vinley. It’s well known you’d unbutton your breeches for anything that wears a skirt . . .”

“Enough,” A baron lately come down from his estate in Yorkshire, a newer member of their set, which included some of the less reputable members of the Ton, scratched at his whiskers and looked slightly discomfited. He appeared to glance around the room as if to ascertain who was paying them any attention. “We are discussing, er, ladies, not some lightskirts from Southwark.”

“Ah, but that is what makes it . . . interesting.” The words came from an elegantly dressed man of medium height who was lounging against the mantelpiece. Toying with one of the many fobs that dangled from his embroidered waistcoat, he cast a surreptious look at the figure of the earl, who seemed to be dozing, oblivious to the conversation.

“Would you think someone with a reputation of cutting a swath through the ladies—say, for example, Branford there—could get a forward girl like Miss Chilton to give him a tumble?” He picked for a moment at the edge of his immaculate cuff while some of the others traded nervous glances.

A young viscount drained his glass, swaying slightly in the process. “Aye, Hammerton. I’d put my blount on Branford to have his way with her. Why, if all the rumors are correct,” he added in a near whisper, “he’s sampled the charms of half the wives of the

Ton . . .”

“Including yours, Fielding, for all the action you give her,” jeered a voice.

“And welcome to the bitch he’d be,” muttered the baronet as a flush rose over his face.

“I say it can’t be done. The aunt’s not that much of a loose screw, even if the chit is.”

“A bet! A bet!” chorused two other voices, their tongues loosened by the copious amounts of alcohol consumed.

A ghost of a smile crept over Hammerton’s lips. “What say you, Branford?” he called in a louder voice. “Care to partake in a little wager?” His tone conveyed a subtle tone of insolence.

The earl’s eyes slowly opened, the flickering light catching a spark of sapphire. “What?”

“A wager,” repeated Hammerton. “Care to bet on whether you can mount a certain lady?”

“Which lady?”

“One no better than she should be. Name is Chilton. Arrived from the country last week.”

The earl stared at Hammerton from beneath hooded eyes.

“Now myself and Chumley are willing to wager it can’t be done—in say, a fortnight. Anyone else with us?” A murmur of assent came from a few others. “So, Wilton and Chichester will join us. Say we each put up 125 pounds. Do you care to match our 500 pounds? With your vast fortune, it seems . . . fair.” He emphasized the words “vast fortune” just enough to make his intent of doing so unmistakable.

A hint of emotion seemed to flash in Branford’s eyes, but his face remained impassive. “It seems you do not tire of losing your money to me,” he said evenly. “Over the last month we have been matched at cupping the wafers at Mantons, racing curricles to Bath and running our horses at Ascot. . .” He let his sentence trail off deliberately. Hammerton’s jaw tightened. “However,” continued Branford, “if it amuses you to keep it up, why not?”

Hammerton swirled the brandy in his glass, suppressing the hot anger that welled inside of him. “I shall have it entered in the betting book.”

“How will we have proof of who’s won?”

The earl turned towards the voice. “Do you doubt my word,” he asked softly?

The gentleman shrank back a step. “Indeed, of . . . of course not, my lord. Stupid of me. . . must have had too much . . . .” he trailed off lamely.

The matter was settled. The conversation drifted on to other topics. Hammerton took his leave and strolled out of the room, a faint but discernable look of satisfaction on his face.

“Aunt Aurelia! Alex! Cook is threatening to give notice if the two of you are late again for dinner.”

A bespectacled nose peeked out from above a leatherbound quarto of The Iliad. At the other end of the table, a second appendage, liberally smudge with charcoal, looked up from a thick sketchbook. Two sets of eyes mirrored a vague surprise.

“I fear time has passed rather more quickly than I had imagined.”

“My dear, it is I, at my age, who is supposed to say that.” Lady Beckworth lay down her tome and patted absently at the neat bun of silver hair pinned at the nape of her neck. Her voice carried a tone of mild reproval, but there was a twinkle in her eye. Though age had brought the inevitable changes to her visage, it had not dulled the intelligence and life that radiated from the depths of their hazel color. There was, however, a glint of concern as she turned to face her niece. “You, on the other hand,” she said lightly, “should be thinking about the Worthington’s ball and not the leaf structure of verbena patagonica.

“Hmmmph.” Alexandra Chilton closed her sketchbook with a little more force than necessary, then rubbed her hand absently on the folds of her muslin day dress, leaving a streak of grey down the side. “Why on earth should I be thinking about the Worthington’s ball—I’m scarcely a giddy schoolgirl miss in my first Season. In fact, I’m as good as on the shelf. . . “

“Now my dear. . . “

“Oh, Aunt, you know as well as I do it’s the truth. I’m too old, too opinionated and too poor to attract any offer, decent or otherwise. And well glad I am of it . I’ve yet to meet a man who is . . . is interesting enough to want to be leg shackled to for the rest of my life.”

“Alex, really!” Her aunt tried to look shocked, but her face dissolved into a grin and a chuckle escaped her lips.

“Oh, Aurelia. How lucky I am that I may freely express my sentiments and know that you, at least will understand how I feel. And you have a . . . sense of humor as well. How awful not to be able to laugh at the foibles of Society—and one’s self.” She sighed. “My only regret is that we are such a burden on you. If I can find a publisher for my paintings on the flowers of Kent—and Mr. Simpson thinks it entirely possible—then I shall an income and Justin and I can. . .”

Lady Beckworth had risen and come to stand by Alex. She placed a hand over her niece’s. “”Alex, you and Justin are a gift to me, hardly a burden.”

Alex squeezed her aunt’s fragile fingers but kept her face averted, afraid of becoming a watering pot, something she detested above all things in one of her sex. “Yes, well, it is Justin you should be concerned about, “ she said in a husky voice. “It is for his sake, after all, that we are spending a Season here. He deserves the chance to acquire a little town bronze and to convince Anne’s father that he will make her a good match, despite his lack of fortune. So, I shall dutifully attend the Worthington’s ball and try not to say or do anything too outrageous that might disgrace the family name. . . “

Another thump reverberated through the heavy oak door.This time it opened a crack as well, just enough to admit a slender young man with still a bit of coltish awkwardness about him. He ran his hand through his tousled sandy curls in mock despair. “The exact meaning of (Greek) and the number of stamens of Nigella damascena will have to wait until tomorrow,” he announced in a light tenor, which struggled to sound deeper. But like his sister and aunt, his eyes danced with humor. He pointed a finger meaningfully towards the hall. “After you, ladies.”

“Shall I put it all the way up, or let it fall like this?” It was the second time the question was asked.

“Oh dear, I fear I was woolgathering, Maggie. Let it fall, please.” Lady Beckworth shifted in her chair as her long time retainer continued to dress her hair for the coming evening. Though she gazed straight ahead at the large mirror on her dressing table, her eyes took in none of the details of her coiffure or her gown or even her own visage, which was perhaps even more attractive than in her youth now that a strength of character had subtly shaped the pleasant features. Her thoughts were centered on her niece and nephew.

How capricious life was, she mused. To have lost her husband and her brother-in law within weeks of each other was a cruel blow. But then Alex and Justin had come to live with her, the children she had never known. She hadn’t thought it possible to feel true happiness again—she and her husband had, unlike many of the Ton, had a marriage based on love and respect. But she had, in ways she had never imagined. Now, if only she could see both of them as happy as she was. Her mouth quirked in a rueful smile at such presumptuousness. She might as well wish for the moon, she knew, than to think she could control another’s destiny. But to her, the two young people and their future were the most important thing in her life.

Justin must be a changling, so different from his father was he. Marcus had been a distant man, even before her sister had died, difficult to understand, especially when he retreated into his own private world of ideas. She shook her head slightly. She didn’t think he really comprehended how much that forced his young, motherless children to fend for themselves, both emotionally as well as having to deal with the realities of keeping a household running, and with precious little funds to do it. Now nineteen, Justin had grown into a level-headed young man who showed such a sense of responsibility for his family that she almost wished he would cut a caper or two, just to assure her he wouldn’t lapse into priggishness. Perhaps that came from being the only male left of the family at age sixteen. But then she thought of his ready wit and warm laughter she knew there was really no danger of that!

And he had ability too. He had applied himself to his studies at Oxford and his ideas on farming already had her small holdings turning a modest profit for the first time ever. She knew he was chafing at the bit to run a real estate. Any parent wise enough to look beyond the lack of title or fortune would find an unimpeachable husband for their daughter. And with his handsome features made even more appealing by his open, friendly manner, she did not doubt that there would be more than a few young ladies developing a tendre for him. However, he seemed to have his heart set on one, and with well-placed words here and there among her many connections, she hoped to be able to influence the girl’s mother and father.

It was Alex she worried about. It was not that her niece lacked in practicality—if anything, she had too much of it, having had to have taken up the running of a household and the responsibility of a younger sibling at such an early age. It was Alex who learned to deal with tradesmen and stretch a meagre budget when her father went haring off on his projects. No, it was that she was, well, she was too much like her father in other ways. Inquisitive to the point of pursuing an interest regardless of the consequences—Lady Beckworth thought once again of her brother-in law. A brilliant naturalist, but in his passion to achieve his own goals, he had sacrificed certain things for his family that she wondered whether he had a right to do. And in the end, he had left them without a feather to fly with. Impetuous was another word that came to mind when thinking of both of them. Why, else would Marcus have been rushing home on such a dismal night—no doubt to bring some fragile specimen back to his library— when no rational person would have attempted to drive a carriage along the seaside cliffs. Alex had that same unwavering determination, as well as the same touch of recklessness. She had acquired her father’s love for the natural world and had translated it into becoming a botanical painter of no small talent. The only reason she had agreed to come to London was to meet the members of the Botanical Society, with whom she had been corresponding for several years.

A sigh escaped her lips. What a singular family they were, she herself immersed in finishing the work of her late husband, a translation of Homer’s Ilaid. But where she, at her stage and position in life, was allowed to be bookish and opinionated, Alex was in danger of being considered beyond the pale of Society with her attitudes. She was already considered old. Heaven forbid that she also get stuck with the reputation of being odd. Despite what the girl thought, Lady Beckworth was sure it would be a grave mistake for her niece to cut herself off from . . .

“I should think the red shawl, wouldn’t you, Lady Aurelia?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Maggie draped the soft cashmere over the slight shoulders and arranged it into neat folds. “You are late, as you well know,” she said, speaking with the easy candor of a longtime retainer. “Now go along and enjoy the evening— and don’t you be worrying about those two. They will manage just fine.”

Hammerton swirled his brandy, eyeing the rich amber color as his mouth turned upwards at the corners.

“Don’t know why you’re looking so devilishly pleased with yourself,” remarked his cousin. Arthur Standish turned his head as far as the starched, overly high points of his collar allowed. “Thought you, shall we say, disliked the Icy Earl. Can’t imagine why you provoked such a wager with him. “ He paused to take a large swallow of his own drink. “Especially,” he couldn’t help but add, “since you’ve had precious little luck against him. He’s bound to win this one too, given the dog’s reputation in the bedroom. It’s a wonder his breeches are ever buttoned.”

Hammerton’s mouth curled up even more. “Ah, but his conquest will serve my purposes very well. To have the girl disgraced and to have her family have to retreat back to the country is exactly what I want.” A humorless laugh escaped his thin lips. “And to have Branford act as my unwitting pawn makes it even more sweet. A hundred and some odd pounds is well worth it to use him like a whore.”

Standish grunted as he toyed with the numerous fobs dangling from his brightly striped waistcoat. “I say, it may deuced clever of you. But I’d be very careful in voicing such thoughts aloud.“ He darted a glance around the room as he spoke as if to judge whether it was likely anyone could overhear them.

“I’m well aware of the fear most of you have of the man. Well I for one, do not hold him in such awe. I shall prove that his bloody lordship is not so clever by half as I am.”

Standish frowned. “It’s said he saved Wellington on the Peninsula through his wits.”

“That’s the only reason polite Society receives him. Remember that he also as good as murdered his young cousin there in order to get the title. He’s nothing but a scoundrel.”

Standish looked quickly around again. “Careful,” he hissed. “I’d caution you not to forget the two duels.”

“Have no fear that I will be fool enough to give him any reason to call me out. No, my besting of him be far more subtle. And far more satisfying.”

“Why do you care about the girl being ruined. I thought we were . . .”

Hammerton’s lips were still curled in a semblance of a smile. “Because it suits my plan, dear cousin. Yes, it suits it very well indeed. Just leave the thinking to me.”

“Good lord, Sebastian. Never expected to see you at such a gathering as this.”

Lord Henry Ashton made his way to the corner of the ballroom where Branford stood. Whether by accident or design, there were few others near the tall figure of the earl, who was dressed entirely in black, save for the snowy white of his starched shirt and elegantly tied cravat. “Cecelia is an old friend of Lady Worthington, else wild horses couldn’t drag me to such a sad crush.” He raised an eyebrow in question as he beckoned a passing footman to bring them both a glass of champagne.

Branford gave his friend a brief smile, then continued to survey the crowd, eyes intent as a hawk hunting some unsuspecting prey. “I have my reason, Henry.”

Ashton snorted. “You sound as if you’ve stepped from some damned Radcliffe novel. It may make the ladies swoon—and don’t give me that basilisk stare either. It may make most of your acquaintances quake in their boots but it has no such effect on me.”

Branford chuckled and the hard planes of his face softened for a moment as his eyes lit with real humor. “I thank you for the set-down my friend, else I’d be in danger of becoming puffed up with the sense of my own consequence.”

Ashton grinned. “Nonsense.” He paused, his face becoming more serious. “Though I’ve never understood why you allow people to think you. . .”

Branford’s face had hardened into its usual inscrutable mask. “Henry,” he said, a note of warning in the tone.

“Damnation, Sebastian. I’ve become concerned about you of late. You’re drinking far more than is good for you, not to speak of standing stud for half the wives of the Ton. And you’re neglecting Riverton, which I know how much you care . . .”

”Henry.” The voice was even softer, but indicated it would brook no resistance. “You are a good friend. But even friends may go too far.”

Ashton let out a sigh. “Very well,” he muttered. “ For now.“

Branford swept the room with his gaze once more. “Do you know a Miss Chilton?” he asked abruptly.

Ashton looked puzzled. “Why yes, her aunt is a good friend of my mother’s. But why do you ask?”

“Introduce me.”

“Whatever for. Not your type at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not a stunning young widow or a bored Countess,” answered Ashton frankly. “Not even terribly attractive. In fact, rather a bluestocking, half on the shelf. Lady Beckworth’s her guardian. Family’s come to Town to give the pup of a brother some polish, so my mother says. They haven’t got much blount, though. Not likely either of them will be able to make much of a match.”

Branford’s eyes narrowed slightly at the news. “Nonetheless, introduce me.”

His friend frowned slightly, then shrugged. “As you say, you must have your reasons. But I consider Lady Beckworth a friend of the family—though I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t dream of toying with an innocent.”

Ashton worked his way through the crowd to where a cluster of matrons sat gossiping among themselves while keeping an eagle eye on whom was dancing with whom. There was also a much younger lady at the edge of the group, her expression one that seemed to indicate her thoughts were anywhere but the ballroom.

“Miss Chilton.” Lord Ashton bowed politely as the young lady started, her eyes betraying a brief flash of annoyance as she focused on the two gentlemen in front of her.

“Good evening . . . Lord Ashton.” The tone was hardly welcoming.

“May I have the honor of presenting my friend his lordship the Earl of Branford.”

“How do you do,” she replied with a singular lack of enthusiasm as Branford bent over her hand in turn.

“May I have the pleasure of a dance, Miss Chilton” he asked. The band was striking up a waltz. “Perhaps this one, if you are not taken.” He had already noticed that the dance card dangling from her wrist was all but empty.

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then rose slowly and placed her hand on his proferred arm. Ashton was right, he noted. She was no raving beauty. Her hair was merely brown, not a striking blonde or glossy raven, and her mouth was a touch too wide, though obviously expressive. She was too tall and her curves not rounded enough for the tastes of most gentlemen. But her eyes, a hazel color flecked with green, had a depth that was intriguing, hinting at hidden facets not readily discernable on the surface.

However, if her aunt hoped to marry her off she had better employ another modiste, he noted. The dress was a disaster. The insipid mauve color clashed with her best features, her eyes, and the cut made her look gawky and ill proportioned. Girlish ruffles and bows were in abundance, and the effect was more appropriate for a female of twelve rather than twenty four. Branford, whose taste was acknowledged to be impeccable, nearly winced as he turned to face her full on.

She danced much better than he expected, moving with a lithe grace and matching his steps effortlessly. As he was deciding to forgo the usual compliments on her dress in favor of another less egregious social lie, she spoke first.

“As a matter of fact, I have been wanting to meet you, my lord.”

Branford closed his eyes for an instant. Now would come the usual outrageous compliments or silly simperings that every unmarried girl felt obliged to offer up to a rich, titled bachelor. He had forgotten how much he loathed all of this. How had he allowed himself to be drawn into such a stupid, senseless bet? Ashton was right on another thing—he had been drinking too much.

Despite such thoughts, he replied in a neutral tone. “Is that so? And why is that, Miss Chilton.”

“Because in the paper you sent to the Botanical Society on the gardens at Riverton, you are mistaken in thinking that the purple flowers are (Latin) They do not grow in this climate. They are no doubt (Latin), which look very similar. Of course it is a reasonable error for someone ignorant of botany to make.”

It was not exactly what he expected to hear. He nearly trod on her foot. “What?”

“The flowers in the south garden. I take it you are the only Earl of Branford“

Branford stared at her, speechless.

“Mr Simpson was too afraid to correct you, but I said that was utter nonsense—any sensible person would want to know of his error.” She paused and regarded his stony face. “Oh dear,” she sighed, half to herself. “I had looked forward to talking about the gardens with you, but it appears that, like most gentlemen, you disapprove of ladies who wish to have an intelligent conversation.”

Branford recovered his wits. “No, Miss Chilton,” he answered drily. “On that I have formed no opinion, since I have little experience in having an intelligent conversation with a lady.”

There was a pause. Alex smiled. “Touche, my lord.”

In spite of himself Branford found himself smiling back. The girl had wit as well as backbone.

“You do not look half so dragon-like when you smile, you know. Or do you prefer to frighten people with that black scowl?”

Branford unconsciously drew his dark brows together.

“There, you see,” she said. “You are doing it again. It is quite intimidating, you know.”

“And you, Miss Chilton. Are you always so outrageous, or are you just hoping I will take you back to your chair so you can resume your own private thoughts and not have to be bothered with having to do the polite.” He watched a wave of surprise wash over her face. “You are not the only one capable of observing people,” he added.

Her eyes met his for a moment, the green fleck alight with some emotion, before she dropped her gaze in some confusion.

“Now, about my gardens. What would you like . . .”

The music was drawing to an end and the surrounding couples were beginning to leave the floor. Branford found himself irritated that the dance was over so quickly. “It appears we will have to wait for another waltz. Shall we say the one after the supper break?”

“If you wish, my lord.” Alex had composed herself and answered evenly, her chin thrust up slightly as if to say that she, at least, was not in the least bit intimidated by him.

“Good.” He delivered back to her aunt and it was only as he was walking away that he realized he had utterly forgotten the reason he had asked her to dance in the first place. He cursed under his breath. Now how had he been distracted? His purpose was to confirm the girl’s availability and figure out a plan of seduction—and what had he done but begin a conversation on botany! Well, he had another dance. He would guide the conversation as he wished the next time around.

He took another glass of champagne and sought out an empty corner of the room. The look on his face was even more forbidding than usual, ensuring the solitude he desired. Something he couldn’t quite put a figure on was bothering him and try as he might o shake the feeling, it kept drawing his attention to the half obscured figure of Miss Chilton sitting silently among the turbaned matrons.

A lovely widow he had recently dallied with swept close by and tried to catch his eye, but he pointedly ignored her. He had no intention of dancing any more than he had to this evening. His booted foot began to tap impatiently on the polished parquet and once again he cursed his judgement—or lack of it— in letting himself become embroiled in such a situation.

Then it struck him. Miss Chilton had not once batted her rather attractive lashes at him, nor had she simpered nor flattered him. On the contrary, he thought with a twitch of a smile. She had all but called him a gudgeon.There was something hidden in those interesting eyes of hers, but it was not artificial gaiety or a forced fawning. In short, she had not made any attempt to . . . flirt. The realization only served to increase his sense that something was not quite right about the whole thing. Surely if she was as experienced in the world as he had been led to believe . . . .

A short, somewhat plump middleaged gentleman had stopped to converse with Miss Chilton. Garbed in evening clothes that had most assuredly not seen Weston’s hand, he looked as much a country dweller as the girl herself. But she was evidently glad to see him, as evidenced by the warm smile she bestowed upon him. Branford could make it out even through the swirling silks and flickering candles. She then rose and they began to make their way towards the supper room.

Branford moved through the crowd to where a sumptuous buffet had been laid out for the guests. Ignoring the platters of delicacies, he stopped quite near to where Miss Chilton and her acquaintance were seated enjoying a selection of succulent lobster patties. She appeared not to notice his arrival, not once turning her head or glancing his way. He made a point of moving two or three steps to his left, where he would be directly in her line of sight. Still not the slightest acknowledgement of his presence. Her attention was riveted on her companion who was speaking with great animation, punctuating his points with a flourish of his silver fork.

“Ah, there you are, Sebastian. Are you going to be so rag-mannered as to avoid me entirely tonight?”

Branford turned to face a petite blonde whose porcelain skin and artfully arranged curls gave her the air of a china doll. He knew much better, however, than to be deceived by such an innocent appearance— few who knew her cared to match wills with Lady Ashton.

Cecelia.” He flashed one of his rare smiles as he bent over her hand. Thinking of his earlier statement to Miss Chilton, he mentally corrected himself. Lady Ashton was one of the few ladies who possessed great sense along with her more obvious charms. “I was merely waiting until the bevy of admirers thinned to a manageable number before storming their ranks.”

“Fustian,” she exclaimed, giving him a slight rap on the arm with her fan. “You, of all people, I wouldn’t expect to toadeat me!”

Branford gave a low laugh. “Rarely have I been accused of being a toadeater.”

“Of that I’m sure,” she answered, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Now, am I to be favored with a dance?” She consulted the card at her wrist. “I’m sure Henry will forego the pleasure of the next waltz.”

“I’m sorry. I’m promised for that one.” His eyes stayed to Miss Chilton. Lady Ashton followed the subtle shift of his gaze and looked speculatively at him.

“Interesting,” was all she said.

For the first time that he could remember, Branford felt a slight flush stealing over his face. Ashton saved him from having to make any reply by approaching them and slipping an arm around his wife’s diminutive waist.

“I believe our dance is drawing nigh, my dear. It seems it is the only chance I shall have all evening of wresting you away from that damn group of jackanapes who insist on hovering around you.”

“Mind your tongue, Henry,” scolded Cecelia. “We are not at home.”

“Wish we were. You know I abhor these tedious affairs,” he grumbled.

“Then we shall leave as soon as you have done your duty with Lady Worthington.” She smiled fondly at her husband before turning back to Branford. “And you, I have not excused you yet. I shall expect you to call on me in the next days or shall be extremely cross with you.”

Branford gave an exaggerated bow. “Heaven forbid that I bring such a fate down on my head, madam. I shall present myself at Berkeley Square without fail.”

He watched them depart arm in arm and felt a faint twinge at their obvious closeness. Then he turned on his heel, determined to get down to business.