“When is he returning, anyway?” Perhaps Stone would know, seeing as he had promised to look after the younger sister.
“When they were ready. And that’s a direct quote. It’s a honeymoon, after all.”
“Nice for him.” On the rare opportunities Chase could get away from London, he never quite escaped the pull of his own never-ending responsibilities. The image of three pairs of girlish eyes, very similar to his own, nagged his conscience most persistently.
The mere possibility of adding another woman into the mix had him wanting to loosen his cravat. He grimaced instead and lifted his glass for another pour.
It was only the first ball of the Season, and he was already feeling the pinch of resentment: the resentment of enduring careless gossip, the resentment of keeping up appearances, the resentment of protecting his mother’s world.
The manservant who filled his glass bowed and then presented a folded missive to Chase. “I have been instructed to deliver this to Lord Chaswick.”
Letters sent to gentlemen in the middle of a ball could only mean one of three things. Either some distant relative had died, he was being challenged to a duel, or, and the last was the most appealing, a lady was inviting him to a tryst.
“Right here, good sir.” Chase palmed the servant a coin for his troubles as he accepted the note. “Well, well, well.” No one had died, and he wouldn’t be meeting some gent at dawn.
He did nothing to hide his pleasure as he read the contents.
“Don’t tell me. That pretty little blonde I saw you with last week,” Stone guessed at the same time he shuffled the deck.
The question was an annoying one, but Chase merely held his grin. “Not at all. An older lady, one with far greater expertise. The most delightful Lady Starling.” Ironically, he never would have learned of her stimulating appetites if he hadn’t lost a bet to these gents up at Westerley Crossings.
Unease fused with lust as he contemplated his options. When they’d parted, he’d bid her farewell, giving no indication that he wished to extend their affair beyond the house party. Any sort of long-term arrangement was impossible. He hadn’t the time—even if he did have some inclination.
As tempting of an offer as it was, he might just be opening Pandora’s Box by starting up with her again. And yet…
Meet me at the little wooden bench behind the folly at midnight. You won’t regret it. –M.
Miranda.
A glance at his timepiece revealed it was not quite eleven. The night was yet young.
Chase carefully refolded the parchment and tucked it into his coat. The invitation was problematic but also… tempting. His cock stirred as he remembered the variety of bedsport she’d introduced him to. It was one certain way to release the irritation building inside of him.
“You in, Chase?” Stone demanded.
In answer, Chase tossed his ante into the pot.
Two hands later and he was down fifty pounds. Since he apparently wasn’t going to be lucky at cards this evening, he might as well be lucky at love—or more accurately—at lust.
“I’m off.” He pushed back his chair. “You’ll have to filch some other poor bloke for the remainder of the evening.”
Perhaps Chase would take a stroll through the garden after all…
“I’m out too. The supper dance commences soon, and I’ve promised some chit’s mother that I’d partner her daughter,” Mantis rose.
“Anyone we know?” Stone ceased shuffling the cards long enough to ask as the larger man rose.
“Is there anyone you don’t?” Mantis certainly was in ill humor.
“Who is this most tolerant lady who’s willing to take a turn with you?” Chase teased.
“Miss Coleus Mossant. Lady Felicity had promised me the set, initially, but later changed her mind.”
“Impudent chit,” Greys commented.
“Says she accidentally promised it twice. Makes no difference to me.” Mantis grimaced with a shrug. “Lady Felicity’s loss is Miss Mossant’s gain.”
“Have a care,” Stone warned. Because they all knew that a mother’s involvement was never a good thing.
“Worry about yourself, Mister Spencer,” Mantis grumbled.
Not well done at all of Lady Felicity. It was no wonder Mantis was in a mood.
With a silent wave, Chase sauntered out the door before heading down the corridor to the much louder, larger gathering in the ballroom. Perhaps they all needed some of what he was going to get that evening.
The air whooshed out of Bethany’s lungs at Delia’s announcement. “Lord Chaswick? But he’s in the card room.”
“The trap is set for midnight.”
“Thank God.” The dancers had just begun another quadrille, so by her estimation, she had not quite an hour to undo Delia’s older sister’s reprehensible plan.
“We have to stop her.”
Delia covered her face with her hands. “I was afraid you were going to say that. Rachel’s going to make life miserable for me after this. That is, if she doesn’t murder me in my sleep first.”
“What exactly is she planning to do, Delia? I need to know everything.”
“And, of course, she’ll tell Mother. But I had to say something. I knew it wasn’t right. And he’s such a nice person, for a rake and all—"
“Delia.” Bethany resisted the urge to snap her fingers. “What is Rachel planning to do?”
The other girl sat up straight and seemed to gather her bearings. “At your mother’s house party…”
“Yes?”
“Well, the chamber Rachel and I shared was adjacent to Lady Starling’s. You know, the spectacular-looking widow with the auburn hair and the giant…” Delia gestured to her chest.
Indeed, Bethany knew who Lady Starling was. “What does she have to do with any of this?”
“We could hear her. Her and Lord Chaswick.” Delia blushed red as a tomato. “Doing… things.”
Bethany ought to have known. She didn’t even bother to attempt to catalog all the emotions that Delia’s words churned up.
And then she did. Jealousy. Anger. Resignation.
Curiosity.
How ill-fated was it that the gentleman she’d most unfortunately fallen in love with was also an itinerate rake?
“Are you certain it was him?”
Delia glanced around and then, closing her eyes, clasped her hands beneath her chin and gasped in a breathy tone, “Chase. Oh, Chase! Yes! Yes, Chaswick!” And then, modulating her voice to sound baritone, “Miranda, God. Miranda!”
Bethany reached out a hand and covered Delia’s mouth. It was… disturbing in more ways than one.
Was she really jealous of Lady Starling? A little. Yes. But she’d overheard her brother and his friends discussing far too many assignations such as this to take them seriously. The ladies were willing, and although perhaps hopeful the gentlemen would declare their undying love, well aware that they usually didn’t.
Hadn’t. Ever.
In addition to that, these temporary affairs seemed to be something wealthy bachelors simply… did.
Sexual congress, she’d come to rationalize, was something of a sport to them. Rather like hunting, gambling, or… whatever else they got up to.