She was oh so very proud that her brother had actually fallen in love with a delightful woman and married her. Seeing Westerley pledge himself to his soul mate provided Bethany with the tiniest seedling’s worth of hope. Which was foolish of her, she knew, and would most certainly only lead to further disillusionment.
“Anyway,” Delia continued. “Rachel has orchestrated a missive to be sent to Lord Chaswick. The sender requests him to meet her behind the folly in the garden at midnight. She signed Lady Starling’s name.”
It was barely a quarter past eleven. She had plenty of time.
This wasn’t so very bad, now was it?
Delia added, “And she’s arranged for her mother, her mother’s companion, and likely other ladies to show up at the same time. In fact, she’s come up with the perfect ruse. She’s going to spread word that—”
“But Lady Starling is not in attendance this evening.” Bethany’s mother had mentioned the young widow was going to be in Brighton with her late husband’s family this Season.
“Of course she isn’t. Rachel is going to meet him. The area behind the folly isn’t illuminated, and my sister intends to allow Lord Chaswick to think she is Lady Starling and do… Well, I’m certain you can easily imagine her intentions… When the sticklers arrive, torches in hand, they’ll catch Lord Chaswick ravishing Rachel, doing those things with her that he thinks he would only do with Lady Starling.”
“Won’t he notice that she’s the wrong woman when he kisses her and when he…?” Bethany vaguely indicated her own breasts, which although more generous than most, still weren’t nearly as substantial as Lady Starling’s.
Furthermore, one might say perhaps that the good Lord had been er… rather… stingy… where Miss Rachel Somerset’s bosoms were concerned.
Delia shrugged. “Apparently, timing is crucial but Rachel doesn’t seem overly concerned. She’s enlisted Coleus and a few other girls.”
“Behind the folly, you say?” The quadrille had just come to an end and although there was time to spare, Bethany needed to act quickly as she wasn’t as familiar with the Willoughby gardens as she’d like to be. If she was going to lose Chase to anyone, she certainly didn’t want to lose him to Rachel Somerset.
“By the wooden bench. It’s ideal really, secluded and dark.”
“I think I know where that is. Probably best for me to simply warn him.” Bethany burst to her feet. “Do what you can to stall your sister. Don’t tell her that I know but make something up that will keep her from going outside.”
“What should I tell her?”
Bethany searched her brain. “Tell her you’ve a headache and you wish to go home.”
Delia frowned. “She’ll tell me to go lie down somewhere.”
“Very well then, tell her you’re going to vomit. Or that your courses have arrived. Tell her you need her to follow you to the retiring room. I don’t know! Be creative, Delia! Must I do everything?”
“I’ll tell her the vomiting thing. And then what?”
“When she arrives outside, Lord Chaswick will be long gone and she’ll have to believe he’s chosen to reject Lady Starling’s invitation.”
Which, Bethany considered, was indeed a possibility.
Delia raised her brows but then nodded. “That’s perfect.”
“Isn’t it though?” Really, there was likely nothing to worry about. From what she knew of these unspeakable arrangements such as Chase presumably had had with Lady Starling, they were usually short-lived.
Unless Chase had developed an attachment to the lovely widow.
Bethany scooped up her mother’s reticule and shawl and urgently shuffled toward the doors that exited onto the terrace.
Chapter 3
Saving Him
Dancers were just finishing up the quadrille as Chase entered the ballroom in search of the enthusiastic widow. He hadn’t even realized Miranda was back in London yet. If he recalled correctly, she’d mentioned something about visiting her late husband‘s family in Brighton.
But if she was indeed here…
His hand itched as lust slowly heated his blood. Her in-laws’ loss, then, was to be his gain. Thirty minutes yet, until midnight, but he could wait outside.
Not taking time to retrieve his hat or coat, Chase exited onto the terrace and paused to examine his choices. Which of these confounded paths led to the folly? He would meet Miranda for this one rendezvous tonight but then make himself perfectly clear regarding his intentions.
It wouldn’t do to allow her to become overly attached.
He removed a cigar from his pocket, along with his cutter, clipped the end, and then scorched it using one of the conveniently placed torches. After the cherry had thoroughly heated, he placed the tip between his lips, leaned forward, and sucked lightly until a hazy glow jumped across to the rolled vice.
Drawing smoke into his mouth and retaining it there before allowing it to escape, his irritation ebbed slightly.
Consuming a full flask of whisky ought to have sufficed.
Likely, his melancholy could be blamed on Westerley, one of his oldest friends. Blasted bounder. How dare he marry? Worse, how dare he fall in love? It was almost as though he was taunting him. Next thing, Mantis would be getting himself hitched. And then Stone, Greys, Peter, hell, even Blackheart.
Leaving Chase to juggle the dubious obligations he’d inherited from his father.
Frowning at his thoughts, Chase contemplated the various footpaths set out before him. Which of them would lead to nowhere, and which led to unspeakable amorous delights? Damned whisky. Strong enough to affect his ambulatory abilities but too weak to discharge his foul mood.
And damn Westerley and his bleeding happily ever after. Not that he cared for one himself. In fact, the opposite, really. Love was nothing more than a burden disguised as relief. Chase reined in any musings that had him thinking differently.
He leaned against a tree and examined his cigar before taking a second puff.
When a man’s best friend ups and falls in love, and then marries, dear God, it oughtn’t to send his friends reexamining their own less-than-satisfying lives.
Hell and damnation, he certainly didn’t need more women to protect. Such musings were preposterous.
Chase headed down the path again.
When—if—Chase ever married, it would not be for love, by God. One need only spend a few days with his mother to understand what a horrible notion that was. His father had once loved his mother.
Once. For a few months, a year?
And then he’d loved someone else.
The blighter had left his mother the shell of a woman she once was—a woman who’d lost touch with segments of reality. An eccentric. A shut-in.
No. Marriage must be entered into for reasons far more substantial than emotion.
If one married at all.
Not that Westerley wouldn’t find great happiness with his new countess. He and his little American redhead seemed to have fallen into an extraordinary sort of love—an anomaly of sorts. And although Westerley had married her after hardly a month’s acquaintance, Chase knew his friend wouldn’t have entered the institution lightly.