Rebecca could only stare at him, agog. Who was he to so blatantly insult a woman as if she was nothing more than bothersome dirt tainting his boots? She so desperately wanted to hit him that she could barely contain her enthusiasm to do so, her fingers already curling into a tight fist at her side. And what was it he’d said about Mr. Neville? That keeping his company was what had led him to believe that she was a doxy in the first place? Disappointment washed over her. She should have known. Mr. Neville had only his own interests in mind as far as she went, and they would not include marriage. He might have more charm than Lord Starkly, but when it came to it, they were cut from the same cloth—libertines through and through. Neither man would do. Rebecca needed the permanence and security of marriage, not to a relic but to a man of her own choosing, if she was to escape the future her aunt and uncle had in mind for her, and for that, she would have to look elsewhere. Deciding she’d had enough of Lord Starkly’s presence and hoping to be gone before Mr. Neville returned, she resolved to walk away and find someone else entirely.
With a swift “If you’ll please excuse me,” she spun on her heel, only to barrel straight into Mr. Neville, who’d just come up behind her with two champagne flutes in hand, the bubbly liquid spilling onto both of them in the process.
Chapter 2
There were few people in the world Daniel disliked, but Nigel Coulter, the fourth Earl of Starkly, was definitely one of them. Seeing the raven-haired beauty Daniel had playfully named Nuit talking to the fellow he detested, ignited something dangerous within Daniel—something possessive that he had no right or reason to feel. He approached the two of them, coming up behind Lady Nuit just as she turned into him, causing him to spill the champagne he’d been carrying.
“Forgive me,” she gasped.
“No need, my lady,” he said, trying not to follow the direction in which the liquid was going as it ran down her chest. He offered her his handkerchief and returned his attention to the other man. “Lord Starkly,” he ground out, his eyes on the smug face of the earl, who was shamelessly perusing Lady Nuit’s figure. It took little imagination to know what was going through his sordid mind, and the thought of it made Daniel want to slam his fist right into the blighter’s arrogant smile.
He stopped himself, wary of drawing unwanted attention. It wouldn’t benefit Lady Nuit if everyone present became aware of the fact that she was keeping company with two of England’s foremost scoundrels. There was little comfort to be had in knowing that he was a much better man than the earl, for Daniel was well aware that Society made no distinction between the two of them regarding their reputations. On the contrary, the earl had always been more discreet, whereas Daniel, in his youthful stupidity, had flaunted his conquests and bragged about his escapades to anyone willing to listen.
“Ah, Neville,” Starkly said, his gaze meeting Daniel’s. “So good of you to join us.”
“I hadn’t thought you’d be here . . . imagined Kingsborough would have better taste regarding his guests.”
“The same could be said of you,” Starkly drawled. “After all, it’s a well-known fact that you’re not accepted into polite Society. In fact, I expect this invitation is the only one you’ll receive this year.”
Daniel felt his whole body tense as he fought for a calm composure. His situation was not a secret, but he still doubted that it was one Lady Nuit was aware of, for there had been no recognition in her eyes when he’d introduced himself to her. He feared now that if Starkly said anything further, she’d want nothing to do with him—a thought he did not relish in the least, because as far as marriage prospects went, Lady Nuit was his only option so far. He’d rather hoped to make a good impression on her.
Frustrated, he glared back at Starkly with distaste. “And what of you? From what I hear, your membership was revoked from Brooks’s last week when you were found cheating at cards.” The barb struck, judging from Starkly’s rigid expression.
“Take care, Neville.” Starkly’s eyes narrowed with menace. “Considering your uncle’s good health, it will be decades before you outrank me. Until then, I suggest you address me in the manner that is my due.”
“Go rot,” was all Daniel could say to that as he turned away with every intention of removing himself and Lady Nuit from Starkly’s presence, only to find that she was no longer standing next to him.
In fact, the lady had completely vanished.
Hell and damnation.
“Where did she go?” he asked as he looked around the room. What he really wanted to know was how much of the conversation she’d heard before taking her leave.
Starkly laughed. “It would appear that she’s slipped through your fingers.” Leaning closer to Daniel, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “And since it’s just become clear to me that you and the lady are not attached, I do believe I’ll double my efforts to get her into my bed. Care to wager on my success?”
Forcing back a scathing remark, Daniel waited for Starkly to leave before downing the contents of both champagne flutes. He then abandoned the glasses on a footman’s tray and went in search of his quarry, ignoring the disapproving glances that followed in his wake. One would think he’d committed murder the way everyone was treating him. God, how he hated the hypocrisy of the ton—as if most of the men present didn’t engage in illicit affairs while their wives turned a blind eye. He’d done far less. For one thing, he wasn’t married, and for another, he’d never seduced someone who was. Nor had he ever taken a woman’s innocence. He smiled at that thought. No, there was nothing innocent at all about the women he’d taken to his bed. He’d just been too . . . blatant about it, he supposed. It didn’t help that he had a penchant for scandalous wagers as well. He ought to be proud of himself for not accepting Starkly’s, but instead he just felt irritable. Where the bloody hell was she?
Skirting the perimeter of the room, Rebecca’s gaze eventually settled upon a young gentleman who was offering three wallflowers a great deal of attention. He said something to which they laughed, and then he bowed, said something else and waited while they all hesitated until one by one the three women shook their heads and took a retreating step backward. Had they just turned him down? It seemed unbelievable. And yet the gentleman bowed again, placing a kiss upon each of their hands before making a graceful retreat. This was the sort of man Rebecca was looking for—someone thoughtful and selfless.
“I knew that gown would suit you.”
Turning, Rebecca was not at all surprised to find Lady Trapleigh at her side. She was dressed in a gown of purple lace, her shoulders provocatively bare. Ordinarily, the widow would not be considered an appropriate friend for an innocent, but aside from Rebecca’s maid, Laura, Lady Trapleigh had been Rebecca’s only confidante during her two-year confinement at Roselyn Castle—the only person who had bothered to visit a woman who’d been declared mad by the attending physician.
It was also she who had given Rebecca a gown to wear for this evening’s event. When Laura had first shown it to her, Rebecca had laughed. She should have known that turning to Lady Trapleigh for help would have had such a shocking result. The lady was notorious for her conquests—it was no secret that she kept many lovers, for she spoke of them openly and in much the same way that other women might speak of their bonnets.
From what little she’d shared with Rebecca, it was clear that Lady Trapleigh’s marriage had been an unhappy one. Her husband had been fifty years her senior, so when she’d heard of Rebecca’s situation, she’d immediately offered her sympathy, and the two had formed an acquaintance. She’d been the only person, aside from her maid, in whom Rebecca had confided her plan to escape marrying a man old enough to be her grandfather. Rebecca had confided in Lady Trapleigh not because they’d been particularly close, but rather because the challenge ahead had seemed so overwhelming that Rebecca had needed the encouragement she’d known Lady Trapleigh would give her.
Rebecca had not been disappointed in that regard, for the widow had not only voiced her admiration but had also promised to help in whatever way she could.
“I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for your assistance in loaning me this gown,” Rebecca said. “Thank you.”
Lady Trapleigh’s features remained quite serious. “I am more than happy to help you escape the fate that was forced on me. There’s no need for you to thank me, Lady Rebecca.” Fanning her face with a fluffy black ostrich plume fan, Lady Trapleigh nodded toward the spot where Mr. Neville and Lord Starkly were still standing. “I couldn’t help but notice that you were keeping company with two of England’s foremost rakes,” she said. “I was about to come save you but couldn’t decide if you’d even want me to. You looked quite taken with Mr. Neville in particular.”
Good grief!
Surely her appreciation for the man’s good looks had not been so clear. Rebecca shrugged, feigning indifference. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”
At this, Lady Trapleigh laughed. “Don’t play innocent with me, my dear.” She paused. “I don’t blame you—the man can be hard to resist. As a potential husband, however, I should caution you.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mr. Neville is renowned for having a penchant for the outrageous and has hosted several scandalous soirees at his bachelor lodgings—the most recent of which, I’ve been told, resulted in vast amounts of nudity.”
Rebecca gasped. It was a rare occasion when something shocked her, but the thought of a party where the guests appeared in a state of undress did. A hot flush rose in her cheeks at the very idea of Mr. Neville en deshabille. She did her best to force the vision away, as persistent as it was, and made a stoic effort to listen to what Lady Trapleigh was saying.
“They’ve been in the family for generations and were supposed to go to his future wife.”
Rebecca blinked. “I beg your pardon?” she said. “I fear you lost me for a moment. What item are you speaking of?”
“Why, the diamond earrings that Mr. Neville is reported to have given his mistress. Either the man is a fool or he’s hopelessly in love with the woman—in which case he’ll never give her up even if he does one day marry.”
Rebecca sighed. The lady spoke the truth. “Thank you for telling me this. It is clear that I cannot afford to waste my time on him.”
Lady Trapleigh shook her head. “No, considering what you want for yourself, it would probably only lead to unhappiness, as unfortunate as that is.” She turned her gaze away from the two gentlemen with a look of disinterest. “May I offer you a bit of advice?”
Rebecca nodded. “By all means.”
“You see that gentleman over there—the blonde one who’s been speaking to the wallflowers? He’s a viscount—Brekenbridge is his name—and from what I’ve been told, he’s currently looking for a wife. Eagerly so, I might add. He’s a good lad, not the sort prone to visiting gambling hells or entertaining courtesans. He’ll be faithful to you, of that I have no doubt. Unless of course you favor dark-haired gentlemen, in which case you may wish to consider Lord Carvingdale over there—the one dancing with the lady in the green gown.”