The Heart of a Scoundrel (The Heart of a Duke #6)(6)

The ladies shared a conspiratorial smile. “I wish we could stay in here forever,” Phoebe whispered. Or at the very least until Lord Allswood took himself off to the card tables set up in Lady Delenworth’s back room. “Why does he persist?”

“Because you’re perfectly lovely and clever.”

She snorted. A cad such as Lord Allswood would hardly care whether she was as empty between the ears as a plaster wall. He was, if nothing else, tenacious.

“We cannot remain here all night.”

No, no they couldn’t.

A spark glinted in Honoria’s eyes and then she fiddled with her haircombs while chewing her lower lip in deep concentration.

Phoebe furrowed her brow. “What are you—?”

“Aha,” she said, with a pleased smile as she managed to untangle the haircombs from her dark tresses. She stuck them between her teeth and spun Phoebe around.

“What—?” She winced as with her hasty efforts, Honoria tugged too hard at her hair. She gave one more tug and tears sprung to Phoebe’s eyes.

Engrossed, Honoria tossed the butterfly combs onto the small, velvet chair where they landed with a soft thump. She took the rose, diamond-encrusted combs worth more than any and every bauble shared by Phoebe and her younger sister, Justina, combined and tucked one into Phoebe’s brown hair. “Gentlemen do not look carefully enough,” she carefully arranged the other diamond-encrusted comb. “They see white skirts and certain garments.” She removed her ivory cashmere shawl and draped it over Phoebe’s shoulders, and then guided her around. “Such as my shawl, and then don’t see beyond that.”

Phoebe widened her eyes as her friend’s efforts made sense. Honoria thought to deter Lord Allswood’s efforts. She made a sound of protest. “I cannot take this from you,” she said, shrugging the delicate slip of fabric from her shoulders. As long as she’d known the other woman, this scrap of cashmere had been the dearest item in her friend’s possession. She was never without the garment.

“You’re wearing it incorrectly,” Honoria scolded, ignoring Phoebe’s concerns. She carefully arranged it just below Phoebe’s shoulders. “And yes, you can. Come. I imagine he’s since gone and now you may move freely.” They slipped outside the curtained alcove and startled gasps escaped them.

“Father,” Phoebe murmured, dropping a hasty curtsy. Her friend followed suit.

He ignored their polite greeting, his frown deepened as he looked between them. “There you are, gel,” he said at last. “Been looking for you,” he snapped.

Having learned long ago to not rile him, as he was always unpredictable in his temperaments, she calmly said, “I’d torn my hem and it required repairing.” The lie came effortlessly.

He ignored her words, turning to Honoria. “Miss Fairfax,” he said.

“My lord,” she returned.

Wordlessly his beady blue eyes went to her décolletage and Phoebe fisted her hands at her side, knowing there was supposed to be a sin in putting one’s hands upon one’s father, but, by God, she wanted to bloody his bulbous nose for the way he leered at Honoria. Guilt at having commandeered the other woman’s shawl filled her.

Sorry, she mouthed as regret and mortified embarrassment lapped at her conscience.

Except, when the viscount picked up his gaze there was a detached coolness there. “Come along,” he commanded and wrapped his fingers about Phoebe’s wrist, all but dragging her away. “There is someone I wish for you to meet.”

She cast a longing glance back at her friend who stood staring commiseratively after her, and then returned her attention forward to where Lord Allswood waited, a triumphant grin on his hard lips.

“…Lord Allswood…”

Phoebe groaned. “No.” She dug her heels in, either forcing him to stop or drag her to the floor.

He stopped and scowled at her.

“I require a moment of air,” she said quickly, her mind turning entirely too slowly.

Her traitorous father scratched his bald, sweating pate. “Air?” he said it as though she sought the king’s crown.

Nonetheless, she nodded once. “Air. The heat of the ballroom is too much,” she finished lamely.

Before he could issue protest, she spun swiftly on her heel in a flurry of whispery skirts and all but sprinted away from her father, away from Lord Allswood and away from the ballroom—in desperate search of peace.





Chapter 3





Edmund passed a cynical gaze over the tedious activity of the crowded ballroom. Foppish swains converged upon the Diamonds of the First Water. Couples twirled in a kaleidoscope of colorful satins. The tinkling of giggling ladies grated. He’d quite studiously avoided such infernal crushes. Not for the reason of avoiding the marriage trap. Even the simpering ladies knew better than to seek his favor. He belonged less in this polite world than the devil did in that fabled heaven.

The rare appearances he made were never without purpose and certainly not without reason. This night was no exception. He skimmed a hard stare over the lords and ladies present. White gown upon white gown created an almost cloud-like effect of debutantes. The unfortunate lady he’d selected as the lead player in his scheme was no exception. He eyed the dark-haired young woman with her nondescript features, brown eyes, white gown, and that silly shawl. Though in fairness to that otherwise useless scrap of fabric, tonight it had served its purpose. So, this was Miss Honoria Fairfax, Margaret’s niece, and also the young woman he’d wed.