The Heart of a Scoundrel (The Heart of a Duke #6)(5)

Phoebe warmed under their scrutiny. “No, I hope to.” A gentleman who’d encourage her love of travel and welcome a lady who’d see the world beyond the dark, gray confines of their superficial London world.

A wave of restlessness stirred in her and she fiddled with her ruffled ivory satin skirts. She surveyed the room once more and a shiver of distaste ran along the column of her spine. Lord Allswood, with his latest dance partner, continued to eye her with that lascivious gleam in his bloodshot eyes. Likely from too much drink. Gillian groaned and, for a moment, Phoebe believed her friend had noted horrid Lord Allswood’s unwanted attention. Then she looked out at the crowd.

Gillian’s plump mother, the Marchioness of Ellsworth, marched through the ballroom with fleshy cheeks and a determined purpose in her stride. She had her fingers wrapped about the forearm of a reed thin, too-tall dandy in pink satin knee breeches.

“Knee breeches, for the love of God and all the saints in heaven,” Gillian complained, mouthing a prayer to the heavens. “What gentleman wears knee breeches?”

“Pink knee breeches, no less,” Honoria pointed out unhelpfully.

Phoebe jabbed her in the side with her elbow. “Ouch.” The other lady winced. “I was merely pointing out…” Her words trailed off as the Marchioness of Ellsworth stopped before them. She peered down her broad nose at the ladies her daughter had marked as friends, in clear disapproval. Then with a dismissive once over, turned to her daughter. “Gillian, please allow me to introduce you to Lord Appleby Hargrove.”

At the prolonged awkward pall of silence, Phoebe discreetly nudged the suddenly laconic lady with her knee.

Gillian sprung to her feet with a pink blush. “My lord,” she murmured, dropping a curtsy.

He tugged at the lapels of his mauve coat. “Lady Gillian,” he said in a nasal tone that caused all three young ladies to wince. The gentleman’s valet who’d let him go out with pink breeches and a mauve coat should be sacked first thing, Phoebe thought dryly. “A pleasure,” he said, his gaze lingering overly on Gillian’s generous hips as though she were a broodmare he was sizing up. Phoebe’s fingers twitched involuntary with a need to plant a facer in the letch’s face. Surely, the marchioness recognized even with the scandal in their family’s past, Gillian deserved a good deal better than a suitor more interested in her friend’s generous endowments?

The marchioness reluctantly looked to her daughter’s companions. Phoebe wasn’t certain if the lady’s disapproval stemmed from their scandalous pasts or their status as mere misses. “Lord Hargrove, may I also present to you Miss Phoebe Barrett and Miss Henrietta—?”

“Honoria,” her daughter corrected.

“—Fairfax,” she went on as though Gillian hadn’t spoken.

The young gentleman flicked his gaze disinterestedly over Honoria’s trim frame and ivory skirts. “Charmed.”

“Undoubtedly,” she muttered under her breath.

Pride swelled in Phoebe’s breast at her friend’s unerring pride in the face of the rude young nobleman.

Next, Lord Hargrove passed his blue-eyed stare over Phoebe. His gaze fell to her décolletage, his eyes lingering overly long on her too-generous bosom. When he looked at her, a glint of lust reflected in the depths of his eyes. She shivered, willing to trade her left hand in this moment for her friend’s cashmere shawl.

“I was mentioning how very graceful you are, Gillian,” the marchioness said sharply. By the hard glint in her eyes as she alternated her gaze between Phoebe and Lord Hargrove, she’d detected the dishonorable gentleman’s interest in a woman other than her daughter. “His Lordship has asked that I coordinate an introduction so he might ask you to dance.”

With seeming reluctance, he returned his attention to the by far loveliest of the scandalous trio. “My lady, will you do me the honor of partnering me in the next set.”

A desperate glint lit the young lady’s eyes, but then her mother fixed a black glare on her and Gillian spoke on a rush. “It would be a pleasure, my lord.” He held his arm out. Gillian hesitated a moment and then with the same enthusiasm as Marie Antoinette being marched to the guillotine, she placed her fingertips upon his satin coat sleeve and allowed him to escort her off.

The marchioness stared after the departing couple and then without a backward glance for her daughter’s wayward friends, turned on a huff, and beat a hasty retreat.

“A lovely lady,” Honoria said. “Why, I give thanks every day that it is just my aunt, so I do not have to contend with an overbearing mama and her scheming ways.” She gave a mock shudder. “A mother who would turn her daughter over to such a dandified fop, a shame, indeed.”

Phoebe opened her mouth to agree just as her gaze collided with Lord Allswood. She bit back a curse.

“What is it?”

She ignored her friend’s quietly spoken question. The determined gentleman moved through the crowd with a singular purpose in his step. Phoebe hopped to her feet. Honoria looked up at her and then followed her attention across the ballroom. She immediately rose in a flurry of white skirts. Having made too many hasty escapes from the determined Lord Allswood, they immediately sought refuge behind the towering Doric column, and proceeded to skirt the edge of the crowded ballroom. Their ivory and white skirts pressed together, they made their way to the back of the ballroom and slipped past the crimson red drapes, into an alcove.