Chapter 4

4

C arver tapped his foot with impatience as he watched young lady after young lady pass before him—some coy, some flirtatious, some smiling, some smoldering.

But not one was the lady he was looking for.

This was getting ridiculous.

Carver turned to his cousin. "Have you seen her?"

Kal's gaze scanned over the crowd, which wasn't quite as crushing out here on the veranda. "Have I seen who?"

Carver turned to see if Kal was in jest, but he did not appear to be. "Miss Taylor, of course."

That got Kal's attention. He turned to Carver with a quirked brow. "Still haven't apologized, have you?"

Carver's teeth ground together as his nostrils flared. A simple apology. How difficult was that to accomplish?

Absurdly difficult, it seemed, when the subject of said apology refused to be anywhere near him.

"I told you, I have it on good authority that Miss Taylor will be here tonight." Kal sounded bored.

Carver couldn't blame him.

His desire to make amends with Miss Taylor had grown from a pressing need to an overwhelming obsession.

But truly, this matter was getting out of hand.

He'd made one more attempt to visit her at her home, and had met instead with her father. A terrifying man, to be honest.

Viscount Herdmore was expected to inherit the Earldom soon. His father, Miss Taylor's grandfather, was on his deathbed. Everyone knew that. Herdmore had made a name for himself in parliament, and was expected to wield more influence than ever when he became Earl.

So yes, he was a powerful man indeed. And his demeanor said he well knew it.

If Carver hadn't spent his childhood surrounded by more powerful and more terrifying men in his own household, he might've turned tail and run.

As it was, he'd withstood the older man's company as he'd hoped to hear some sound of his daughter arriving.

Not that he truly believed for one moment that she really had stepped out just seconds before his arrival.

The Viscount had glared witheringly at Carver as he'd muddled his way through an explanation of what he was doing there.

"It seems I may have unwittingly offended your daughter, sir," he'd started.

He'd expected to hear an earful about the inadvertent gossip he'd stirred up. But the Viscount had given a disdainful sigh and a shake of his head. "Women these days are always upset over something."

"Er…well, all the same, I should like to explain?—"

"No need." The older man had waved away his words. With a glint of amusement in his eyes that made Carver feel slightly ill, the Viscount had continued. "I was a young lad myself once upon a time, you know."

"Of course," he'd started.

"I remember what it was like to issue dares and get up to no good." The older man had leaned back in his chair with a chuckle. "Oh yes, I've been known to initiate some hijinx in my day."

Carver had remained quiet at that, truly too stunned to respond. Had her father just likened her public humiliation to…some boyish hijinx?

Somehow that conversation had made his guilt go from burdensome to absolutely crushing.

He wanted to explain to the older man that he'd gotten it all wrong. He hadn't been poking fun at Pegleg Meg. But instead he'd found himself nodding and giving his thanks when the Viscount insinuated that he'd be welcome to visit Miss Taylor any time he liked.

A dinner invitation had come after that.

And it had become markedly clear that her father didn't care one whit that his daughter didn't want to see him.

Her father looked at him and saw a Duke. A young, unmarried one, at that.

And as always, that trumped all else.

"Stop brooding," Kal said with a frown that was…why yes, it was decidedly brooding.

"Why are you the only one who's allowed to brood?" Carver asked.

"I never brood." Kal managed to sound insulted, though this was an old joke between them.

Carver cast another glance around them, at the distant corner Kal had planted himself, so far from the crush. "If you weren't brooding just now, then what were you doing over here by yourself?"

Kal lifted a shoulder and resumed what he'd been doing when Carver had found him—scouring the crowd. Carver felt a surge of gratitude. "You're searching for her as well, aren't you?"

Kal turned to him with a blank look. "What? Oh, er, yes…of course."

His cousin might be able to lie to others, but he'd never been able to tell a fib to Carver.

Carver narrowed his eyes. "If you weren't searching for Miss Taylor, then who?—"

"Don't look now," Kal interrupted. "The Ferguson twins are here."

"No."

"Yes."

"Please say they're not heading in our?—"

"Carver, you rogue!" the first twin said.

Carver never could keep them straight. One was Ted and one was Fred. And both were addlepated nitwits.

"Oh for the love of—hold on!" He turned to see Kal moving away. "Where are you going?"

" I am going wherever the Ferguson twins…are not." Kal's arch look was what had given him the reputation for being an untouchable Marquess.

No Ferguson, a twin or other, would dare to act so informally around the notoriously droll and cutting lord.

But Carver, on the other hand…

"Heard what you done," the second twin clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Carver could smell the alcohol on their breath. One would have been bad, but two was enough to knock him over with their stench.

"You old blackguard." The first twin slurred the words so it came out as one long string of nonsense.

"I don't know what you heard, but—Kal! Stop. Wait for me, or—" But Kal was off, leaving Carver to deal with the twins. Alone.

It was moments like this that Carver fleetingly second-guessed his decision not to follow in his father and brother's footsteps. At a young age, he'd decided he wanted to be the sort of man who led through respect and goodwill, not fear and bullying. He'd never wanted to be the sort of lord who made grown men cower.

Until moments like this one.

"Did you really ask Pegleg Meg to dance?" The first one hiccuped as the other guffawed.

"Wish I could've seen her face. Heard the girl nearly burst into flames," the other said.

Carver winced and glanced around to be sure they weren't overheard. But of course, other partygoers nearby were already glancing in their direction.

The twins were loud and they'd been best known in their school days for their sheeplike tendencies. Which was annoying, but harmless when they were amongst a crowd of decent blokes. But when they latched themselves on to wicked men who got a thrill out of being cruel…

He pulled his shoulder away from the Ferguson twin's hand. "It wasn't like that."

But neither was listening as they made each other laugh. Not seeming to notice that they were in a crowd, they cackled like buffoons as first one and then the other imitated her limp.

"Did she really think you'd dance with her?"

He tried to interrupt. "Listen, lads, this isn't the place?—"

"Everyone knows you don't dance with just anyone."

He clamped his mouth shut. He didn't dance with anyone. Period.

He did not dance.

"And right you are to turn your nose up at this lot," the second twin sniveled.

The other nodded vigorously. "You're too good for most of the sour faces and ugly chits that throw themselves at you, of course you are."

Carver's brows drew down. Was that what people thought? That he believed himself too good for the ladies of London?

But that wasn't it at all.

Was that why Aunt Evie was so insistent that he dance at these blasted events?

He got so caught up in his own thoughts, he barely registered that they'd shifted back to making sport of Miss Taylor. One was limping while the other was fanning himself. "Oh, Your Grace, what an honor," he trilled in a high-pitched voice that he supposed was meant to be Miss Taylor.

"What an honor, Your Grace," Fergson continued, still fanning himself and causing a scene. Carver drew in a deep breath, readying himself to stop this nonsense right this instant. But before Carver could stop him, the nitwit Ferguson twin did stop talking. Abruptly.

And the other one stopped limping just as quickly.

Carver knew just one moment of relief that the fools had finally stopped.

But that relief turned to dread as he caught sight of their stricken faces as they stared at someone just behind him.

They were gaping wide-eyed at someone.

His stomach lurched and sank with foreboding.

"Oh, er, uh…I beg your pardon, miss…" the first twin started.

Time slowed to a sickening crawl as Carver turned, just as the second twin chimed in, "How d'you do…Miss Taylor?"