Chapter Two

J ohn Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury, grinned. He had it. The perfect line.

It had come to him on the ride over, and the more he thought about it, the more perfect it seemed.

"Afternoon," he said with a grin to the butler who opened the door. "I'm—"

"I know who you are, my lord," said the man with a slightly disapproving look.

The impoliteness and lack of welcome only grated on John for a moment.

Well, it wasn't as though he had the best reputation, did he? He was certainly surprised to have received an invitation from the Knights to their house party, and had been genuinely disappointed he'd had to stay in Town for a few days and miss the beginning of it.

More disappointed, in fairness, that he'd been forced to because of some stupid debt. A debt he had only incurred because the blackguard had been cheating. He had to have been! There was no other way—

The point was , John interrupted his own thought as he placed his gloves in his top hat, and placed both in the butler's hands, he had come as soon as he could. And as almost everyone here was probably waiting for his arrival with bated breath, it was high time to give them what they wanted—the arrival of a scandalous Chance brother.

"My master and his guests are in the drawing room, my lord," intoned the butler with a sour expression. "May I—"

"Over here, is it?" asked John cheerfully, stepping forward.

It wasn't too hard to guess. The place was well-proportioned, as houses went, and was laid out in the typical style with the drawing room to the west. It had to be. He could hear chatter slowly seeping from underneath the door.

"Yes, my lord. Shall I announce—"

"I'll do it, don't you fret," said John, a smile creeping over his face. "I know my own name."

The butler was probably still glaring disapprovingly, but he could no longer tell. He'd entirely forgotten the old man and was instead striding toward the drawing room door.

Now, what was that line he had come up with on the ride over? Ah, yes.

John's fingers curled around the door handle, and he stepped into the blazingly hot room. He beamed at the myriad guests. "Well then. Which of you ladies will I be seducing?"

Just as he had thought, there were shocked gasps from around the room, scandalized noises from ladies, and guffaws from the gentlemen.

A chuckle escaped John's lips. Oh, it was almost too easy. Polite Society was all very well, but it was far more fun to shock people, to surprise them. To make ladies clutch their pearls and gentlemen mutter things like, "I say!" under their breath.

What else was going out into Society for?

And that was what they expected, wasn't it? John knew, as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, that his reputation preceded him. It always did. John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury: scoundrel, gambler, drinker, womanizer. He was all of those things and more.

His elder brother William, Duke of Cothrom, may despair of him, but that did not mean that John did not entertain the masses with his exuberance.

"Aylesbury!"

John turned and had his hand immediately clasped by his host. "Knight!"

"Aylesbury, so good of you to come," said Mr. Knight, wringing his hand and clearly pleased to see him. "Quite a coup for Mrs. Knight, you know—a marquess, in our home!"

"We're not really that impressive, I assure you," said John with a shrug. "Just second down the pecking order in the nobility from a duke, that's all."

He was gratified to see the man's smile broaden. "Oh, my Lord Aylesbury, you honor us!"

John laughed, allowing the habit of bravado to take over.

The habit of bravado.

Because this time was different now, wasn't it? Even if it was better to seem as if it weren't. This wasn't just a house party, a gathering of like-minded friends and family, a chance for people to get out of London during the heat and enjoy the countryside. Was it?

John swallowed as the little part of his mind he had once called his conscience, but rarely listened to since, tried to shout something at him.

This was his second chance.

At least, that was what Cothrom had called it.

"I'm serious, Aylesbury," his older brother had said only the day before, frowning as he wrote out a check. Another one. "I am sick and tired of bailing you out of—"

"This truly wasn't my fault this time, Cothrom," John had attempted to argue, relief settling into his shoulders that his brother was once again going to pay his debts. "The man definitely had marked the cards, there was no other way that he could possibly—"

"When I say that I am sick and tired of bailing you out, Aylesbury, I mean it." Cothrom blew gently on the ink, then blotted it with a mahogany blotter. "This is it. The last time."

And for a moment, John had blinked, not quite sure of what had just happened.

Oh, the words made sense. Individually. But William, his brother, the Duke of Cothrom—he could not be serious. Could he?

"Come again, old man?" John had said, hoping he had injected enough of a jesting tone into his words. "You can't mean—"

"I can, and I do," said Cothrom forebodingly, handing over the check. "The Cothrom coffers are nearing empty this financial year and it's all because of you and Lindow. Again."

The third Chance brother. More similar to John than he would care to admit. Than either of them would care to admit. Equally roguish, equally rakish... and equally poor at cards, at the moment. Terribly poor.

Poor being the operative word.

"You can't be serious," John had said, jaw dropping. "What, no more help?"

"You have taken almost six thousand pounds—six thousand pounds , man—from the Cothrom estate," his older brother had snapped. "You think I'm made of money? I've got a family now, a wife and child! What about the Aylesbury estate? Can it not pay off your innumerable and seemingly ever-increasing debts?"

And John had swallowed, and not said . . .

Well, he'd not said a great many things.

Like how the Aylesbury coffers were, by definition, far emptier than the Cothrom ones. It was harder to be emptier than completely bare.

Like how he had taken out a few loans, just a few here and there, and they would, apparently, need repaying. Sooner rather than later.

Like how he had mortgaged—him! A Chance, with a mortgage!—a few acres of Aylesbury land. Fine, more than a few. A few hundred.

He could have said all of those things. And he had said none of them.

"This is your second chance," Cothrom had said with a firm look over his study desk. "Second and only. I am for the countryside tomorrow, back to Alice and Maude—and I do not want to hear anything about you running up more debts, or getting into trouble, or seducing—"

"You really aren't going to help me again, are you?" John had said quietly.

His older brother had been the sort of man John had always looked up to. Partly because he was older, true, but mostly because even before he had inherited the title and become the Duke of Cothrom, had always been so very... very good.

Prim. Priggish, to those who did not know him. Precise.

Just the sort of man you could always depend on to act your second in a duel. Or pay off a debt that truly wasn't his fault. Not at all. Not really.

Cothrom's focus had not wavered. "Your gambling has got out of hand—no, honestly, it has. You have a problem, and I can't—I won't—watch you ruin your life. You're cut off from the family coffers, and you have to promise me you won't gamble again. Promise me. This is your second chance, man. Do not waste it."

"—said, more guests coming this afternoon, but I did not dare hope—"

"I beg your pardon?" said John, blinking in the suddenly dazzling light of the Knight drawing room.

Goodness. That was a first, getting so lost in a memory that he had momentarily forgotten where he was.

He needed a drink.

"I was saying how perfectly marvelous it is to have you, the Marquess of Aylesbury, at my little house pa—"

"Yes, yes, I am sure it is," said John, as cheerfully as he could manage.

He had to pretend that all was well, that nothing had changed. He may be on his second chance, but he also was a Chance. And that was quite different. The three Chance brothers—four, if you included Pernrith—did not simply give up when things grew difficult.

Not so far they hadn't, anyway.

Just don't blow it , John thought warningly. Like you blew that check before paying the man who was owed those funds.

He really shouldn't have done that.

"Let me get you a cup of tea," Mr. Knight was saying, glancing around vaguely. "Except—ah, I think the tea things may have been tidied away. I can ring for a footman, he can bring you—"

"A glass of your best red wine," said John firmly. Well, it was past five o'clock, wasn't it? Almost past. A quarter to. Almost a quarter to. "And I will mingle with your guests."

The man beamed. John tried not to smirk.

Yes, he had guessed correctly. He was the most impressively titled person here, by a long shot, and evidently he was the guest of honor. Mr. Knight had plainly been bursting at the seams to have a marquess at his table.

Which was all to the good. He would have to hope that it meant Knight had forgotten that one-hundred-pound flutter John had wagered him on that horserace but a few months ago. It would be pleasant not to need to pay off every debt.

As his host bustled away to find the best red wine his cellar had to offer, John cast a lazy eye over the guests.

Most were known to him, even if he did not particularly relish their company. Mrs. Pullman and Mrs. Lymington were here, of course. They could not deny themselves an excuse to be out in company. Their thirst for gossip was almost as great as that of Lady Romeril, which was saying something.

Their husbands, along with a Mr. Lister and what appeared to a young lady he did not know were talking in a corner. The conversation looked animated, but just as John approached in desperate need of some entertainment, a few phrases caught his ear.

"—quite an impossibility at the next election—"

"And the policies, madness when one considers—"

"—if the Americans would just accept it, then a whole host of—"

John swiftly veered away from that particular gathering, hoping he was not being too obvious.

Dear God, politics! The very last thing he wanted. Had he not just left London?

That left a pair of gentlemen along with Mrs. Knight, just to his left, who was plainly looking for a fourth.

John's stomach lurched. That could only mean one thing. Cards.

His fingers itched, his pulse skipped a beat, but he stopped walking in their direction, hesitating, certain he should not go forward but uncertain where to place himself in the room instead.

Cothrom would be pleased , John thought wryly. His first test, and somehow John was able to hold back from the seemingly inevitable. At least for now.

Not that he couldn't gamble. He was actually a rather good gambler. A splendid gambler. Most of the time.

It was the times when he wasn't that were tricky.

John swallowed. A second chance, that was what Cothrom had said. And it wasn't as though he had any coin on him to play. Or any coin at the bank. The manager there had been quite clear on that.

No. No, it would be a terrible decision to go over there and offer to act as their fourth.

Strange, how difficult it was not to. John swallowed, his mouth inexplicably dry. Had he ever noticed just how much delight he took from gambling? It was most odd. And yet now, standing here and forcing himself not to partake, his body rebelled at the instructions his mind was giving it.

Most peculiar.

In an attempt to prevent himself from succumbing to the obvious temptation, John turned to the final side of the room he had not inspected.

And saw her.

Florence Bailey.

John's pulse skipped a beat again—painfully—his hand instinctively moving to his chest.

Then he forced it to his side. He was being ridiculous. Showing emotion, in public? That was hardly good form for a gentleman, let alone a marquess. And he was being foolish. The last thing he wanted was awkward questions about his awkward behavior. Or any questions about anything, now it came to that.

Florence Bailey.

John blinked a few times, just to check he wasn't dreaming. It might be possible. His eyes could be playing tricks on him—the red of her gown and the red of the sofa were almost precisely the same shade.

Perhaps he had just wanted to—but by God, it had been almost two years since he had seen her. Why on earth would his mind be meandering toward Miss Florence Bailey?

It was certainly her. The instant their gazes met, her cheeks flushed deeply, a crimson red that matched both gown and sofa. Her eyes looked down, examining her hands in her lap as though they were the most interesting things which had ever existed.

Yes, that was Florence. John had never met another woman more certain to turn pink whenever a single person looked at her.

And when it was he who was doing the looking...

Before he could consciously think, before John could consider whether there was a better option in the drawing room than engaging in conversation with Miss Bailey, he found to his surprise that his feet were moving him forward.

Toward Florence. Miss Bailey.

Her color was deepening further with every step he took and he still wasn't sure why he was continuing forward. But John did not seem to be able to stop until he was standing before her.

And then he wasn't standing before her.

John exhaled a momentary sigh of relief, which quickly ended when he realized why he was no longer standing before her.

He was seated beside her.

How in God's name had that happened?

John's breathing was embarrassingly ragged, and he placed his hands each side of his hips on the sofa as he attempted to get his bearings.

Which was a mistake.

Because Florence— Miss Bailey —had unmistakably decided at the same time to leave the sofa, and so had placed her hands either side of her own hips before she rose.

Which meant that John's right hand was now covering her left.

John's stomach lurched again. Her fingers—they were just as he remembered. The softness. The closeness. The intimacy they had—

He pulled his hand back as though burned. Florence did the same thing.

"I did not think—"

"I-I never exp-pected—"

They spoke at the same time. John cleared his throat, as though that would help anything, and was just about to leave the sofa when a voice piped up at his side.

"Your wine, my lord!" said Mr. Knight cheerfully. "Ah, and I see you have made the acquaintance of our delightful Miss Bailey!"

John blinked up at the man who was proffering a glass of red wine, smiling widely at the clear pleasure the man received from seeing the two of them seated on a sofa.

As though he—

John took the wine and drank a large gulp.

"That's my best red wine, as promised," Mr. Knight babbled as John savored the burn of the liquid. "I'll leave you two to it. Two to it! What a delightful phrase, I must tell my wife."

He meandered off in the direction of the trio still looking for a fourth to play cards.

Perhaps he should have joined them after all , John thought darkly. Then he wouldn't be... here.

With her.

And yet something prevented John even now from rising and walking away.

It was the wine, he told himself sternly. He was appreciating the wine, and why not? Was it any business of his who was also sitting on the sofa beside him?

"You look well," he said politely.

It was only politeness which made him do it. That was all. A man—a gentleman ought to be polite. And she was a lady.

Very definitely a lady. Try as he might, John could not ignore the curves that reached the corners of his eye even as he stared forward. The swell of her breast, the slightness of her waist, the way her hips—

"You have been at the house party long?" John said hurriedly, forcing his mind onto better things.

Well. Not better things. There were few things better than—

"You know the Knights, of course," he said desperately.

He could not understand what was more infuriating. The fact that he was having to say things to distract his mind from the fact he was mere inches from Miss Florence Bailey, or the fact she was not contributing anything to the conversation whatsoever.

In fact, other than the slight change in her breathing which John noticed with great satisfaction, it was like he wasn't even here. And John was not accustomed to being ignored. Certainly not by pretty ladies.

Not that Florence was pretty. Miss Bailey. Damn.

"Are you going to say anything?" he said cheerfully, as though this were a perfectly natural conversation. "Are you going to reply to my conversation?"

Still Miss Bailey said nothing.

Eventually, John could not help himself. Fortifying himself with another large gulp of wine—Knight was right, it truly was excellent—he glared at Florence.

"You know," he muttered, "you used to like my conversation."

Now that got a response.

Florence's cheeks managed to grow, if that were possible, redder still. The coloring tinged her lips, making them a scarlet stain across her face.

"Y-Yes," she said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. "I used to."

John's irritation flared at those words. How dare she—and to him, of all people! He was a Chance, one of the most noble and most respected families in the ton . He was the Marquess of Aylesbury! He—

Though now he came to think about it, none of that had impressed her last time, had it?

John cleared his throat. Again. "I . . . you . . ."

Damned words, they wouldn't come. And all the while his body was responding to hers, even if they weren't touching anymore. Perhaps because they weren't touching anymore.

Because that was all he could truly think about, wasn't it? Ignoring everyone else in the room and leaning over, touching Florence, taking her hand in his own, lifting it to his lips, and tasting the warmth of her—

"Now, my lord, I simply must pull you away—I am sorry Miss Bailey—for there is someone you must meet!"

John started. Mr. Knight had come seemingly from nowhere, and had pulled the marquess to his feet before John could say anything.

Or stop him.

Mr. Knight's grip on his elbow was tight and he continued to chatter away as he pulled John across the drawing room. "I thought you two should know each other, and it would be a perfect excuse to—how do you know Miss Florence Bailey?"

John blinked. It was a most sudden change of pace, both literally and figuratively.

Mr. Knight had halted, though he still held tight to John's elbow. He was glaring, as though accusing him silently of wrongdoing.

Which was ridiculous. If he knew of John's wrongdoing, he would not have asked how he knew Miss Florence Bailey.

"I did not know that you knew her," Mr. Knight said in an undertone so no one else in the raucous drawing room could hear him. "But the moment I saw the look she just gave you—"

"What look?" said John, swiftly turning to look back at the young woman. "Ouch—dear God, man, that hurt!"

It had indeed been a mighty tug on his elbow to prevent him from looking back around at Florence.

Which was a shame. Because she was a far more delightful sight than the puce cheeks of his host.

"She is here alone, unchaperoned, and her mother entrusted her to me," said Mr. Knight stiffly, and John saw with interest that the man clearly felt uncomfortable speaking so boldly to a marquess but felt it was his duty. A good man, then. "Now I am gentle by nature, but when it comes to unprotected ladies, my sisters can tell you that I am the first man to defend their honor. And so I ask you again, my lord. How do you know Miss Florence Bailey?"

It was typically John's instinct to lie when asked about young ladies, whatever the question. It was usually safer that way. And when it came to Florence Bailey, he would rather lie. The truth was far more embarrassing than any lie he could concoct.

But looking into the stern and absolutely resolute expression of his host, John was reminded of his brother's parting words from the night before.

"Your gambling has got out of hand—no, honestly, it has. You have a problem, and I can't—I won't—watch you ruin your life. You're cut off from the family coffers, and you have to promise me you won't gamble again. Promise me. This is your second chance, man. Do not waste it."

Despite that, John tried to shrug. Well. A man couldn't be blamed for his bravado. "Oh, Florence? We were almost engaged, once. Almost."

Mr. Knight dropped John's arm. "I—I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, a funny old thing," John said, ignoring the twisting of his heart. Mere memory, that was all. He certainly didn't feel anything any longer. "One day I'll tell you the story."

"But—goodness, I had not realized Miss Bailey was once near engagement," said Mr. Knight, eyes wide. "I thought her mother kept her on a tighter leash than that! The stupendous dowry, after all. Any woman with a dowry like that should—"

John did everything he could to keep his voice level, charm oozing into every syllable he spoke. He had to stay calm. "I beg your pardon. Did you say, stupendous dowry?"