Chapter Eight

July 20, 1812

"T his," John muttered to himself as he glared up at the townhouse, "is not where I want to be."

Not that it mattered. When one received an invitation from Lady Romeril, one did not decline it.

At least, he had never heard of anyone who had. Which proved the point—if one did refuse the invitation, one was no longer in polite Society.

Still, that didn't make her gatherings any more enjoyable. For a start, Lady Romeril did not seem to believe in serving delicious food to her guests. Nor did she provide cigars for the gentlemen, or in most situations, a single card table.

It was an outrage.

But a ball hosted by Lady Romeril was a ball. Even if it was out of Season. Even if half the ton were in the country, surviving the heat rather than being baked alive in their own waistcoats.

John tugged at his cravat as he waited for the carriages to pass before crossing the road and entering the house.

"Your invitation—"

"I am the Marquess of Aylesbury, I need proffer no invitation," said John smartly as he sidestepped the footman.

Which was a ruddy ridiculous thing to say , he thought as he handed the crimson-cheeked footman his top hat and gloves. It wasn't as though he were a duke, like old Cothrom. He did need an invitation, most of the time.

Apparently his arrogance got him by this one, though. It was only a minute later that John was stepping into the hallway which was almost empty. The only two people within it were—

John snorted. "Lindow."

His younger brother turned and grinned as he saw who it was. "Aylesbury!"

If John had been asked to picture precisely what his brother would be doing if found almost entirely alone in Lady Romeril's hallway, it was this.

The young lady who had until moments ago been receiving the kisses of John's younger brother George, the Earl of Lindow, flushed pink. "Oh my!"

"Oh, don't worry yourself, it's only Aylesbury," said Lindow easily. "Stay here."

"But—"

Lindow did not give her another glance. He strode over to Aylesbury, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, "My commiserations."

John blinked. It was not exactly the levity that he had grown to expect from the third Chance brother. "I beg your pardon?"

"For your loss," said Lindow seriously, his expression morose. "At this difficult time, I am sure you don't need me to say that you can come to me at the drop of a hat—"

"Loss?" John repeated, trying to ignore the giggles of the woman behind his brother. "What on earth are you—"

"The loss of your freedom," Lindow said with such solemnity, it was only the twinkle in his eye that proved he was being an absolute idiot. "Your engagement. Such terrible—that hurt, you know!"

"Good, I am glad it did," said John, his cheerfulness having returned now he'd smacked his brother in the chest. It always did him good to have Lindow put back in his proper place. He was the baby of the family, after all.

Well. Sort of.

"You've told Cothrom, I suppose."

John nodded. "He wasn't pleased, the old devil."

Lindow's mouth dropped. "The rascal! And he's the one who's been telling us to get married since the day we were born!"

"Slight exaggeration."

"But only slight," said his brother with a roguish grin. "Marriage! Dear God, when there is so much of the world still to enjoy!"

John was under no illusion at all what his brother truly meant by "the world," but just in case any emphasis was needed, Lindow glanced over his shoulder toward the woman who was obediently still leaning against the wall.

Lindow's smile became wolfish.

John tried to smile, too. Well, it was the sort of thing the two of them enjoyed, wasn't it? Had enjoyed for years. Gambling, drinking, laughing with friends, and bedding women. Preferably in that order.

And the woman looked pleasant enough. Pretty enough for Lindow, though that wasn't saying much—he was hardly picky when it came to women. Nice features and a willingness to spread their legs, that was all he cared about.

Perhaps even just a few weeks ago, John would have joshed his brother about the woman, wondered whether there was a sister he could have for himself. And that would have been it.

But now . . .

"I wasn't particularly interested in matrimony then."

Something twisted in his chest—not an unpleasant movement.

"You're not taking her to bed, are you?" John found himself saying.

Lindow snorted. "You sound like Cothrom."

"I'm serious, man, she looks like part of the ton , not one of your serving wenches," John said darkly.

His brother was right. He did sound like Cothrom. It was usually the eldest Chance brother who attempted to keep the other two—other three in line.

John shifted uncomfortably on his feet. The fourth Chance brother was only half a Chance, their father's bastard. Legitimacy was impossible, but Cothrom had given the man a viscountcy, part of his gift as the head of the family.

It had surprised and delighted Frederick, who became Viscount Pernrith. It hadn't delighted Lindow.

With only a few months between the two youngest Chance brothers, Lindow had never accepted the sudden arrival of another son into the family. Now he came to think about it, he'd have to work that out for the wedding.

John's pulse skipped a beat. The wedding.

"—daughter of the Earl of—"

His attention was suddenly dragged back to the present. "You can't bed the daughter of an earl!"

"Why not?" Lindow grinned. "I'm an earl."

"But you—" John inhaled deeply and tried to remind himself that months ago, he would have seen nothing wrong with his brother's actions. In truth, he wasn't sure why he saw a problem with them now.

What had gotten into him?

"There'll be a scandal."

Lindow shrugged. "There's always a—"

"And I am about to be married," John said.

If he had hoped for his brother might be a little more understanding due to that fact, he was now sorely disappointed. In fact, he was to endure quite the opposite effect.

His brother rolled his eyes. "It's a marriage of convenience though, isn't it? I mean, you don't actually feel anything for her."

John opened his mouth to say of course not. That he didn't have any feelings for Florence save those of wanting to bed her, which were perfectly natural. Anyone in her presence would want that. She was delectable.

But somehow the words did not come.

A strangled cry croaked in his throat, but other than that, John was unable to speak.

He closed his mouth. Well, this was damned irregular.

Was this how Florence felt all the time , a small part of him wondered. God almighty, that would be awful.

"You can't stop me," said Lindow flatly.

John sighed. He knew full well that he could not—more, that he had encouraged his younger brother for years to do precisely what he was about to do. He could hardly reverse that course now.

"Just... just try to be discreet, will you?"

His brother's grin was unconcerned and indifferent. "Where's the fun in that?"

John had no choice but to laugh as he watched Lindow pull the woman out of the hallway and out of Lady Romeril's ball.

Well, he would read all about it in the gossip papers in the morning he supposed.

It was with that disconcerting thought that John stepped into Lady Romeril's ballroom.

There had been no additional decoration. Just the Romeril ballroom that he already knew: two chandeliers at each end of the wide open space, tables along one wall covered with food that was inedible and punch that was delicious, and musicians together in a corner, tuning up their instruments.

And people.

Despite the time of year, Lady Romeril had clearly rustled up a good few guests for her ball. John inclined heads with a few of the gentlemen there. Politicians, a few admirals, and friends from Cambridge who had evidently thought there was nothing better to do on a Monday night.

And Florence.

John's chest swelled as he saw her. Florence. His woman.

His woman? Now where on earth had thought come from?

It certainly wasn't something he had consciously considered her—until that moment, that was. But it was difficult to look at Florence and not feel a little possessive, a little territorial about her.

She was dressed in a most elegant silk gown. The light cream color would wash out most people, but thanks to her red hair and sparkling hazel eyes, along with the richness of her complexion, the gown merely enhanced what was already there.

And there was a great deal there. Curves that no amount of silk dropping to the floor in an empire line could hide, a bust that was delightfully shaped, and—

John swallowed. Oh, their wedding day could not come soon enough.

And he blinked, and Florence was no longer the only person in focus. There was another person. A person beside her.

A man.

A sudden jolt of rage John could never have predicted shot through his body. A man! Standing there, so close to Florence they were almost touching! A man standing beside his woman with just as much possessiveness in his stance as John felt from twenty feet away.

It was unhinged. It was inexplicable. But John wished to stride over there and rip the man limb from limb merely for having the presumption to stand so close to the woman he—

He caught himself just in time.

It was rudeness, that was what it was , John tried to tell himself. He was merely scandalized by the impropriety of the way the interloper—the man was standing. Because it was very close. Indeed, as they spoke, or rather, he spoke at Florence, John saw the man's cuff gently brush against Florence's bare arm.

Just a touch. Nothing more.

Yet it was enough to spur John to march forward, unbale to bear it any longer. As he walked, his mind attempted to flag a few things for his consideration.

Firstly, that there was no actual crime in talking to a beautiful woman. Even if it was Florence.

Secondly, that this was a marriage of convenience, and his emotions about this— Emotions! Him? —were quite unwarranted.

Thirdly, that he was likely to make a scene if he did, indeed, rip the offending trespasser limb from limb.

Fourthly, that he probably could not undertake such a feat, even with this molten rage pouring through every muscle of his body.

Fifthly, that it wasn't as though he were in love with Florence. He wasn't in love with anyone. Being in love with Florence might explain this behavior, but he wasn't—he couldn't be—it wasn't possible that—

Sixthly, that—

"You," barked John, pulling up before Florence and the criminal before his mind had time to finish running down its list of seemingly important facts. Not that he'd paid much attention to any of them.

"M-M-My lord," stammered Florence, looking up with . . .

John could hardly tell what her expression contained, which was itself odd. Florence had always been an open book. She was hardly able to hide her emotions, even if most of the time those emotions were fear, shame, and nerves.

But somehow, standing this close to her in that silk gown—a silk gown he would much prefer to be pooled on the floor—he could not comprehend the look she was giving him.

Was it delight to see him? Confusion as to why he had shouted a word rather than bowed and asked for an introduction to her companion?

Introduction! John scoffed in the privacy of his mind. The lucky beggar should be on bended knee thanking Florence for her company! The scoundrel! Standing there, as though he belonged there!

"A marriage of convenience, between two acquaintances."

But Cothrom's words, which had been running through his mind since he'd heard them, had swiftly departed from John's mind the moment he had seen the two of them together.

What had managed to make its way through his beleaguered mind was this: I may be in more trouble here than I thought.

The intensity of that knowledge frightened him. He was John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury. He didn't go around catching feelings. He'd never get anything done.

"You," he repeated, this time directing his gaze straight at the offender.

Who, most infuriatingly, did not appear to look abashed at all. Instead, the brute raised an eyebrow of surprise and looked at Florence.

"Don't look at her, look at me!" snapped John, wishing to goodness he'd brought a pistol.

Wait, what? No, of course he didn't wish that. Probably. He couldn't go around challenging men to—

"John," Florence said.

And hearing his name on her lips, in such an intimate way, in public, soothed part of John's scalded heart—but it was not enough.

How dare she stand here in public so familiarly with a man who was not her betrothed!

The fact John had never particularly cared for the rules of Society in his life did not occur to him. Not in this moment. Not when it was his Florence who had been standing so calmly so close to a man who was—what? Attempting to flirt with her? Kiss her? Bed her?

Lindow's recent conquest flashed through his mind. Was that all this ball was? A hunting ground for dissolute men?

"Just what do you think you're doing?" John hissed, jabbing a finger into the man's chest.

It was reckless, yes, and it also did not elicit the usual response. Instead of apologizing profusely, stepping away, and promising he would never even deign to think of Miss Florence Bailey ever again, the man frowned.

Actually frowned!

"I don't understand," said the man, glancing at Florence once more. "I—"

"John," Florence said quietly. "L-Let me—"

"You should be ashamed of yourself," John snapped at the man, attempting to keep his voice low but conscious that people were starting to turn to look at them.

That had to be the reason for Florence's tinged cheeks. What else could it be?

Perhaps, and the thought made his hopes soar, perhaps she was grateful to him for rescuing her! Perhaps she had been hoping someone would relieve her of this vagabond's company!

Spurred on by that new certainty, John cast an irritated eye over the man. "Who do you think you are? You sir have overstepped the mark, and by God, I'll teach you what happens to—"

"John, you sh-should listen t-to—"

"What the devil are you talking about?" the man interrupted, his voice sharp. "Begging your pardon, Florence."

And it was that intimacy, that casual mention of her name in the middle of Lady Romeril's ballroom, that pushed John over the edge.

Anger and rage had been spilling over the moment he had seen them together, but now there was something more. Something darker. Something uncontrollable.

John's shoulders heaved as his breathing quickened, and he opened his mouth to call out the blackguard.

And halted.

There was a look not of shame, or of delinquency but... confusion in the man's eyes. Bewilderment. Genuine shock.

When John looked at Florence, it was to see to his own shock that she had placed a hand on his arm.

Not John's arm. The man's. Their connection was evident, the familiarity strong.

And in sudden pain, the like of which John had never felt before, he realized that Florence had something with this man that she did not have with him. A level of comfort that permitted her to reach out and touch him—and in public!

John took a half step back, almost staggering under the weight of the disappointment that was crushing his lungs.

Florence and . . . and this man?

Could it be that he was truly only the first man that she had chosen out of many possibilities, when she suggested that they wed? How could he go through with the marriage now, now it was so obvious there were other men she liked just as well as him, men she might prefer to him?

"Answer me," John snapped, pushing aside the thoughts that were giving him such pain. "Who do you think you—"

"John," Florence said determinedly.

He halted in his tracks, unable to continue after she said his name with such force. Their gazes met, and something inside him hardened. If she could look at him like that, with her hand on another man's arm...

How much did he know about Florence, really?

"M-May I introduce my b-b-brother," said Florence with something akin to a wry look. "Philip Bailey."

All the air deflated from John's lungs so all he could manage was a wheezy, "Brother?"

The man, now identified as Mr. Bailey nodded curtly. "Sir."

John stared.

Brother?

Brother. Oh, well. Well. That made... that made more sense. Brother. Of course.

Why the devil hadn't he thought of that?

"Brother," he repeated again, this time his voice stronger.

Florence's face was scarlet as mutterings started to encircle them. "Y-Yes."

"Ah," said John weakly. "Right."

An emotion he did not quite recognize was pouring through him. It took him a moment to decipher it, as it was something that he could not recall ever feeling before, though he had invoked it quite recently on Mr. Bailey's behalf.

It was . . . shame.

"You must the Marquess of Aylesbury," said Mr. Bailey curtly.

John tried to smile, but it was an effort. How could he have been so stupid? The very idea he would accost Florence's own brother—and in public!—just for the crime of standing close to his sister...

Oh dear God, this was going to be in all the newspapers. Cothrom was going to need a lie down.

"You understand, ah—"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure," said Mr. Bailey with a raised eyebrow. "We can't be too careful when it comes to my sister's honor, can we, my lord?"

John's weak smile faltered. "Right."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must speak with Viscount Braedon," said Mr. Bailey with a short bow of his head. "My lord. Florence."

He stepped away without another word, leaving John and Florence standing together in the growing crush of the ball.

Ye gods. John wondered whether it would be politer just to leave, rather than stand here and submit Florence to the gossip which surely must be growing around them. There were a startlingly high number of people staring at them.

Oh, hell.

Florence's hesitated. "S-So . . . you've m-met my brother."

"You could have said something," John said faintly.

It wasn't a reprimand, not exactly, but the flush of her cheeks proved it had been taken as such. "I-I t-tried. You w-wouldn't listen."

Gone were the relaxed tones, the easy speech they had shared yesterday morning. John could kick himself for putting this wallflower into harm's way—for there was no other word for it. She would be mortified by the attention now, and undoubtedly even more mortified when the scandal sheets were printed.

John opened his mouth to defend himself, and saw Florence's expression.

It was . . . warm.

Not warm with embarrassment, though that might have played a part in it. No, warm toward him. There was a smile on her face, and the connection between them—

John sighed heavily and shook his head with a rueful grin. "Remind me, the next time I do something like that, that I am a complete idiot."

Florence's small gasp was like a balm to his soul. "I can't do that!"

She hadn't stammered.

Almost as soon as John noticed that, Florence did too. She looked at her hands.

"You're going to have to," said John. "I'm not an easy person to live with, you know. I have it on good authority."

Florence looked up. "You... you've lived with a w-woman before?"

"No!" John was startled by his own haste at clarification. "No, I mean my brothers! They... well, they've had to give me a second chance more than a few times. I always hope for them from... from the people I care about."

She looked at him slightly askance. "Is... is this you r-requesting a second chance?"

"You know, I think it is," said John heavily, though he attempted to smile. "Now, shall we dance?"

"We sh-shall not," Florence said firmly.

He couldn't help but smile at that.

"But you can f-fetch me some p-punch," she continued, eyes sparkling. "And we can s-stand at the s-side and watch others. And you can t-tell me more about how d-difficult you are to l-live with."