Two

TWO

Still outside Roxina Danforth’s House

Blast and bunions.

Humor deepened the man’s baritone, laced with the merest hint of mockery.

Aubriella knew that voice.

Bracing herself, she raised her gaze to meet Jackson Matherfield’s sinfully beautiful hazel eyes, ringed with dark blue and fringed with ebony lashes.

No man should possess eyes that stunning.

It wasn’t right.

If she were a typical female, she might’ve been jealous or ensnared by their beauty.

Except, she recognized the rakish cynicism glinting in his eyes that most other ladies missed in their mutton-headed ogling. Jackson Matherfield viewed life through sardonic lenses, was seldom serious, and was a roué from his charmingly mussed hair to his highly polished Hessians.

Furthermore, this man liked nothing better than to tease and taunt her.

Well, he wouldn’t ruffle her today. Mustering every ounce of poise she possessed, Aubriella greeted him cooly. “Mr. Matherfield.”

He gave a dramatic sigh as he steadied her, his grip firm yet gentle.

“How many times must I ask you to address me as Jack?” Then the bounder dared to wink as if they were close acquaintances or intimate friends.

“We’ve known each other most of our lives.”

True, but that didn’t mean she had forgiven the cad for tormenting her for almost as long.

He’d intended to be annoying but, in truth, he’d done her a great favor.

A smile tried to twist her mouth upward, but Aubriella wrestled her mirth under control.

Jack mustn’t think he amused her.

Gads, he was intolerably arrogant as it was. She didn’t want to imagine how impossible he would become if he believed she felt anything but disdain toward him. His teasing would increase exponentially.

In truth, the frogs, bugs, snakes, and even the occasional fossil, animal bone, or skull he presented her as a child hadn’t frightened her or caused her to cry, shriek, or run away. Instead, she’d examined each one with the diligence of a trained scientist until, at last, he recognized she enjoyed the opportunity to study the creatures that were otherwise off-limits to little girls of genteel breeding.

Not only did Jackson Matherfield live next door to the house she was about to enter, but he was also a bosom chum of her brother, Emmet. Aubriella had known Jack for over fifteen years, and he still vexed her to no end.

He skimmed that gorgeous gaze over her new redingote.

“That berry shade suits you, Aubrie.”

Only he ever called her that.

Those closest to her addressed her as Elli.

Irritation and impatience stirred in her belly whenever he murmured the name in that seductive purr. It had always been thus between them. They were as different as oil and water or sugar and vinegar, and would never mix well.

“That’s not my name, and I’ll thank you not to address me as such.” Taking the handsome devil to task, when she didn’t give a goose’s hind end about convention most of the time, screamed irony.

The upward skewing of his nicely—fine, perfectly —shaped lips revealed he thought as much, too. Those lips locked on Francine’s perfect rosebud of a mouth popped into Aubriella’s mind. Any sensual musings she might’ve indulged in plummeted to her half boots, encasing her rather cold toes.

“Visiting Miss Danforth?” he asked conversationally. The breeze teased the midnight hair, brushing the back of his collar and sent a delicious whiff of tantalizing cologne in her direction.

Must the man smell so blasted divine?

If temptation had an aroma, Jackson Matherfield had doused himself in the essence and was devilishly enticing even to a firmly-on-the-shelf spinster such as herself.

Quirking an eyebrow, she stepped away.

“Obviously.” Her droll reply was as dry as desert sand. “Don’t you have someplace you need to be? Overseeing one of your establishments?”

He and his brother owned four clubs. He called them restaurants, but she’d heard titillating whispers that the establishments were something much less reputable.

“Wagering on something ridiculous at White’s?” Was he a member of White’s? “Flirting with a debutante?”

Debutantes. Duchesses. Widows. Wallflowers. Elderly dames. Maids…

The man was a consummate charmer, and women flocked to him like ants to spilled honey. He pressed a black-gloved hand to his broad chest, mischief and merriment dancing in his eyes.

Oh, the bounder.

“You wound me, Aubrie, love. You know I never flirt with anyone but you.”

A snort worthy of a stallion escaped her.

A more susceptible woman might’ve been taken in by his pretty words and even more alluring, seductive smile. Fortunately, Aubriella lacked most feminine weaknesses and merely found his bedevilment bothersome.

She fashioned a sweetly demure smile in imitation of those she’d seen diamonds of the first water bestow upon gentlemen. A gratified thrill zipped along her pulse when the corners of his eyes flexed the merest bit.

Tit for tat.

Feeling particularly bold and naughty, she leaned toward him, and his nostrils flared.

Hmm . Interesting and unexpected.

“Bollocks to that drivel, Jack .”

As she stomped up the stairs, his laughter rang in her ears.

“I’m looking forward to continuing this intriguing conversation at supper tonight,” he said.

She froze, mid-step.

What?

Supper? Tonight?

One foot resting on the landing, she pivoted halfway around. “I beg your pardon?”

A little warning bell sounded.

Aubriella vaguely recalled Mama mentioning Emmet’s friends would attend his birthday celebration.

Blister and blast.

She should’ve paid more attention. Adjusting her satchel, she sent the driver a swift glance.

Mosley observed the conversation with undisguised amusement. No point in telling him he could leave because he wouldn’t budge an inch until she closed the door.

“ Sup-per .” Did satisfaction gleam in Jack’s eyes, the cad? “You know, where people gather, eat, drink, and converse? Sometimes play cards or dance afterward? We’ve done so numerous times over the years.”

“ You are dining with us tonight?” Aubriella sounded like a simpleton to her own ears.

Of course, Jack was; God save her. It was Emmet’s birthday celebration.

Mama had better not seat the scoundrel at the same end of the table as Aubriella, or any wine she spilled would be on purpose.

Straight into his virile lap.

“Indeed. I hope we are seated near each other.” Jack lifted the brim of his hat and gave a brief bow. “I’m most curious to learn why you think me flirting with you is drivel.”

Refusing to respond to his intentional goading, Aubriella slipped inside, shutting the door a mite firmer than necessary.

“I apologize for my tardiness.” Untying her bonnet ribbons, she offered the other women on the club’s board a contrite smile. “I do try to be on time.”

Waving her apology away, Georgine Thackerly grinned. “We saw who detained you, Elli. Jack’s such a handsome devil. Too bad he’s a rake.”

Of course, they had seen, but Aubriella wouldn’t discuss the pest next door.

“Come, have a cup of fresh tea and warm yourself,” Roxina invited as she poured the brew into a cup with a dab of milk before adding a lump of sugar. “Claire has a wager for us to consider.”

Though they guarded the club’s existence with extreme care, women covertly spread the word to others who needed to supplement their income and were interested in placing a wager. Truth be told, that criteria meant most females qualified.

The Ladies of Opportunity kept a percentage of each bet and, like the women they assisted, could put money aside, keeping them from relying solely on men for financial support. Each potential wager must be unanimously agreed upon and couldn’t be cruel or dishonorable in intent, or it wasn’t accepted.

Settling onto the outdated beige and black brocade settee, Aubriella nudged aside an equally bedraggled tasseled tapestry pillow before accepting the teacup from Roxina and raising an inquisitive eyebrow toward Claire.

Widowed at eight and twenty, Claire Granlund held the dubious honor of being the eldest of their little troupe of spinsters and misfits.

Claire tilted her golden blonde head, mischief fairly dancing in her whisky brown eyes. “Lady Lovegrove approached me last evening and asked if the society would consider accepting a wager for two hundred pounds.”

Georgine gasped, her sapphire blue eyes widening with excitement.

“ hundred ?” Her voice pitching high on the last syllable, she glanced in astonishment between Aubriella and Roxina. “Isn’t that the largest yet?”

“It is.” Expression contemplative, Roxina nodded. “I would guess her ladyship has access to information that makes her certain she shall win. I’ll wager that is every cent she has to her name.”

“What is the wager, Claire?” Aubriella took a sip of tea, savoring the flavor and warmth. Roxina never skimped on tea, though her circumstances required economizing.

“First,” Claire selected a ginger biscuit, holding it midway to her mouth, “she insists on anonymity for the bet.”

Aubriella and the others nodded an affirmation. Many women made such requests.

“However, Lady Lovegrove vows Francine Willoughby shall announce her betrothal within a month. She’s very likely enceinte. ” Claire whispered the last word as if the walls might overhear the scandalous tidbit, and the wind would carry the tattle throughout London.

Aubriella choked on her tea. “ Francine ? Pregnant ?”

As Francine’s paternal aunt, Lady Lovegrove had little liking for the conceited, unkind girl who poked fun at the dowdy, plump widow at every opportunity. One couldn’t blame Lady Lovegrove for jumping at the opportunity to profit from her niece’s misfortune.

For three Seasons, the promiscuous chit had held out for an earl or duke while entertaining a long list of handsome rogues. What man would marry her when he could get her favors for free?

“I wonder who the father is?” Georgine mused, her forefinger on her chin as she squinted at the ceiling in need of fresh paint.

Aubriella suddenly felt quite ill, her stomach toppling over like it had the one time she’d boarded a ship.

Jack? Could he have fathered the child?

“It could be any of a dozen chaps.” Claire rolled a delicate shoulder. “We all know Francine hasn’t exactly been, er , discriminating. ’Tis a wonder she hasn’t been caught before now.”

That was true.

Nevertheless, Aubriella felt a pang of compassion for the foolish girl and much more for the unfortunate child.

“The wager must be about Francine’s expedited wedding, not her delicate condition.” Aubriella set her cup down, far more composed outwardly than inwardly.

Jack would be miserable with Francine. Perhaps it was what he deserved for dallying with the tart, but a lifetime of unhappiness seemed a cruel fate.

“We are not in the business of ruining lives,” Aubriella reiterated.

Sometimes it could not be helped that someone’s poor choices led to their destruction, while providing a few coins in the Ladies of Opportunity’s’ purses.

“I pity the unfortunate chap forced to wed that harpy.” Unlike Aubriella, Roxina typically had little compassion for anyone who made stupid decisions. “It won’t likely be the real father, but a man Willoughby thinks he can blackmail, buy, or manipulate into yielding.”

Jack wouldn’t easily acquiesce, but then again, he might not be the babe’s father.

But if he was, Aubriella had no doubt he would do the honorable thing.

And why that made her want to cry defied explanation.