Chapter Two

If there was one thing worse than a ball, it was being invited to the damned thing.

Frederick Chance, Viscount Pernrith, smiled tightly at the footman who examined his invitation closely. The angular man brushed a finger across the inked name, as though testing whether the ink were still wet.

“Is there something wrong with my invitation?” Frederick asked politely.

It took every ounce of strength within him to keep his voice level, but he managed it. He always managed it. No matter the situation in which he found himself, no matter how the rudeness around him, he was always the calmest one in any situation.

He had to be.

The footman cleared his throat. The noise echoed around the impressive hallway of Lady Romeril’s residence. Frederick definitely did not glance around to see just how many people were staring.

He knew they would be. There was always someone willing to gawp at a gentleman in difficulty. The gossip would only increase when they discovered who it was…

“Nothing wrong, no, sir,” said the footman vaguely. He was still staring at the piece of card.

Frederick’s jaw tightened. “My lord.”

The footman looked up. “What?”

“It’s ‘I beg your pardon’, and I am ‘my lord’, actually,” said Frederick, trying his best not to sound as testy as he felt. “And that is my invitation, and I am entering now.”

Ignoring the spluttered protests of the liveried servant, he snatched the invitation back, stuffed it in his waistcoat pocket, and marched into the ball.

God knew why. It wasn’t as though he actually wanted to be here. Any Society occasion was just another excuse for people to pity him, as Frederick well knew. It would be all about the ton tomorrow, how Viscount Pernrith had had a spat with a footman—a mere servant!

But then, they would say, his lungs tightening, “You know where he comes from…”

The place was packed. Lady Romeril had outdone herself, as usual, in both decoration and volume of invitations. Frederick could hardly move off the top step, where another liveried footman appeared to be having significant difficulties.

“The Duke and Duchess of… His lordship, the Right Reverend… Ah, my lord,” the man said, mopping his wide brow with what appeared to be a sopping-wet handkerchief. “They come so quickly, you know, it becomes impossible to announce everyone properly. Here, let me do you. The Right Honorable—”

“That’s enough,” said Frederick softly.

There was no unkindness in his voice. No true censure, beyond the fact that he wanted the man to cease yelling his name.

But it was too late.

“—The Viscount Pernrith!” screeched the footman, apparently delighted he’d managed to get an entire name spoken before the individual had descended the stairs.

Frederick prepared himself. It was always the same. Why he had deigned to accept the invitation from Lady Romeril when he’d known there was going to be so much of a fuss, he did not know. Something dark within him, perhaps, had known he had to put on a brave face for the world. Had to appear in public.

His brother Cothrom demanded nothing less.

In truth, it wasn’t so bad. A few gentlemen raised eyebrows at the sound of his name, but their conversations barely halted. A lady or three glanced around more out of habit, he thought, than any actual interest. They looked him up and down, swiftly noted the stylish yet relatively inexpensive jacket and breeches, along with the Hessian boots, which had seen finer days, and turned away.

And that, it appeared, was it.

Frederick let out a long, slow breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. It’s going to be a quite ball, then.

“My word, look at you,” said a sneering voice. “Didn’t think we’d see any of your kind hereabouts.”

The tension that had so recently departed from his shoulders immediately returned—and trebled when Frederick turned and saw who had spoken.

Mr. Lister. The most irritating man in the ton at the moment. The devil rarely had a civil tongue in his head and saw no problem with making mischief.

Frederick did what he always did when in public and allowed a slow, unreadable smile to creep over his face. “Mr. Lister,” he said politely, bowing.

The other man did not bow. Striding over to the viscount, the diminutive Mr. Lister said nastily, “I’m surprised Lady Romeril bothered to send you an invitation, I must say. I did not know your kind bothered with such things.”

The musicians were starting to play now. Gentlemen led their partners to the lines and Frederick almost allowed himself to be distracted.

But only for a moment. He was not here to dance. Or to find a partner.

What woman, after all, would wish to be partnered with him?

“I must say I do not know what you mean, Mr. Lister,” he said as politely and calmly as he could. “I can see Viscount Braedon over there, dancing with a lady, and I passed Viscount Donal and Viscount Wynn in the entrance way. There appear to be plenty of viscounts, Mr . Lister.”

Try as he might, Frederick could not keep his irritation from causing him to emphasize the second-to-last word perhaps a mite too long.

That had to explain the fiery fury in the man’s pinched expression. “I didn’t mean viscounts, you fool. I meant—”

“I know precisely what you meant,” Frederick said, his voice continuing cold. “And yes, I know I am invited only on the request of my brother, William Chance, Duke of Cothrom. I do not need you to tell me that.”

Despite the reminder of Frederick’s superior connections, Mr. Lister’s sunken eyes gleamed. “So you know you’re not welcome, then?”

It was impossible to talk to such people. Especially when one’s blood was boiling, and all one wanted to do was shout at the man that yes, Frederick didn’t belong anywhere, wasn’t welcome anywhere, and he was sick and tired of it.

Not that Frederick would permit such an outburst. Particularly not in public.

So he strode away. There was no point arguing with the man.

Mr. Lister shouted something after him—of course he did—but there was no possibility of hearing the rudeness over the loud chatter, and the scrape of knives and forks on plates coming from the dining room, and the musicians, and the conversation of the dancers.

His three brothers had undoubtedly been invited. Lady Romeril would not have been so forgetful as to include the most scandalous Chance brother on her invitation list, and entirely forget William Chance, Duke of Cothrom; John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury; and George Chance, Earl of Lindow.

The family with four sons—each with their own title. Yes, the Chances were not a family the ton would soon forget.

Admittedly, only two of the brothers would own Frederick in public, but that did not halt him from glancing about the room seeking a friendly—or at the very least familiar—face.

They were nowhere to be found. The startlingly sky-blue eyes of the Chances were absent. There was no one here who would happily talk with him.

And so Frederick was able to do three things in very quick succession.

First, he was able—just about—to force himself to forget that every single person at this ball pitied him. No man wanted to be pitied. Particularly not for that .

Second, he swiftly picked up not one, but two glasses of punch that had just been poured by an exhausted-looking footman.

And third, he managed to slip behind a long, silk hanging over a recess he’d known was there.

Frederick inhaled deeply in the small room that had been hidden by the silk. The noise of the ball was muffled here—it was amazing the difference that silk made.

It was also impressive just how swiftly his nerves calmed, now that he knew he was alone. Out of sight. Unlikely to be judged, to be pitied, to be spoken to like that goddamn Lister had.

Here, in the little alcove that had never been obscured from view at any of Lady Romeril’s previous balls, he could hide. Sit here for a few hours, drink his punch, then leave. He had been announced—it wasn’t like Cothrom could complain he had not attended. But he wouldn’t be subject to the ton ’s nonsense. He could just hide here.

Frederick sighed heavily, rolling his shoulders as he walked to the window. Fatigue was threatening to tempt him toward the taffeta chaise lounge, and if he fell asleep here and was found later…

Well. Then even Cothrom wouldn’t be able to stop the gossipmongers.

He placed the two glasses of punch on the windowsill and stared at the mottled glass. It shimmered with the light of the few candles left in here. The night outside made it impossible, thanks to the candles, to see through the glass. All he could see was his own reflection.

Blond hair—hair that was never tidy, no matter what he attempted to do with it. A sharp jawline with a smattering of light-gold beard that he probably should have shaved before he’d departed for Lady Romeril’s ball. And eyes—hazel eyes. Eyes he hated.

Not the sky-blue Chance eyes all three of his brothers had inherited from… from their father.

In short, a gentleman of sorts and a man who had no business being a viscount.

Frederick’s jaw tightened. Well . He had to live with that, he supposed. For the rest of his life. And that was all there was to it. As long as he could continue hiding here—

A flash of white in the window. Movement. The reflection danced, impossible to decipher. And there was a sound.

Frederick turned around.

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen had appeared, as though by magic, to stand behind him. She was holding her own glass of punch and her cheeks were flushed, as though she had managed to escape… well. A Mr. Lister of her own. Perhaps the very same man.

She had the sort of elegant figure that made artists salivate. Curves and swells precisely where one would have wanted them. But it wasn’t her figure that was so captivating, though Frederick did find it rather difficult to drag his gaze upward.

No, it was her face.

The woman was exquisite. Delicate, golden-brown eyes surrounded by serious brows that nonetheless appeared to be potentially laughing at any moment. An aquiline nose that perfectly balanced the face, above a pair of lips that were eminently kissable. A soft pink, like the interior of a shell. The bottom lip was fuller than the top, and Frederick found his throat drying as he imagined what it would be like to—

No, he couldn’t think that way. He had to make her leave, didn’t he? For her own sake. They were alone.

“I do apologize,” Frederick said, leaning an arm on the sill in an attempt to look as languid as possible. “But this hiding spot is taken.”

The delicate pink that had hitherto suffused the woman’s cheeks became a brilliant, searing red.

On any other woman, it would have spoiled her looks. Become blotchy, reminded the onlooker that everyone had faults, and would have resolved the tension seeping into the small alcove.

As it was, Frederick was astonished to find it beautified her even more. There was a charming shyness to her now that only heightened her appearance. An appearance that, try as he might, he could not tear his eyes away from.

Dear God, but he wanted her.

Frederick immediately pushed the thought aside. A woman like that, even bother to give him the time of day? It was unheard of. No one wished to associate with Viscount Pernrith. Anyone who knew his history knew that he was not a suitable conversationalist for a young lady, let alone a dance partner.

Let alone a partner.

Swallowing the thought, Frederick tried to look away from the woman. Tried.

“I do apologize,” the woman said in a light, soft voice that was sunshine and early-morning rain. “I did not believe this place to be occupied.”

“No need to apologize,” Frederick said through a hoarse throat. Thank God he’d managed to sound normal. “May I ask if there is a particular reason you are hiding?”

He had attempted nonchalance and wasn’t sure if he had succeeded.

There was something about nonchalance that meant it had to come across as unstudied. The moment you worked hard for it, the thing fell apart.

It was something gentlemen just seemed to know how to do. True gentlemen , Frederick thought darkly. Not someone like me.

“‘Hiding’?” The woman raised a perfect eyebrow. “I wouldn’t say I was hiding, necessarily.”

Frederick hesitated. Right .

This was unknown territory. Oh, he knew that in Society, it was perfectly permissible for an unmarried gentleman and an unwed lady to converse—and for that conversation to veer into flirting.

If chaperoned. And within sight of the public. And introduced. None of which they were.

Which was probably why there was a frisson of excitement tumbling down his spine at the thought of speaking to this ravishing beauty without the knowledge of her parents, Society… or even of her name.

The trouble was, he was hardly one to flirt. He’d had no practice at the damned thing. So how should he—

“My name is Edie,” said the woman, her cheeks calming and a glimmer in her eye making Frederick’s stomach lurch.

Well. And other parts of him.

Edie. It was a pretty name, and an unusual one. Even if the accompanying woman wasn’t so tasteful and refined, he would never struggle to recall that name.

“Frederick,” he said, mouth dry. If she wasn’t going to use her formal title, he wouldn’t, either. “I don’t suppose there is a particular person of whom I should feel envious, is there, Edie?”

Edie. It was scandalous, speaking her first name like this. She could be a duchess—no, Frederick corrected himself, glancing at her bare left hand. The daughter of a duchess, then. Or the daughter of a marquess.

And yet he had spoken to her as “Edie,” and she—

She did not recoil. She did not glare at him, as so many ladies in Society did. She did not mutter about presumption, or scandal, or the shameful expectation of speaking to her.

She just… laughed. “Why would you be envious? There is no gentlemen out there who has any claim to me. No more so than you, anyway.”

Frederick’s pulse was thumping now in a rhythm not unlike that of a torrid river.

Well, he may not have known how to flirt… but she did.

Edie stepped around the alcove, not advancing on him, exactly, but meandering her to way to the chaise lounge without taking her eyes from him.

She was… inspecting him. And it appears , Frederick thought with a rush of desire he knew he should dam, that she likes what she sees.

“So if you are not hiding from a gentleman eager for your hand,” Frederick said, attempting to keep his voice as light as possible, “why are you not out there? In Society?”

“I have no wish to be,” came the genteel answer.

Frederick’s focus flickered over the delicate wrist, the soft, shimmering skin in the candlelight, the curve of her waist just beneath—

“And why are you, Mr. Frederick, not out there?” Edie put to him, jerking his eyes back to her face. “Not breaking any hearts this evening?”

Frederick shook his head, the truth spilling from his lips before he could stop it. “Why would I want to be out there when I can be here, looking at you?”

This time, her flush was one of delight. Already, he was learning her habits. This intrigued him. This color rose from her collarbone, drawing his attention to it for only a moment. Then it rose once more to those brilliant eyes, that curved mouth, which had risen into a smile.

“But does your wife not mind you being in here?”

She had spoken lightly, but Frederick was no fool. He could see the shape of the question she would not ask.

And… she did not know who he was. If she did, she certainly would not be in here, conversing with him. And that meant he could have a little fun.

“Oh, she doesn’t mind,” he said nonchalantly.

He managed the tone exactly this time, so perfectly that Edie’s face fell.

Frederick laughed. He could not leave her under that misunderstanding. “Or at least, she probably wouldn’t, if she existed.”

Edie met his gaze and there was a fiery interest there no woman had ever bestowed upon him.

His lungs tightened. There was no other word for it: he was stirred. She stirred him. Drew him in a way no other woman ever had—or perhaps no other woman had wanted to.

But their flirtation was all it could ever be. A flirtation.

Ladies did not have flings when men like him. If they had flings at all, they were after they were married. When evidence of said fling could be passed off as a husband’s child, and no one ever had to be any the wiser. He’d never been so rash himself—he knew the pain of growing up with a father who would truly own you.

And even if Edie had been married , Frederick thought ruefully, and wished to… explore, beyond the marital bed, she would not choose someone like me . Not if she knew his surname—knew his title. Knew the history of that title, where it and he had come from.

Not if she knew he was the former Duke of Cothrom’s bastard.

No, the only reason she was still standing here with light in her eyes and a teasing laugh in the air was precisely because she did not know who he was.

“So,” Edie said softly, finally stepping directly toward him now, her curiosity clearly overwhelming her. “Why are you here, then? Hiding?”

Frederick took a deep breath to fortify himself to tell the truth. Which would have worked, if he had not also taken in a great deal of the woman’s scent.

Lavender. And rose. And something akin to hazelnut. A heady, potent mixture that could easily unravel a man if he wasn’t too careful.

And Frederick did not wish to be careful.

The temptation to kiss her, to merely act on the instincts pouring through his veins, rose in Frederick. For a moment, he considered it. By God, it would be a pleasant way to distract himself from the evening. She was beautiful. Delightful to look at. Would she be just as delightful to touch?

“You can tell me, you know,” Edie said softly, perhaps under the impression he held a great secret. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Frederick nodded, half-dazed by her presence. He had the strange feeling that she wouldn’t. And perhaps she would not judge, either. Perhaps she would see him for who he was, the man he attempted to be, not the scandal that followed him.

Though his instincts honed over decades always told him to remain quiet, to stay unobtrusive, guaranteeing he was never the center of attention… this woman made him feel differently.

“It’s not a secret, as such,” Frederick began, quietly. “It’s… It’s just that—”

“Edie? Edie, I know you’re hiding about somewhere—there you are!”

Frederick took a hasty step back as a gentleman at least three decades older than him pushed aside the silk and interrupted what had been a most riveting conversation.

And Frederick saw immediately he had made a terrible mistake.

“Dear God—Edie! You… You are alone!” hissed the man who was definitely the lady’s father. “Alone, and with a gentleman! Do you wish to bring scandal down around your ears?”

Frederick swallowed. He had been foolish in the extreme to permit the conversation to go on for as long as it had. The trouble was, he had been happy throughout.

A conversation with a lady, and one so beautiful as she was… And because she did not know who he was, she had appeared to enjoy it too. If only—

She only enjoyed it because she did not know who you were , Frederick told himself sternly. And now you have some explaining to do.

He could feel the stiff disguise that he operated in public returning. It flowed down his spine, making his legs rigid, tightening his jaw, closing his hands into fists. He placed his hands behind his back.

“Good evening,” he said woodenly to the newcomer. “May I introduce myself?”

“I don’t need an introduction. I know who you are,” snapped the older man. “And you should never have been talking to my daughter—and alone? You call yourself a gentleman, I suppose?”

The barb was perhaps warranted, but it still stung. Thank God you didn’t tell her who you were, and why that mattered , Frederick could not help but think. Then the damage would have truly been done. Though he was certain she would learn the truth soon enough.

“—can’t believe you would speak to such a man,” Edie’s father was muttering. He had grabbed her arm and was trying to pull her away, out of the alcove—away from Frederick Chance. “Of all the people—”

“But this gentleman has been politeness itself,” Edie said, her eyes wide as she glanced over at Frederick. “I liked his conversation. I do not understand—”

“The outrage!” her father muttered.

Frederick hardly heard him. It was Edie’s words that were ringing in his ears.

“I liked his conversation. I do not understand—”

No. No, she wouldn’t have. Because he had not been man enough, gentlemanly enough, to explain why scandal had followed him all his life. Why he could never escape it. And why she would do better, far better, to disassociate with him.

Frederick swallowed, hard, then held his head high. He knew what had to be done.

“I quite understand, sir—”

“‘My lord,’” snapped the older gentleman, “if you do not mind!”

She was a titled man’s daughter. Frederick tucked that away for later, then barreled forward with his decision.

“I quite understand, my lord, why you would not wish your daughter to associate with me,” Frederick said quietly. “If you will permit, I will leave now. You and your daughter can wait say, ten minutes, then leave together. No one will suspect any wrongdoing.”

Not that they had done anything people might have suspected. They’d just had a delightful conversation, the like of which he had never had before, and his heart had fluttered, though it should have known not to come to life.

Frederick inclined his head curtly, then strode away.

Away from temptation. Away from scandal.

And toward a ball where he knew he was most unwelcome.