Chapter Four

November 5, 1812

And now all I have to do , Frederick thought with a groan as he lowered himself into the pristine leather armchair, is forget all about Miss Edie Stewart.

As though that would be easy.

“May I get you anything else, my lord?” asked the footman in such a hushed whisper, it was almost impossible to hear him.

It didn’t matter. Frederick had been a member of the Dulverton Club long enough to know the routine.

Arrive and present one’s greatcoat to the footman at the desk at the front. Be shepherded to the room one requested, whether it be the Smoking Room or the Chinese Drawing Room, or one of the many other rooms within the establishment. Find yourself a seat, be offered whatever you wished by the footman who was accompanying you, and be left in relative silence.

Relative, of course, to who else was in the room with you.

“Nothing, I thank you,” Frederick said softly.

The footman bowed and departed.

Their voices had been kept quiet for a reason. The Reading Room at the Dulverton Club was exclusively for, as was obvious, reading. Absolute quiet—or as much quiet as could be found in the center of London—was requested at all times.

It was the perfect place to lose his mind in something else, Frederick told himself, and stop thinking about… about her.

Miss Edie Stewart.

It hadn’t been too difficult to find out more about her, not with all the articles in the papers about the flourishing rose of the Season earlier this year. Her father was Baron Stewart, which meant Frederick himself was technically of a higher rank, but Frederick wasn’t fool enough to think the precedence would be upheld.

It was clear Edie’s father knew precisely that Frederick had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Everyone did. He couldn’t walk down a street in London without heads turning, gossiping voices muttering, and before you knew it, the news that the once-illegitimate son of the late Duke of Cothrom had been seen in such a place would spread.

The scandal sheets would be full of it. Was his mere existence to always be a scandal?

And yet Miss Stewart did not appear to know. Just how sheltered had the woman—

You weren’t going to think about her , Frederick told himself forcefully.

He needed a distraction, that was all. Something to take his mind away from beautiful women who were completely out of his league.

A woman like that, with her beauty, her elegance, her reputation… she would hardly wish to be seen conversing with him. Not, that was, if she had any idea who he was.

So. A distraction.

The benefit and at times irritation of the Reading Room at the Dulverton was that one was expected to bring one’s own reading material. The library, the floor above, provided a great deal of variety, but Frederick had neglected to go there first.

Well, no matter. There were three other gentlemen seated around the Reading Room, one of them quite close to him. The man, whom Frederick recognized as the Baron Packham, was at this very moment folding a newspaper to lay it aside.

Frederick leaned forward, hoping his voice would carry yet not contravene the rule on volume. “May I read your newspaper, as you have finished with it?”

He knew the moment the hawkish man dropped the paper onto the table beside him and met his stare with a cool, almost steely air, that he had made a mistake.

“Pernrith,” said Lord Packham coldly down his sharp nose.

Frederick’s jaw tightened. “Yes. I said, may I—”

“I heard what you said.” Lord Packham did not bother to keep his voice down. He had attracted the attention of the other two gentlemen in the room, much to Frederick’s displeasure. “I didn’t know you were a member.”

His tone was almost accusatory—as though he had been hoodwinked in some way.

Frederick knew precisely why, though by God, he wasn’t going to give the man a reason to be correct.

Membership of the Dulverton Club was not a right, but a privilege. It was something most gentlemen wished for, but few achieved. It was only through the support of two of his brothers, the Duke of Cothrom and the Marquess of Aylesbury, that Frederick had even been considered.

Even if he’d been legitimized in order to inherit a family title, the stain of illegitimacy, it appeared, could reach quite far.

It did not surprise him that there were those who wished Viscount Pernrith had not been permitted membership. Still. Frederick had hardly expected a gentleman to be so frank about it.

“I merely wondered,” he said in a low, calm voice he always used when someone was being rude, “if I may—”

“I heard you the first time, man. I’m not deaf,” snapped Lord Packham. “Fine. Take it. I don’t suppose you can afford your own, though why in heaven you think you should be here if that is the case… “ His voice trailed away, but his expression was gloomy.

Frederick swallowed. He didn’t wish to read the damned man’s paper now, not after that exchange—but after requesting permission, and being given it, it would have been churlish of him to retract his request merely because of a man’s rudeness.

After all, it wasn’t as though he did not encounter such rudeness frequently.

“Thank you,” he said shortly, reaching over and picking up the newspaper.

The instant Frederick had unfolded the newspaper and started perusing the front of it, Lord Packham’s voice sounded in the room. Loudly. Far more loudly than necessary.

“But don’t give it bac to me after you’ve finished with it,” sneered Lord Packham. “I don’t want it, not after you’ve touched it.”

Frederick’s fingers tightened on the edges of the newspaper as irritation and rage flowed through him. It was insupportable! It was infuriating, to always shave to receive such indignities!

And as usual, he remained silent. Though the anger coursed through his veins, Frederick said nothing. He never did.

Quelling his outrage was something he had learned at a young age, and he was far too proficient at it to cease now. Besides, as his father had once said to him gruffly, a long time ago, it only served to annoy the buggers even more if one did not rise to it.

And so, despite his desire to leave, to throw the newspaper back in Lord Packham’s face and snap that it was a low-quality sheet, anyway, despite all the cravings to leave the place and not have to put up with this nonsense—

Frederick slowly turned over a page and continued to read the newspaper.

Behind the printed sheet, Lord Packham snorted. Then there was the sound of a person rising from a leather armchair, loud footfalls across the room, and the slam of a door.

Frederick turned another page.

Only when, by his calculation, he had continued reading for a good five minutes after Lord Packham had stormed out of the Reading Room, did Frederick lower the newspaper.

The other two gentlemen in the place were looking determinedly at their books. One of the tomes was upside down.

Frederick continued to read for another fifteen minutes. Then, rising as languidly as though he had just arisen from a nap by the fireside, Frederick folded the newspaper as small as he could, then stepped over to the grate that was blazing. He threw the newspaper in the fire.

It isn’t as though anyone else would want to touch it now , he thought darkly. Leaving it on the chair would only create more work for the poor footmen who spent their lives clearing up after them.

Frederick had stormed—no, stepped out of the Dulverton Club minutes later, hands hastily thrust into gloves, his top hat jammed upon his head. Staying there meant only tolerating the glares, the whispers, the muttering. The guessing, the pretense of civility.

Why he bothered to go back there, he didn’t know.

Fine, I do. It’s the sort of thing gentlemen do , Frederick thought furiously as he strode down the street, fingers stuffed in his greatcoat pockets. The sort of thing his brothers did. The brothers who… Well. Put up with him.

Two of them had managed to see past the circumstances of his birth, in the main. Cothrom and Aylesbury were good chaps, as brothers went. Frederick knew he was fortunate they welcomed him into their homes, though it was only for the monthly Chance lunch. The next one would not be too far away, now he came to think about it.

But Lindow—

All thoughts of his third brother disappeared as Frederick turned a corner and almost walked headfirst into—

“Mr. Frederick!”

“Miss Stewart?” he said, half-dazed.

She couldn’t have been here. He had spent the last few days determinedly not thinking about her.

Well. Thinking about not thinking about her, just before he’d then spent a happy hour or so most definitely thinking about her.

She was even more beautiful in the flesh than she had been in his memory, which was impressive. The dazzling exquisiteness in his mind was hardly something to be sniffed at.

The reality, of course, was better. The wintery wind had raised pink in Miss Stewart’s cheeks, giving her a delightfully friendly look that made Frederick’s stomach turn over backward. Her pelisse was drawn tightly around her—so tightly, it was just as fitted as the delectable gown she had been wearing at St. James’s Court. The same gown he had, in a dream he had indulged in only last night, ripped off with his—

“Miss Stewart?” said the older, petite woman beside her, her jaw dropped open. “What is the meaning of this?”

Frederick blinked. Ah.

Yes. He and Miss Stewart had turned a corner, almost walked into each other, exclaimed each other’s names—she, his first name—then stood, dazedly staring into each other’s eyes.

Not the sort of thing a respectable young lady was supposed to do.

Well, he could attempt to recover this as best he could. Who was this, her aunt? He had read about Lady Stewart’s passing. Strange, they looked nothing alike.

“Miss Stewart,” Frederick said, attempting to clear his voice of any longing. She could see that in his face, surely. He didn’t need to make an addle-pate of himself by having it so damned obvious in his tone. “How pleasant to see you again. And this is… ?”

“Mrs. Teagan, my chaperone,” said Edie faintly, her eyes wide with evident concern.

As well they might be. Chaperone, that made sense. That left Edie in the tricky position, Frederick could see, of needing to introduce him to her chaperone.

The trouble was, it seemed Edie still had no idea who he was.

Frederick permitted himself a grin. Well, it had been pleasant while it had lasted. He had never had more than five minutes of conversation with a pretty woman before she’d realized why his name had felt so familiar, and she’d disappeared off with scarlet cheeks and an obvious sense of relief.

It had been delightful, in fact, to flirt and converse with Miss Edie Stewart without her disappearing off over the hills, heels flying.

But it would have it end now. The moment she heard his name, it would be all over.

“Mrs. Teagan, how pleasant to make your acquaintance,” Frederick said aloud, remembering to bow low. “Frederick Chance, Viscount Pernrith, at your service.”

Mrs. Teagan bobbed a curtsey and started muttering pleasantries along the lines of how agreeable it was to make his acquaintance. At least, he thought she did. Frederick wasn’t listening.

His attention was fixed on the woman beside her.

Miss Stewart’s lips had parted, eyes wide and glittering with curiosity, and…

And that was it.

Frederick could not understand it. He had given her his name, his full title. Anyone who was anyone in the ton knew the sordid history of the fourth Chance brother. They knew Viscount Pernrith was not the sort of person to invite to an intimate dinner—that if he had to be included on a guest list, it was best to make it as large as possible so he could be lost in a crowd.

It was only at Cothrom’s insistence that he be included that he got out of the house as much as he did.

Yet Miss Stewart—she had not recoiled, or flushed and looked away. She did not appear astounded that he had the mettle to approach and speak to her. She did not even appear pained that he had kept the truth from her.

She was just… smiling.

Mrs. Teagan was not smiling. “Lord Pernrith! Oh, I say, I do not think—”

“Yes, my father and his lordship and I had a short conversation at Lady Romeril’s ball,” said Miss Stewart, as though it had been a pleasant chat. “Such a shame you were indisposed for that evening, Mrs. Teagan.”

Mrs. Teagan halted speaking and glanced at Frederick with a discerning eye.

Frederick swallowed. Well, it was not exactly a lie. Miss Stewart had not said anything untrue—however, she had described the encounter far more positively than it perhaps deserved. And indicated to Mrs. Teagan, quite erroneously, that her father approved of the acquaintance.

Acquaintance? Could he call it an acquaintance if they had never been formally introduced? If Edie had not known his full name until minutes ago?

“I hope your father is well, Miss Stewart,” Frederick said, out of habit to engage with others politely more than anything. What else could he say?

“Very well, I thank you,” said Miss Stewart. “Mrs. Teagan, shall we continue?”

“Not certain I should permit… I mean, a conversation on the street.” Mrs. Teagan was prattling along.

“Do not concern yourself, Mrs. Teagan,” said Miss Stewart lightly, stepping forward and taking—taking his arm? “His lordship and I are acquainted. Walk with us a little, my lord.”

It did not look like Frederick had much of a choice. Stunned into silence by the bold step she had taken— taking his arm? In public!— he allowed himself to be turned around and propelled forward.

He was walking in public with a woman. Arm in arm, with a woman, in public.

Dear God, the scandal sheets will have a field day…

They continued in silence, Mrs. Teagan behind them, until eventually Miss Stewart said softly, “Why on earth would you want to keep your title a secret from me?”

Frederick swallowed. Was it possible…

Surely, it was not possible she did not know. Everyone knew! It was impossible to walk into a room and for every single head not to turn toward the bastard viscount.

How could she not know?

“I… “ Frederick cleared his throat, hardly able to believe what was happening. “I… I did not wish to presume.”

It was the truth. Many a lady would have turned up her nose at an introduction to him, even if effected by his brother, the Marquess of Aylesbury. His brother William, Duke of Cothrom, was far too involved in his growing family to worry about such a thing. If a marquess was insufficient…

And Miss Stewart was beautiful. A lady, a member of the ton . The debutante of the year’s Season. She should have recoiled in horror at the mention of his name. Perhaps gasped. Run off with muttered excuses about appointments needing to be kept.

Instead, they were walking arm in arm together down Oxford Street.

There was only one explanation: she had no idea of the scandal she was about to put herself through.

“I apologize for leaving you so swiftly, at St. James’s Court,” Miss Stewart said conversationally as they meandered along a pavement. “It was most rude of me. I am sorry.”

Frederick intended to speak but discovered his throat was far too hoarse for such a thing.

He should step away. Now. A woman’s reputation could be destroyed through the simplest of things, and walking with such intimacy with a bastard was hardly simple.

If he had any true honor, Frederick knew what he should do.

Yet he could not. Moving away from Miss Stewart would be like leaving the sun. One did not wish to, the warmth of the rays heartening one’s soul in a manner that could not be replicated by anything else in the world.

“Far be it from me to monopolize this year’s flourishing rose,” Frederick found himself saying. “Did you bloom?”

She must have done. She was simply blossoming now. With just a hint of a flutter of a pulse in her neck—something Frederick immediately told himself he had not noticed—Miss Stewart smiled.

“I do not believe I stayed long enough to bloom properly,” she said lightly as they turned a corner. Where they were going, Frederick did not know. He certainly wasn’t steering. “But blooming is not something I do particularly well, I fear.”

There was something more to Miss Edie Stewart than merely being a flourishing rose. Frederick could not put his finger precisely on why he was so sure of such a thing, but he must certainly was. There was an intangible power to this woman, one repressed, fought, subjugated.

As though the world could not contain her multitudes.

“Besides, my father is greatly disappointed.”

Frederick stiffened. “He is?”

The baron certainly hadn’t seemed impressed with his daughter’s conversation with Viscount Pernrith. Not that he could blame Lord Stewart. What man would?

Miss Stewart nodded, the graceful arc of her neck only limited by the fur wrapped around her shoulders. “Yes, I did not receive a proposal this Season. Well… I could not say I received a serious proposal I would deign to entertain. Suggestions have been made in that general direction and I—well, to continue our gardening metaphor, I rather took a pair of loppers to their hopes and made it very clear that I was not willing to be picked and stuffed into a vase to be displayed on their mantelpiece. It is a great defeat to both my father, and to Mrs. Teagan, my chaperone.”

Frederick glanced over his shoulder. He could have done so over his left, which was perhaps the most appropriate thing to do. But he did not. He glanced over his right, bringing his face closer to Miss Stewart’s.

Oh, the scent of her. It was mesmerizing. It was fortunate his feet were steady, though he did not know how, for Frederick was almost certain he was going to trip over, his head giddy with the intoxication of Miss Edie Stewart.

Did she know she did this? How on earth had this woman enjoyed the entire Season without receiving a single proposal?

Mrs. Teagan was walking a few feet behind them, her attention fixed on Frederick’s back.

He smiled weakly, then turned back in the direction they were walking again.

She was a chaperone, after all, he told himself. It would be most surprising if she just permitted him to wander off with her charge and not ensure that nothing untoward was happening.

Except be walking together at all , he thought bitterly. Which most mamas would never permit.

“Though I suppose my time will come.”

Frederick blinked. It was all too easy to get dazzled by Miss Stewart’s presence and forget she was speaking. “Your time?”

She shrugged lightly, as though she had not a care in the world. “For proposals.”

Proposals.

Marriage.

Love.

Three things Frederick knew he would not experience. Oh, he wasn’t a bad-looking chap, by all accounts. He wasn’t as fashionably attired as his brothers, but then his coffers did not run to the same depths. He was rarely out of an evening, spending most of his time at home, and had gotten into no real mischief, as so many other men of the ton had.

No, his birth alone had been enough.

And so Frederick had always told himself he had no interest in matrimony, no time for love, and therefore no need for proposals.

It had all been very simple. Until it hadn’t been.

He looked into Miss Stewart’s clear, brown eyes, and wished to goodness his pulse would stop beating so frantically. It was starting to become impossible to hear his own thoughts over its thunderous pulse.

What in God’s name was he supposed to say?

Miss Stewart was grinning. Leaning into him as they walked, she reached over to his shoulder and pretended to pick something off his greatcoat.

The sudden proximity was overwhelming. Frederick could hardly breathe, could see nothing but Miss Stewart— nothing but Edie, the closeness of her face, her scent wafting up his nose. The abrupt connection was more than he could bear, and the gesture—oh, one of intimacy and closeness, the sort of genteel movement a wife would impart on her husband.

One lover to another.

When she straightened up, there was a knowing look in Miss Stewart’s brilliant eyes. “Do not worry about Mrs. Teagan. Her hearing is not good. She will be unable to hear our conversation.”

Boiling heat was bubbling through Frederick, making it difficult to think.

This was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Ladies did not converse with him in public. They did not walk arm in arm with him down any street, let alone Oxford Street. They did not murmur, lean close and brush his arm. They did none of those things.

And Miss Stewart did.

“Yet unfortunately, I did not choose a circuitous route,” said Miss Stewart softly.

Frederick blinked. “Wh-What?”

“Ah, we are here,” said Mrs. Teagan cheerfully, bustling up to them and somehow extricating her charge from his arm. “Your father will be wondering what took us so long, my dear—thank you, my lord, for the escort.”

They were standing outside a tall townhouse with wide gables and a front door painted in a sky blue. And Edie was smiling—a hesitant, sad sort of smile.

“I am sorry to have arrived home so quickly,” she said quietly. “Good day to you, Frederick Chance, Viscount Pernrith.”