Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

E van looked out over the breakfast table where the partygoers were gathered. They drifted in and out of the room in pairs and clusters, some bright eyed, others blinking sleep from their eyes.

He carefully observed the women while trying very hard not to make it seem as though he was carefully observing the women. That was the kind of thing that could get a man in trouble.

Not as much trouble as being caught, half undressed, in a side room with a woman who was not his mistress…

But still. Trouble.

He had, he reckoned, three things he needed to do.

First, he needed to identify the woman he'd found himself caressing the night prior. This was, alas, no easy task as all he had to go on was the shape of her—pleasingly round and plump—arse.

And, he supposed, the sound of her gasp. But he frankly suspected he'd have more luck with the bit about her shape. He was, after all, a man, and he'd gotten a very appealing feel of her the night prior.

Second, he needed to confirm that she could not identify him. He was at a disadvantage in this, too; he'd spoken while she'd remained silent.

Third, he needed to do all this without Beatrice finding out anything about it as she was, to put it mildly, prone to unflattering jealousy.

"Morning, Oackley."

Curse his bloody luck.

Evan struggled to keep his face neutral as Victor, the Earl of Southgate—and Beatrice's husband—lowered himself into the chair beside Evan.

It was, Evan knew, very poor form to dally with a married lady. But it was an open secret among the ton that Southgate's predilections did not lead him to his wife's bed and that Beatrice had tacit permission to find companionship elsewhere.

Still, Evan knew Southgate didn't know the identity of his wife's lover just as he knew Beatrice preferred it that way—as did he, frankly.

The only thing more uncomfortable than conversing with a man whose wife you were bedding was conversing with that man while he knew you were bedding his wife.

"Morning," Evan returned shortly. He turned his gaze to his kippers with more studiousness than the little fish warranted.

Southgate, alas, had no reason to suspect Evan might wish to avoid conversation with him and thus continued blithely on.

"Mayhap it's a bit strange of me, but I do enjoy a house party breakfast. It is such a boring meal when one is at home, don't you think? No society to think of, just solitude."

This was, Evan felt, perhaps a bit more revealing about the state of Southgate's marriage than the Earl had intended.

He gave a noncommittal hmph of a reply.

"Ho, ho!" Southgate chortled, undeterred. "Perhaps you are the sort to prefer that kind of solitude, eh? And here you have me, nattering on."

This observation did not prevent Southgate from continuing to natter on, alas. Evan might have wondered what he'd done to deserve such punishment if accosting anonymous women in the dark wasn't such a ready answer to that question.

Across the room, Beatrice was eyeing the exchange between Evan and her husband, a keen glint in her gaze. Evan didn't return her look; he was not responsible for managing Beatrice's strange jealousy. If she wanted to know what he'd discussed with Southgate, she could ask.

His eyes slid along the table until they landed on Lady Frances, who had slipped into the room without his noticing. A flash of annoyance shot through him. She was forever slinking about with that mousy little act of hers, wasn't she? He found her pretending to be appalling, but he had greater concerns?—

He stumbled over his own thoughts. Could it have been Lady Frances who had slipped into his arms the night before?

His imagination took off before he could stop it. It was atrociously easy to imagine embracing her, to picture his fingers sliding into her hair as he clutched her against him. She was so slight that it would be easy to lift her, his hand under her arse, until she could wrap her legs around his waist, skirts be damned, until he could nestle close to the heat of her?—

He forced himself to stop thinking that way. Immediately .

Especially since Lady Frances was glancing up, and if she met his eyes, he feared—irrational though it was—that she'd be able to divine the direction of this thoughts…

"Frances!"

Lady Frances' head snapped around at her mother's piercing call, and Evan felt certain he would never again feel such gratitude for Lady Reed.

That gratitude instantly soured when he saw the nervous way Lady Frances scrambled to her feet which, no—he didn't like her, and so he didn't care if she had an overbearing mother. He had his own problems. Why could he not seem to remember that?

Except, as it turned out, Lady Frances and his problems were one and the same because as she hurried to follow her mother, she fumbled the gloves she'd had in her lap, dropping them to the floor.

And then she bent to pick them up.

Giving Evan an unmistakable glimpse of the way her arse curved, delicious and soft and perfect, through the thin material of her morning gown.

He tried to remind himself that his thoughts were absurd. There was no comparing a woman's rear as squeezed in the dark and as glimpsed across a room. He couldn't know anything and should likely give up trying to know anything.

But… but a larger part of him knew.

"For goodness' sake, Frances, must you be so clumsy?" Lady Reed complained as she stalked out of the room, her daughter hurrying on her heels.

The rosy glimmer of Lady Frances' hair disappeared out of sight.

And before he knew it, Evan was on his feet, too, following her.

Frances was being punished.

This was highly unfair as she'd not done anything wrong except fail to be caught in a scandalous position. But her mother's attitude was clearly stemming from animosity over her foiled plot.

As Frances knew from experience, all she could do was wait it out.

Some days, she truly missed her siblings. She'd never known that being ignored was such a blessing. She possibly owed Cordelia an apology—the elder Johnson sister has been subject to their mother's attention for decades .

Fortunately, Lady Reed's brand of punishment was relatively uninspired. She would snipe at Frances for a day or so before returning to her customary level of mild disdain for her youngest child.

Indeed, the Countess shot a withering glance over her shoulder.

"Goodness, Frances, don't hover . You aren't a puppy nor a nursemaid. Can you not find your own diversions?"

Frances had been happily diverted eating her breakfast, now that her mother mentioned it. Too bad someone had summoned her from the table before she'd finished eating. Whoever could have done such a ridiculous thing…?

"Of course, Mother," she said, forcing a polite smile to her face. "Perhaps I shall seek Lady Mary and see if she would like to take a walk."

Lady Reed sighed as if Frances was being obstinate. "If you must spend time with aging spinsters, Frances, do trouble yourself at least to ask about her brother. Though I dare say an earl is likely a better match than you'll ever make."

"I will try my very best," Frances said, unable to keep an acerbic note from the words.

Lady Reed narrowed her eyes, but she'd evidently grown bored with pestering Frances. "See that you do."

And then she swept away, off to do whatever occupied the remainder of her days. Frightening children, perhaps? Throwing rocks at innocent ducks?

Frances heaved a deep breath, ignoring the rare breath of solitude. House parties were, by her estimation, a bit like a very elegant prison. There was fine food and beautiful surroundings, but the freedom was naught but an illusion. She was, alas, trapped her with her parents for another week yet.

She meandered along, idly admiring the art on the walls. Winchester was not known as a great collector, so these were mainly family portraits going back over generations, but Frances enjoyed them just the same. She smiled at an ancestress who resembled Lady Mary a great deal but who, by her garb, had lived at least a century prior. She was having a fine time, until?—

"Lady Frances."

Frances was not necessarily proud of her reaction when she heard the Marquess of Oackley's voice call her name. She did not freeze, nor did she turn to face him.

Instead, she fled.

Well, a bit. She more…pretended she hadn't heard him which was, in some ways, even more embarrassing than if she'd fled outright. It was childish. But she was quite full up on her rudeness for the morning, and she didn't need whatever he was set to offer.

So, she feigned a bit of deafness and stepped neatly into a hallway that turned out, happily, to be a portrait gallery.

She was hoping the man could take a hint—or had an intense dislike for portraiture—as she scurried a bit deeper into the narrow gallery. The room was dimly lit, so as to protect the paintings from the vagaries of time, but Frances enjoyed the shadowy effect created by oil paints and filtered morning sunshine.

She'd have enjoyed it more, however, if the dratted Marquess hadn't followed her.

"Lady Frances!"

He called her name again, this time more insistently.

And Frances more insistently ignored him.

This was childish—and foolish, as it turned out, because the Marquess of Oackley was the kind of awful, awful man who couldn't leave well enough alone. He was, instead, the kind of man who would reach out and grasp her by her waist .

He was the kind of man who would tug her tight against him.

As she'd done the night before. Frances froze. And in that moment, she realized she was doing so with the same man as the night before.

"You," she breathed. "It was you."

"Fuck," he said.

She gasped at the profanity, and he pulled her closer, as if he were not the source of this gasp, as if he had to protect her from something or someone else?—

Or perhaps, she realized as he bent to whisper in her ear, as if he meant to say something.

"You weren't supposed to realize, but now that you have, Lady Frances, let me make you a promise." His arm was like iron across her middle, pressing her back against his front. His breath ghosted over her cheek, the sensation not at all unpleasant.

This was a compromising situation. This was a threatening situation, for all that the Marquess had spoken of a promise .

Yet she wasn't afraid.

Strange, that.

When she didn't move or speak, he continued.

"If you tell anyone about what you saw last night, I will ruin you once and for all."