Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

THREE WEEKS LATER

A rm in arm with Lady Eleanor Pembroke, one of her two dearest friends, Bridget stepped carefully down the garden path while gazing at the scattering of tiny white gazebos with enhanced unease.

These get-togethers were her nemesis and while they reminded her that she was, in fact, a member of the ton, the daughter of a viscount, she never felt like one.

Well, not since Father passed away, brother went to war, and I came to live with Godmother Lydia.

At three-and-twenty, and on the teetering cups of spinsterhood, wearing white felt like a fallacy. Until she was certifiably unmarriageable, there was nothing else to wear, well, not unless she wanted to draw the disproving glares from matrons and unkind rumors.

She longed for a day when she was married and would not be obligated to wear debutante pastels and whites but did not see a suitor materializing from the air anytime soon.

Wish upon a star.

Having lived a modest life for the past two years, the opulence of the other ladies with silk dresses at the height of fashion and a fortune in jewelry at their throats and ears contrasted with her simplicity and made her feel self-conscious, but she refused to allow herself to fall into the woes of once-upon-a-time.

It was horrid to be the exception, drawing eyes and stares and whispers, but, “ C'est la vie,” she whispered to herself.

“Did you say something, dear?” Lady Eleanor, or Ellie , as Bridget called her in private, asked, twisting her head a little.

“Not to you,” Bridget gave a soft smile. “I grow anxious when I am around other ladies, especially with the ones we used to know.”

Young lords, most dressed in warm tan breeches and bright waistcoats, were on the lawns, chatting with each other with flutes of champagne in hand, and Bridget trained her gaze away, for God forbid that one of them might mistake her simply appreciative look for something else.

“Lady Bridget,” a feminine voice called. “What an unexpected delight to see you.”

She knew that voice. The owner of that voice never liked her.

“Lady Rebecca,” Bridget forced a smile, then curtsied. “Or should I say Marchioness Savory. How do you do, my lady? May I compliment you on your gown? It is beautiful.”

The marchioness was indeed ravishing in a light blue waist-tight gown with a delightful revealing décolletage. White satin elbow-length gloves encased her slender arms, and her dark blue half-boots gleamed bright.

Lady Rebecca’s bright green eyes slid over Bridget’s form, her gaze polite. But gleeful superiority rested in the depths at seeing the soft white muslin day gown with a subtly embroidered hem and flattering neckline.

“So are you,” the lady replied, her nose tilted, her laugh trilling, gloved hand swirling her champagne. “In debutante white? I am deeply surprised. Out of all of us, you were the one we expected to have found your Prince Charming by now, ruling half a continent.”

“I decided to reprioritize,” Bridget replied calmly. “Marriage is wonderful, I know, but perhaps it is not the be-all and end-all. Well, for some.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Lady Rebecca’s lips curved after sipping her drink. “Marital life is lovely. You were always the bookish sort, so I suppose you do find another happiness in facts and figures.”

“Is that Lady Bookish?” Another one of her tormentors, Lady Ophelia. approached, her deep purple gown gathered beneath her faultless bosom, while diamonds glittered at her ears and throat. On her arm was a tall, handsome blond man with the face of Narcissus. “Oh, pardon me, I mean Lady Bridget?”

Straightening her back and notching her chin up, Bridget smiled, “Lady Ophelia, pleased to see you again.”

“Not as much as I am to see you,” the countess smirked. “You disappeared from Town for what, two years?”

“Three,” Bridget replied, noticing that Lady Rebecca had made herself scarce.

“My mistake, three ,” Lady Ophelia replied. “We all thought you had done like the Grimm Brothers and their Snow White, how you had wandered off into the forest and became friends with the fawns and hares.”

“I did for a while,” Bridget smiled derisively. “The monarch of the forest, a stag named Titan, sends his regards.”

The two tittered. “Oh how delightful,” Ophelia said, twisting to look at the man on her arm. “Pardon my oversight. Lady Bridget, my husband, Septimus Hargrove, the Earl of Rookerly.

“My dearest, Lady Bridget is a girl I knew from finishing school, you see. She lived in the library as much as we lived in the dorms. Alongside Lady Eleanor Pembroke and Miss Josephine,” Lady Ophelia added. “Lady Bridget’s bosom friends.”

So subtle, Ophelia, making me look perpetually girlish in your husbands’ eyes. By the end of this party, I expect to be ostracized in full. I will be a pariah by dawn.

“My lord.” She curtsied and heard Josie and Ellie echo the same beside her.

“My ladies.” The older man, with streaks of gray at his temples, bowed. “I do like to see when old friends stay together. Were the two of you…”

“Goodness, no,” Ophelia laughed, showing her perfectly white, even teeth. Her smile edged into a smirk, “We were more acquaintances than friends, dearest.”

“I concur,” Lady Rebecca reappeared, husband in tow, a tall man with blond hair, high cheekbones, squared jaw, full lips. He looked like a prince.

Unbidden, her mind flew to the dark stranger who had kissed her on those desolate streets weeks ago, the seductive power she had tasted in his lips.

Swallowing, she forced her thoughts away from that man. In any case, she did not need to marry a lord—or be entangled with one—that was a rakehell. The best choice was someone handsome, titled, with a good head on his shoulders, a profitable business or territory, and without a speck darkening his name.

“Ladies Bridget, Josephine, and Eleanor,” the marchioness smiled, “May I introduce my husband, Charles Westport, Marquess Savory.”

After exchanging introductions, Bridget was desperate to find a way out when the Marchioness asked, “My lord, do I recall you saying you had three unattached friends who might appreciate some companionship this afternoon? Maybe we could even find Lady Bridget a beau , hmm?”

Oh, how she wished for a mask to conceal her violent, mortified blush. Tilting her head up, Bridget fought for the word—but found none, because the acrid humiliation burned up her throat. Did she truly look that hopeless?

Being in the public eye put her on edge. When she was on edge, Bridget tended to shut down and shrink away. That drew withering looks and sudden walls of silence, feeding the cycle of her anxiety.

Thankfully, Eleanor found the words Bridget could not, and quite civilly declined the invitation. “As much as we would appreciate company,” she began, “the three of us have not seen each other for a long while and thought to use the time to reconnect. Perhaps the lords might join us later on?”

Thin brows arched in surprise at the blunt refusal but Lady Eleanor took it with grace. “Of course. Please, enjoy the rest of the afternoon. And from an insider, please try the blackberry tarts with your tea, they are utterly scrumptious.”

“We surely will,” Josephine replied with a grimace. “Please, excuse us.”

“Such a pleasure to see you, ladies, but especially Lady Bridget. We really should visit more often now that you are in Town and we are moving in similar circles.”

Similar, but not the same circles . Bridget swallowed the reply like she would do broken glass. I do not belong here anymore.

“Of course,” she said, the lie heavy on her heart. “We shall surely see each other again.”

A ripple ran up the back of her neck, and she turned, trying to catch the spy who was studying her—but found no one. Her eyes lifted to the walls of the grand mansion behind her, her eyes floating to the wide bow window in the dark gray brick—again, no one was there.

I should not have come here.

Swallowing over her remorse, she turned to her friends and forced a smile. “Perhaps we should seek out the hostess, Viscountess Tollerman.”

Stepping away from the window, William took a sip of his rich brandy to moisten his throat. What were the odds that he would come across the same lady he had assured himself he would never cross paths with again?

A day ago, he would have said nonexistent, but now, fate was toying with him. But then again, he never believed fate had his best interests at heart.

“What is my debt down to now, Tollerman?” he asked.

“One thousand and seventy pounds,” the viscount replied. “Down from seven thousand, Your Grace.”

Sticking a hand into his pocket, William considered his options. He could sell another useless portrait… or he could do a night in the Underground Ring.

He took another sip. Selling a portrait would earn him a quarter of that sum, but then… one night in the boxing ring would earn him the full sum with the prize money and the bets rolling in for the Masked Marauder —his alter persona.

It was utterly ironic; a gentleman of the Ton was not one to get his hands dirty. They earned their funds by old wealth, investments, and for those lords who were financially ruined, marrying a rich heiress. They did not lift a finger; God forbid they operate a shop and they certainly did not pummel others for money.

Pugilism is not savagery, young man, its art, it is control, it is discipline. A man must master himself before he can master others.

The sage words of his old mentor, Mr. Buchanon, from Gentleman Jackson’s, a boxer of seventeen years came back to him. He felt guilty turning the one thing he prized as a gift into a tool to earn money quickly, but what needed to be done, had to be done.

It is either do a quick turn or wallow in debt for years to come. I have only so many paintings of sour-faced hounds to sell.

“I shall pay that debt off by the following sennight,” William promised.

With an exasperated sigh, Tollerman stood and rounded the table. Though in his late forties, he was ruthlessly fit, his silver-gray waistcoat hugging his trim torso, his dark trousers fitted perfectly. His light hair, dark brows, and unlined face gave him an oddly ageless aspect.

“For the last time, you needn’t pay it off at once,” Tollerman pinned William with a steady gaze. “There is no deadline, Arlington.”

“Perhaps not for you, old chap, but certainly for me,” William replied, finding a seat and resting the glass at the end of the table. “I have a limited amount of time to prove myself to my uncle who is watching me dance like a puppet, toeing the line of being the perfect Duke.”

“How much time do you have?” the older man asked.

“Up until this Season ends,” William replied, stretching out a leg and rubbing a tense knot in the back of his neck. The cravat felt like it was cutting off his hair. “I know you are acquainted with the… dissolute life I used to live?”

“I have heard rumors, yes,” the Viscount said.

William gave him a tight smile. “Not the best reputation for a duke, is it?”

“When I was nine-and-twenty, nothing on earth could have kept me in the house,” Tollerman shrugged. “Hunting parties, masquerade balls, racing at the tracks, Rotten Row, you name it, I was probably the ringleader. We all make questionable choices, Arlington, just do not let those choices define your future.”

Reaching for his drink, William chose not to say anything to that. If only his younger self, a dissolute, hellhound debauchee, had once thought to stop; stop from gambling, stop from jumping into the next lady’s bed, stop from drinking himself into the wheelbarrows, William knew he wouldn’t be doing half the things he needed to do now.

“Is gaining a wife anywhere in those plans of yours?” Tollerman asked.

“Yes, but I’ll cross that bridge when I meet it,” William stood and reached for his jacket. “I shall let myself out, old friend. Please, go and enjoy the delightful soiree your wife has put on.”

Reclining in his chair, Tollerman twiddled a pen. “You won’t be joining us?”

“With no disrespect to your dear wife, I might corrode if I am forced to drink tea and make inane chatter with other gentlemen and gentlewomen,” William replied with a wry smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

With a curt nod, he descended the stairs and headed to the carriage gate, but after sending for his carriage, turned to the nearest back porch and stepped under the shade.

Women in light pastels paraded the walks, twirling parasols and the men accompanying them. It felt all so… domestic. Jaded, William could only compare the men in the bright waistcoats and colored cravats to strutting peacocks trying to sway the hens to their roosts.

The courting game was so tedious—meet a lady, make an offer of marriage, choke down dry watercress sandwiches, two waltzes at maximum every night, publish the banns, and swan off to live a humdrum life of domesticated purgatory.

A cold shudder ran through him at the very thought of seeing himself scheduling intimate appointments with his wife. No true gentlemen fulfilled their real desires inside their wives’ bedchambers. Instead, they did what was perceptually expected of them and then found the sort of woman who would embrace their baser needs somewhere else.

Glancing over the mass, he tried to find the little nymph in white and found her standing near a water fountain, looking as if she would rather be anywhere else but there.

What is a simple seamstress doing in a ladies’ soirée?

As if summoned by his stare, the little miss turned and met his gaze, and her eyes rounded. He held the gaze for a long moment, allowing a slow, tantalizing smirk to curve his lips as she grew even pinker.

If he had a mind, seducing the impetuous little goddess would be a simple matter. Almost too easy… but no, he had to keep his focus on his responsibilities.

After allowing his eyes to appreciatively trail over her from head to toe, he gave her a slow nod, then headed back the way he’d come. Outside, under the gentle sunlight and cool wind, he paused on the step of the carriage.

“Home, Your Grace?”

“Not this time, Percy,” William replied, his decision made on the fight. “Take me to Spitalfields. I need to speak to a man about a horse.”