Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

E very Friday during the Season, the Phoenix Club, London’s premier gentlemen’s and ladies’ club, hosted an assembly. The balls on the first Friday of the month were themed, but tonight’s mid-month ball was as well—a medieval festival.

Fridays were the one night of the week where the sexes mingled within the club, save Tuesdays, when the ladies were invited to the men’s side of the club. The closest the men ever got to the ladies’ side was their half of the ballroom, the width of which spanned both sides on the ground floor.

This was the club’s third Season, and it had only gained in popularity. The club’s owner, Lord Lucien Westbrook, was one of London’s most charming gentlemen. Everyone wanted to be his friend or find their way into his bed. To the latter’s chagrin, alas, as Lord Lucien was recently married and utterly devoted to his new wife.

Lazarus arrived at the club and entered through the men’s side. Instead of going straight to the ballroom, he went up to the members’ den, where he was sure he’d run into at least some of the gentlemen he sought. He was not disappointed. Shefford sat with a friend of theirs who’d only recently returned to London Society after losing his wife two years ago. Roman Garrick, Marquess of Keele, had long been focused on rebuilding his family’s tattered reputation and squandered fortune, but since his wife’s death, he’d seemed to double his efforts.

“Evening, Somerton,” Shefford said. “Join us for a drink?”

Keele looked up at Lazarus from his chair, his steel-gray eyes sharp as they fixed on him. “The whisky is excellent.”

“The Phoenix Club always has the best liquor.” Shefford swirled his glass and studied the amber liquid. “I’d ask Lord Lucien how he does it, but I understand Lady Evangeline is responsible.” He referred to the manager of the club.

“I must find out where she gets it,” Keele murmured before taking another sip. “Shouldn’t you two go down to the ball?”

Lazarus noted that Keele was not dressed in medieval garb to match the theme. Shefford had donned a costume, however. He wore a black doublet shot with silver thread.

Predictably, Shefford wrinkled his nose. “I’ll get there. Eventually. Or not.” He looked up at Lazarus. “Sit with us.”

“I cannot. I’ve things to do.” He gestured to his own costume of a dark green gipon edged in gold. “Besides, I would never let this attire go to waste.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Only you could make this ancient clothing look fashionable.” Shefford frowned. “Rumor is you’ve been practically courting Evan’s sister. What the devil are you about?”

Lazarus sat down at the table with them and spoke in a low tone. “I’m helping her gain admirers. I thought if I paid her attention, others might too. My goal tonight is to ensure she has three dances.” And two promenades. He wasn’t sure he could manage all that, though he would try.

“That’s very kind of you,” Keele said.

“You should tell her brother. Last night, he was going on about you promenading with his sister at the Oxley ball and wondering if you are going to offer for her.”

Inwardly grimacing, Lazarus wondered if Miss Price had spoken to her mother yet. If not, she probably should. Lazarus didn’t wish to cause unrealistic expectations or disharmony.

“Is there any chance you may decide to court her?” Keele asked.

“He’s not ready to marry,” Shefford said, flicking a glance toward Lazarus as if to make sure.

“I am not,” Lazarus confirmed. And yet, he was thinking of Miss Price a great deal. He enjoyed her company, and she’d seen a side of him he’d only fully bared to his father. She hadn’t only seen it, she’d embraced that part of him, giving her unconditional support.

Then, last night at the ball, those two young ladies had interrupted their promenade and he’d been irritated. He hadn’t wanted to pick up the fan the chit had purposely dropped—he’d watched her do it as he and Miss Price had approached—but he’d politely done so. He’d smiled at them and even flirted in return because that was what he did. Except afterward, he’d felt uneasy about it. Especially when Miss Price had said she wasn’t worth flirting with. She was far more worthy than insipid title hunters who dropped their fans to get attention.

Keele’s mouth ticked up in a wry smile. “Are you certain, Somerton?”

“So help me, if you decide to wed, I am going to have to write you off,” Shefford threatened. “I can’t lose another friend to the parson’s trap.”

“You haven’t lost any friends,” Somerton said with a fair amount of exasperation. “Except Bane, perhaps, but then who knows what he is about.”

“He’s expecting a child,” Keele said, swirling his whisky. “Any time, in fact. Or perhaps the birth has already come to pass.”

“I didn’t know that,” Shefford said. “How do you know?”

“My mother-in-law is cousin to his mother-in-law,” Keele replied. “She knows that I have been acquainted with Bane for some time.”

“Well, that is excellent news,” Somerton said, though he honestly had trouble imaging Bane as a father. He glanced toward the clock. “I need to get down to the ball.” He stood. “You sure I can’t persuade either of you to join me?”

“Absolutely not,” Keele said firmly. “I may be back in Society, but my time attending balls is finished. Good luck to you, my friend.”

“I’ll be down when I finish my whisky,” Shefford responded, though he did not sound enthused. “If only to ensure you don’t do anything foolish such as get caught in a compromising position with Evan’s sister and be forced to wed.”

Lazarus snorted. “That can’t possibly happen again, not after Droxford and Bane.”

“Just be careful ,” Shefford pleaded.

Nodding, Lazarus waved at them as he turned to go downstairs. Entering the ballroom, he was struck by how grand everything looked. The club had outdone itself tonight with the medieval festival theme. There were flowers and greenery, and a dais with two chairs made to look like thrones. He had no idea what they were for, but they’d never been there before. They must have something to do with the theme.

And a great many of the attendees had embraced the medieval aspect, their costumes hailing from another time. There were more women than men who were dressed appropriately, but that was to be expected.

He scanned the ballroom and located Mrs. Price. She was not difficult to spot as she was taller than most ladies and always one of the most elegantly dressed. Tonight, her attire was flawless, with an exceptional medieval headdress and a golden velvet gown with flowing sleeves. Miss Price was not with her, however. Lazarus wondered if she might be dancing.

Pivoting, he looked toward the dance floor and found her. She was dancing. And she was also spectacularly garbed in an emerald gown with a matching circlet atop her head. Her sable hair hung down her back, a stunning style of curls and braids beneath a sheer veil. Isaac realized their costumes matched, which they, of course, had not planned.

He saw that her brow was puckered as she concentrated on the steps. He found himself murmuring what she should do, as if she could hear him. Perhaps they should have practiced dancing at their meeting yesterday. Tomorrow, he would suggest it.

Suddenly, she turned the wrong way and bumped into one of the other people in her set. Lazarus winced. He ought to walk away because watching her was rather torturous—he wanted to rush in and save her. However, he stayed rooted and continued to think the steps in his mind as if he could convey them directly into her brain.

“Somerton.”

Turning his head, Lazarus saw Gwen’s brother, Evan, heading toward him. He had a near-olive complexion like his mother along with her ink-dark hair. He was also wearing medieval dress, perhaps because his mother had insisted.

“Evening, Price,” Lazarus said.

Stopping alongside him, Price followed his gaze. “Are you watching my sister dance?”

“Not your sister in particular, but I do see her.”

Price frowned. “Are you courting her?”

Lazarus tried not to betray anything. He kept his focus on the dance floor. “Not at the moment.”

“That’s a strange answer.” Price turned toward him. “I thought we were friends. I should like to know your intentions toward my sister.”

Exhaling, Lazarus looked at Price and inclined his head toward the wall. Silently, they walked to the perimeter of the ballroom. “I am merely trying to help your sister by paying her attention. I am not planning to court her.”

The gold flecks in Price’s eyes seemed to catch fire. “She bloody well thinks you are.”

She did? Shit. Lazarus glanced toward the dance floor. No, she didn’t. She couldn’t. They had an arrangement. She could not mistake what they’d agreed to. “Did she say that?”

Price frowned. “No. But my mother keeps talking about your interest.”

“Your sister isn’t expecting my courtship. She knows I am helping her. My goal is to ensure her Season is not a failure.”

Price blinked, appearing nonplussed. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“It’s just…you risk your own reputation by paying her attention as you have.”

“I’ve been judicious in how much time we spend together,” Lazarus explained. “I have no plans to dance with her tonight or even speak to her.” Then why had he been ogling her as she danced as if he were a hungry kitten who’d just spotted a bowl of cream?

He’d only been watching her out of concern. He wanted her to be successful.

And how was his observing her going to ensure that?

“I confess I’m surprised you would go to all this trouble to help my sister,” Evan said bemusedly. “But I do appreciate your assistance. Provided it really doesn’t amount to anything between you. I mean no offense, but I don’t think you’d be a good match.”

Lazarus wanted to ask why, but he already knew the reasons. His reputation, for one. And her brilliance, while he was generally regarded as unserious and perhaps even doltish. What she really ought to do was frequent literary salons. The perfect gentleman for her would likely be found there. Lazarus pondered a way to introduce her to such people. Could young unmarried ladies on the Marriage Mart even attend such salons?

“Rest assured that I have no marital intent toward your sister,” Lazarus said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve rounds to make so I may surreptitiously compliment your sister and draw attention to her considerable attributes.”

Walking toward the other end of the ballroom, Lazarus tried to shake off the persistent feeling of irritation brought on by Price’s comments. Could he really not be a good match for Miss Price? He was a viscount after all. And he possessed charm and wit. He wasn’t a complete blackguard.

This was an absurd line of thought. Lazarus wasn’t ready to marry anyone, let alone Miss Price.

Why, exactly?

His usual excuses, that he hadn’t yet been inspired to wed or that he hadn’t encountered a woman who made him want to give up his current lifestyle of excess, somehow rang hollow just now. Perhaps he needed to spend the evening at the Rogue’s Den in the arms of the beautiful Thomasina. Except even that sounded distasteful at the moment.

Because he needed to focus on helping Miss Price. He spent the next half hour circuiting the ballroom and refreshment area. He struck up conversations about ladies on the Marriage Mart, and complimented Miss Price wherever he was able.

He was about to depart the ballroom and retreat to the members’ den when he encountered two young bucks, one of whom he thought was actively seeking a wife. Lazarus didn’t know them well—the taller of the two, a barrister called Markwith, was the gentleman in search of a bride. The other, shorter man’s name slipped Lazarus’s mind. Both were dressed as medieval knights, without the armor.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Lazarus said. “Enjoying the ball?”

“Far more than regular balls,” Markwith said. “I’ve only recently joined the Phoenix Club, and this is my first one. Are they always this extravagantly decorated?”

Lazarus laughed. “Quite. Though I haven’t determined the meaning of the dais with the thrones.”

“It’s for the king and queen, who will be crowned at midnight,” the shorter man responded. “You can vote for your choice next to the dais.”

There was indeed a small table with a pair of footmen—rather a footman and a footwoman, since the ladies’ side only employed women—dressed as medieval pages, overseeing a large box. A few attendees were writing down their votes.

“Have you voted yet?” Lazarus asked.

The shorter man shook his head. “Haven’t decided. On the queen, anyway. I’ll be voting for myself of course.” He laughed.

Markwith joined in, and Lazarus smiled.

“I’ll be voting for Miss Gwendolen Price,” Lazarus said. What a boon it would be for her to be chosen! He wished he’d known sooner for he would have made a specific campaign. Well, it wasn’t too late. Instead of going upstairs, he’d do his best to ensure she received the most votes. Starting with making his way to the voting table.

“Why Miss Price?” the shorter man asked. “She’s pretty enough and her family’s highly regarded, but have you seen her dance?” He shook his head. “Clumsy as a drunken soldier. Ruined poor Eberforce’s expensive new waistcoat. I was with him when he picked it up on Savile Row.”

“That’s hardly charitable,” Markwith said with a slight frown.

Lazarus was glad the man had spoken so that he could take a moment to form his own response. Else he would have jumped down the shorter man’s idiotic throat. “I’ve danced with Miss Price, and she is a lovely partner. She is exceedingly intelligent and quite witty. You won’t find a more engaging companion on the dance floor.”

“Intelligent, you say?” Markwith said. “Precisely what most interests me in a bride. I shall seek her out forthwith.”

“Don’t blame me when she stamps on your foot,” the shorter man said. He shot a look at Lazarus. “I am not disparaging her. It is a fact. A friend of mine limped all the next day after dancing with her a couple of weeks ago.”

Lazarus wanted to say that wasn’t possible, but he knew otherwise. “Comparing her to a drunken soldier is the definition of disparaging.” He glowered at the man. “Do better.”

Inclining his head toward Markwith, Lazarus stalked away toward the voting table. He soothed his irritation by thinking of how delighted the man would be when he spent time with Miss Price and determined for himself that she was very clever. Perhaps Markwith would be the one to sweep her off her feet and into his arms.

That thought had the opposite effect of soothing Lazarus. It pricked his ire.

Or sparked jealousy.

It was not his place to feel jealous. He would direct Markwith and others like him toward Miss Price. That was their agreement.

Lazarus looked about for Miss Price, but didn’t see her. The set had finished, but it was possible she was already dancing another. Or perhaps, some lucky gentleman had taken her for a circuit of the garden.

At the voting table, he carefully wrote his choice on a piece of parchment and slipped it into the large box. Then he spent the next quarter hour suggesting others vote for Miss Price. After that, he mentioned to all his friends, and some of his acquaintances, that they should vote for Miss Price if they hadn’t already.

Satisfied that he’d done enough and feeling parched, he made his way back toward the doorway to the men’s side of the club. He slipped through the curtained threshold and immediately caught a flash of green silk.

Miss Price had been wearing green.

Lazarus stepped into an alcove and stopped short, for tucked inside was Miss Price. “What are you doing here?” he whispered urgently. “You can’t be in this part of the club.”

She looked up at him, and though they were in shadows, he could make out her dark eyes. “I know, but I’d heard there was a secret passageway to get to the men’s side, and I thought I could find it.”

“To what end?”

As she lifted a shoulder, a sheepish expression crossed her features. “I just wanted to peek.”

“You’d be caught. A woman, especially one who looks as lovely as you tonight, stands out.”

She glanced down. “You think I look lovely?”

Her emerald medieval gown was stunning, the oval neckline offering an exquisite frame of her collarbones. A pearl necklace shimmered against her smooth skin. But it was her dark locks that beckoned him. He longed to touch them and judge whether they were as soft as they looked. Seeing her hair down made it easier for him to envision her in a state of undress. Which was not something he ought to be doing.

“You are objectively beautiful,” he said, thinking his voice sounded rather tight. He blamed it on the tension of being here with her. Not only was she not where she was supposed to be—on the men’s side of the club—they were together in a dark alcove where Lazarus could be expected to steal a kiss or a caress.

God, he was tempted.

Miss Price smelled inexplicably of sun and citrus, like a bright summer day. He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled her scent, letting it wash over him and saturate his senses.

Temptation was fast turning into desperation.

“You need to go back to the ball,” he said.

“You can escort me.”

“Not from here, I can’t. You’ll be lucky if you can steal back into the ballroom without being noticed.”

“You make a good point.” She exhaled. “I didn’t really think this through. It’s just that I needed a respite. It’s been a very busy evening. I’ve never danced so much.”

“I’m pleased to hear that.” And yet that annoying prick of jealousy returned.

“Well, it hasn’t been ideal. I’m still terrible, but at least I’ve only run into someone twice and stepped on someone’s toes once. And I forgot the steps once too. Or perhaps it was twice.” She sounded so adorably concerned and yet not at the same time. It was as if she knew she should care that her dancing was horrid, but ultimately didn’t. He had the sense that she tried to hide the latter from most people. Not him, however.

It seemed they were honest with one another.

“I should tell you that I spoke with your brother,” Lazarus said, embracing honesty. “Rather, he approached me and asked if I was courting you. I felt it necessary to tell him I am not, that I am helping you gain admirers.”

“I’m sorry you were in that position,” she said. “I know you and Evan are friends. I will speak to my mother posthaste and explain that you’ve been helping me, that your interest isn’t real.”

“That sounds almost callous,” he murmured, thinking his interest in this moment was achingly real.

Her bare hand—gloves were not a part of her costume—flattened gently against his chest. Lazarus sucked in a breath at the contact. She could have no idea what her innocent touch was suddenly doing to him. All manner of torrid thoughts shot through his brain and an accompanying heat flooded his body. His cock began to swell.

This was terrible .

“You aren’t callous,” she said, her gaze meeting and holding his. “I have you to thank for the change in my fortune. I will have at least two callers tomorrow, so it may be that our ruse is nearly complete.”

Panic streaked through him. They couldn’t be finished. She’d barely begun to help him with his reading.

“But don’t think that means I won’t continue tutoring you,” she said quickly. “I am committed to helping you, no matter how long it takes.”

Lazarus imagined her wed to someone else, but continuing to meet with him in secret. That would be incredibly risky. He wouldn’t want to ask that of her.

She really needed to get back. “You must go,” he urged.

“Yes.” She took her hand from his chest and walked from the alcove. He stepped out just as she slipped through the curtains.

He made to follow her, but stopped himself. Then he heard her name called from the ballroom.

She’d been voted queen!

Lazarus moved into the ballroom, but stayed on the periphery. If they’d called her name even a moment sooner, they might not have heard it. Someone would have gone looking for her, and calamity would have struck, for she had been tucked away with him.

She moved toward the dais where Lord Lucien stood. He helped her onto the stage, then looked out at the ballroom once more. “And our king is the Viscount Somerton!”

Bloody hell. It wasn’t supposed to be him . Why was it him?

“Aren’t you going to the dais?” someone to his left said.

Lazarus made his way across the ballroom and joined them on the small stage. “Evening, Lord Lucien,” he muttered.

“Try not to look as if you’re heading to the gallows,” Lord Lucien said while smiling.

Lifting his lips, Lazarus faced the ballroom.

“Much better,” Lord Lucien whispered. “Time for the coronation!” he announced. “Look at how well they match. It appears as if they planned this with their coordinated costumes.”

They did indeed. This wasn’t going to help Miss Price with potential suitors, not if they saw her as already taken.

As Lord Lucien stepped to the back of the dais, Lazarus joined Miss Price. She was smiling broadly.

“This is a surprise,” she said, her cheeks flushed with pleasure.

“Quite.” Lazarus continued to worry at how this looked. He didn’t want them to be seen as a couple or for people to assume their betrothal was a fait accompli. He needed those gentlemen who said they would call on Miss Price tomorrow to actually call on her.

But what was he to do? Announce that he had decided not to pursue a courtship with her?

If only he hadn’t reentered the ballroom after her. As soon as he heard his name being called, he could have fled the club and avoided this entire situation.

In hindsight, he should have retreated as soon as Lord Lucien said his name. However, the people around him had been aware of his presence. His flight would have raised questions. And perhaps not reflected well on Miss Price.

“Take your thrones, if you would, please,” Lord Lucien instructed.

“Does it matter which?” Miss Price asked, surveying both seats.

One was slightly taller and wider. “I suppose the larger one is for the king,” Lazarus said.

“Indeed,” Lord Lucien responded in a low voice. He held a painted wooden crown. “Please sit so I can put this on your head.”

Lazarus waited until Miss Price took her throne then he sat down beside her. This was ridiculous.

“I crown thee King Somerton of the Realm,” Lord Lucien said loudly as he put the crown atop Lazarus’s head. He looked over at Lord Lucien, now holding the queen’s crown. It was much daintier. Still, how were they supposed to move about with these on their heads? They would surely fall.

Lord Lucien placed the crown on Miss Price’s head. “I crown thee Queen Gwendolen of the Realm.”

“Does that fit atop the circlet?” Miss Price asked with a laugh. She tipped her head, as if she could possibly see the crown, and everything tilted.

“Careful,” Lazarus warned.

She reached up and touched the crown. “I hope this doesn’t fall. I’m liable to hurt someone.” Based on her smile and the sparkle in her eyes, she was joking. But Lazarus didn’t want her to think of herself as a walking hazard.

“You won’t,” he said. “Just keep your head up. Look down at everyone as if they are your subjects. Which they are for the remainder of the night.” He grinned at her.

Adopting a haughty expression, she surveyed the crowd gathered before the dais and looked down her nose at them. Then she giggled, and the effect was ruined.

Lazarus laughed too. “You had it until you couldn’t hold your humor.”

“This is all so silly. But also rather…wonderful.” She looked sideways at him. “I’m glad to be sharing it with you.”

They were on dangerous ground. Lazarus needed to flee, but as king, he’d likely be expected to stay. Dammit, this wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

“There’s my mother,” Miss Price said softly. “She looks so happy.” Turning her head toward Lazarus, she met his gaze with warm gratitude. “Thank you.”

She couldn’t know what he’d done to ensure she was queen. “You deserve this,” he said.

“I don’t know if that’s true, but I deeply appreciate it. This is something I never dreamed of.”

“And now, we shall recommence the dancing,” Lord Lucien declared. “A waltz led by our king and queen.”

Now he was to waltz with her? Lazarus groaned inwardly even as his body thrilled to the idea of holding her close.

He stood and offered her his hand. “My queen,” he murmured.

She put her bare hand in his, and the connection was a strike of lightning. Somehow, he managed to keep from physically reacting. However, unlike lightning, which would have driven him to the ground, he wanted to pull her close and put his lips on one of her delectable collarbones.

As he guided her from the dais, she put her foot down onto the first step. Then her other foot caught her gown, and Lazarus clasped her hand more tightly, holding her upright. “All right?”

“Yes. I am not used to this type of gown. The skirt is a bit too long, and there’s a train. It’s a hazard, if you must know.” She flashed him a smile, and Lazarus nearly tripped himself.

When they were safely off the dais, he led her to the center of the dance floor. “How is your waltzing?” he asked.

“As accomplished as you think it is,” she said with a wry smile as they assumed their positions.

Lazarus pressed his hand to her back. “Just keep your eyes on me and hold tightly. I will guide you completely.”

“What about my feet? You can’t lift me and carry me about.”

“I would if I could.”

She laughed, and he couldn’t help grinning. “I’m bound to step on you, so I’ll apologize now.”

“Don’t think too much. Take small steps. I’ll propel us. And no one will see your feet, because, as you pointed out, the skirt is too long. So don’t worry what people might see.”

“You’ve an excellent point, except we’re the only ones here. Everyone is watching.” She glanced about at the empty dance floor. “Why is no one else dancing?”

“I presume it’s just supposed to be the king and queen for now.” Again, Lazarus worried this was going to ruin everything for Miss Price.

The music started, and Lazarus swept her into the dance. She kept her gaze locked on his, and it didn’t take long for him to realize he had to count the steps in his head lest he become completely lost in her eyes and her arms.

How had this happened? He hadn’t even planned to speak to her tonight, and here he was, king to her queen, holding her in his arms as the entire ballroom looked on.

Thankfully, other couples now entered the dance. He felt her relax in his arms. Then she stepped on his foot.

She blushed faintly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Now listen, after the dance, I am not going to speak to you again. I’m going to flirt with other women and try to implicitly convince people that we are not courting.”

Her magnificent eyes rounded briefly. “Do people think we are?”

“I think some will jump to that conclusion since I have danced with you before, we promenaded in the park, and here we are king and queen of the medieval festival in matching costumes.”

“That does look…suspicious.”

“You must try to say things that indicate you are enjoying meeting a great many gentlemen. Anything you can say that will indicate you are not spoken for will help immensely. And if you can manage to see those two gentlemen who said they planned to call tomorrow, reiterate how much you are looking forward to that.”

She nodded. “I will.” Her gaze softened. You’ve been so incredibly kind and supportive. If I manage to receive any offers, it will be entirely because of you.”

“Nonsense. I may have helped, but once gentlemen see past what they think they know about you, they won’t be able to deny that you are a sparkling diamond, and they’d be fortunate to have you choose them.” Lazarus realized he was talking about himself. She was a diamond, and he never would have seen her if he hadn’t taken the time to do so.

He really needed to put distance between them. And yet he would be alone with her tomorrow when they met for another reading lesson.

The music ended, and he escorted her from the dance floor. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, but he knew it didn’t match his. She was eager to help him with reading while he was thinking of all the ways he could touch her when they were alone tomorrow. He was worse than a rogue. But he was going to keep himself in check.

There was simply nothing else he could do.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Miss Price.” He bowed and took his leave.

Then he spent the remainder of the ball flirting with every woman he met. He’d never felt more hollow.