Miss Drevenport.
The name came to him in a rush, making him almost light-headed. She looked nothing like that young, awkward girl, except for those magnificent eyes. There was no recognition as her gaze slid over Gideon before she turned away.
A gentleman approached her, belly so large the circumference tugged at the buttons of his waistcoat. He waddled with purpose toward her, rudely pushing aside anyone who stood in his way. His florid features belied the fact he was likely already intoxicated. Not unusual, according to rumor.
“There goes Tarrington, prepared to make an idiot out of himself,” Montieth said. “He’s told everyone Mrs. Culpepper favors him. Wagered, in fact, that she would be his mistress by the end of the evening, and put it in the betting book at White’s.”
“Mrs. Culpepper?”
“The Widow Culpepper,” Montieth answered. “Husband died about two years ago, and she has lately reentered society. I was introduced to her at the theater last month. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her since coming to town. Every gentleman in London is pursuing her.”
“I don’t get out much. Have you gone after her, Montieth?”
His friend was staring at the vision in crimson.
Montieth shrugged, declining to answer.
Gideon ignored the sudden bloom of jealousy toward his friend before turning back to the sight of Tarrington about to make an idiot of himself over a woman who was bound to refuse him. The years had not been especially kind to Tarrington. He was no longer the handsome, charming lord he’d once been. Gideon found he had little sympathy for Tarrington.
A patient smile crossed Mrs. Culpepper’s full, plump lips as she waited for Tarrington to greet her.
Gideon couldn’t look away from Tarrington’s impending humiliation. He didn’t recognize her; that much was clear.
Mrs. Culpepper extended an arm, allowing Tarrington to take her hand. He immediately pulled her closer.
“How much has Tarrington wagered, out of curiosity?”
“Quite a lot,” Montieth said as they watched the scene unfolding in Lady Pemberton’s ballroom. “His ego wouldn’t allow him to do anything less.”
The widow smiled back at Tarrington before wrenching free her hand and deliberately wiping it against her skirts as if to rid herself of his touch.
Tarrington blustered, struck speechless. He composed himself quickly, patent sneer curling his lips even as his face darkened to a near purple with rage. He waved a hand, spitting out words as the curious crowd leaned closer.
“I bet against him,” Montieth murmured.
Mrs. Culpepper listened intently, lovely features composed. She nodded at Tarrington. Then she tilted her body in his direction, bosom nearly spilling from her bodice, and whispered in his ear before straightening. The widow laughed right in Tarrington’s face. Loudly. Dismissively. The sound full of her derision echoed in the stillness of the ballroom. Even the musicians stopped playing.
Tarrington’s eyes bulged, mouth opening and closing like a gutted fish’s.
Mrs. Culpepper stared him down, not moving. Daring him to say more.
He didn’t, instead turned on his heel, murder in his pale eyes, before marching furiously away while the guests in Lady Pemberton’s ballroom snickered and laughed at him behind their gloved hands.
“It appears Tarrington has been dealt a crushing defeat,” Montieth mused. “The papers will be full of his humiliation tomorrow.”
“I applaud her good taste.” Gideon didn’t take his eyes from her. She gave a careless shrug as if she hadn’t just given a huge set-down to one of society’s own and moved in the direction of the refreshment table.
The entire lower half of Gideon’s body throbbed in response.
“Introduce me to the Widow Culpepper,” he growled to Montieth. “Now.”
Chapter Four
Honora had seenSouthwell the moment she’d entered the ballroom, her eyes drawn to his lean form like a beacon. Pulse fluttering at his presence, Honora took note of his companion, the Earl of Montieth. She didn’t care for Montieth after being introduced to him, finding his chilly personality off-putting. Her sole purpose in making sure she became acquainted with Montieth was so that he would then introduce her to Southwell when the time came.
Her eyes drank in the earl she’d been unable to forget.
The once carefully trimmed sooty hair now fell in a tangled mass to Southwell’s broad shoulders. His dark evening wear was still expensively cut. The sculpted planes of his face were just as sharp. But instead of the charming smile he’d once worn, Southwell’s lips were pulled tighter, and a weariness had settled itself about him. A cane was clasped in one hand.
