In love.
He was in love.
Torrie had fallen in love with Bess.
It was astounding. Absurd. It was bloody terrifying.
But as he swept through the guests in his teeming ballroom beneath a host of glittering chandeliers, he was willing to admit the truth of it to himself. Monty hadn’t been wrong, curse him. He loved his wife.
Helovedhis wife.
The notion was dizzying, and it occurred to him that he was grinning like a fool. But he couldn’t seem to stop. Edging closer to the doors leading to the small terrace that overlooked the gardens, he wondered if everyone would think him a Bedlamite if he simply shouted the declaration above the din of the orchestra.
What a bloody lunatic he was. Yes, he had to admit that tongues would wag furiously over such a pronouncement. Likely, it was not what Bess needed or would wish to hear. He could save it for their assignation on the terrace.
How many minutes had passed since he had spied her sneaking stealthily into the night? He extracted his pocket watch from his waistcoat and discovered that, despite it feeling as if a lifetime had passed, it had only in truth been two and a half minutes. Long enough, he decided. He would make his way to her now.
So single-minded was Torrie in his determination that he crashed into a familiar feminine form, unable to avoid the collision. She fell into his chest breasts first, rubbing them against him as if she were a cat in heat.
“Eugenia,” he bit out, taking her arms in as polite a grip as he could manage and setting her away from him. “What the devil are you doing here?”
He most definitely had not issued her an invitation. She had caused him enough scandal and had hurt Bess enough. That she would dare to somehow infiltrate the ball he had thrown in his wife’s honor set his teeth on edge.
“I needed to see you,” Eugenia said, fluttering her lashes at him. “I’ve missed you desperately, Torrie.”
“You cannot think you are welcome here,” he ground out, taking care to keep his voice quiet enough that it didn’t carry, for he had no wish to cause a scene.
Not on Bess’s day, damn it all.
Already, eyes were drawn to them, the curious stares of gossipmongers eager to scent blood.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t missed me,” Eugenia purred, leaning into him again, her breasts grazing his waistcoat.
By God, the cut of her gown was so low that he could see the dusky shadows of her nipples cresting the decolletage. The sight had no effect on him save pity. Undoubtedly, she was hard at work in search of the next unlucky chap who would help her make a cuckold of Worthing again.
“You are making a spectacle of yourself,” he warned tightly.
“Please, my darling.” She reached for his arm, the touch decidedly unwelcome.
Discreetly, he disentangled himself. “Lady Worthing, go home to your husband.”
She laughed, the sound bitter and sharp, the mirth not reaching her eyes. “Do you think he would welcome me with another man’s babe in my womb? Surely you cannot be that obtuse.”
Another man’s babe in her womb?
Ice began to seep through him where not even a minute ago there had been such prodigious warmth.
“Eugenia,” he gritted, needing to know and yet desperately dreading the answer. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I’menceinte, Torrie,” she said, a small, triumphant smile turning up the corners of her lips. “Lord Worthing isn’t the father of the babe, and he knows it.”
The contents of his stomach roiled, shock passing through him with such sudden violence that he feared he would retch on her slippers here and now as half thetoneagerly watched their tragedy unfold. The heat of the chandeliers blazing overhead felt suddenly oppressive. The lords and ladies around them blurred and swirled into one indistinct mass of humanity.
“Who is?” he forced out.
“You are, of course, my love,” she told him. “There has been no one but you. I was heartbroken after what happened, and now there can be no question of who the father is.”
Good God.
