Usually, these gentlemen obliged and after an appropriate amount of time, she could sell his gift and send the money into the country.
Usually, she had a gentleman on which to call.
That made today’s letter particularly inconvenient.
“My lady,” her butler said. “The carriage has arrived.”
She stuffed the letter back in her reticule and forced a smile. Despite her somewhat dubious reputation, her birth and marriage were good enough that most hosts still invited her. Of course, Lady Jersey was never going to permit her an Almack’s voucher, but there were worse things: she was not a mere girl in her first Season, after all. And Almack’s had always struck her as singularlydull. One could not so much as sneak a kiss.
She might use her lovers to fund her obligations, but she did enjoy her escapades, for the most part. The dowagers lining the walls tonight would be shocked at the idea that Caroline, for all her veneer of respectability,enjoyedbeing a man’s mistress.
Ah well, if she was selling her soul, she had best make the most of it.
The carriage was dark, but the journey was short, and when she finally pulled up outside Lady Peterborough’s grand townhouse, her curls were fluffed, her bosom was plumped and she was at full advantage in a daring red gown and white gloves.
A small, infinitely girlish part of her marvelled at the lights and beauty, and the simple gallantry of the footmen as they took her coat. Despite knowing better, that part of her hadn’t died when she moved to the metropolis. There was something delightful about beauty; she should know, as a connoisseur.
Lady Peterborough, smiling and vaguely polite, greeted her with a press of her hands before turning her attention to the next guests. Caroline moved into the ballroom, the heat stifling and a buzz of expectation in the air. So long as she did not lose hernerve, as she had done every time she’d attended a ball these past five weeks, she would secure her future.
“Caroline,” Mr Isaac Barnaby called out to her, attracting her attention with a flick of his fingers. “Come, have some wine.” He smiled as he handed her the glass, his fingers brushing hers. “I haven’t seen you in a while, my dear. I’ve missed you.”
Ordinarily, she would say she missed him too—and perhaps she would have meant it—if she had not been distracted by the recollection of a certain gentleman. One with the mouth of a poet and the hands of a sinner.
Annoyed with herself, she sighed inwardly. Anyone would think she was a naive girl in the first flush of youth enjoying her first seduction—and inevitable heartbreak. She would not let that happen again.
“Darling,” she said, accepting the wine. “You can hardly say it now you’re married.”
“Convenience only.”
“Nevertheless.” She took a sip. “You know my rules.”
“Ah, you’re a cruel mistress. Not even a kiss for old time’s sake?”
“Kiss your wife, Barnaby—you won’t succeed with me.” Raising her glass, she moved past him and cast her gaze about the room. There were almost four hundred people in attendance; it was deeply unlikely she would see George Comerford, and she could easily keep her distance from him. There was no reason for her to think about the sight of his curly head between her legs, or the gruff note in his voice as he whispered praise against the skin of her thigh.
No reason at all.
Goodness, it was warm in here. She snapped out her fan and fanned her chest. No more thoughts of George. Tonight, she would find herself another lover and all would be well.
One thing was for certain: she could not afford to leave it much longer.
Chapter Two
George was bored. Although he would rather have chopped off his thumb than admit it to the world, he would rather be at home in his library with a novel. One of those sensationalist gothic ones. Or perhaps a romance. Some poetry.
He had ascertained within five minutes that in Miss Stanley’s eyes, his only charm was his wealth and title. Admittedly, most young ladies were interested in these, but he had some ridiculous notion of his future wife enjoying his company, too.
He was, he could freely admit, an optimist.
“Mr Comerford?” she asked. He looked down into her cherubic face, realising by her note of irritation that this must not have been the first time she’d said his name.
“Ah, I’m sorry.” He offered her a charming smile. “I must have been lost in my thoughts.”
“I asked if you would ask me to dance.”
Across the room, George spied a familiar head of blonde curls.
How he knew it was hers, he was not entirely sure. Perhaps it was the angle at which she held her head, the way the curls fellacross her neck. Or perhaps it was the colour of them, burnished gold by candlelight; flaxen by the light of the sun.
