The music swelled around them, and for a moment, it was as if they were alone on the dance floor, cocooned in a bubble of possibility. Lucien’s hand tightened slightly at her waist, drawing her a fraction closer than propriety allowed.
“I don’t know if I can ever love again,” he murmured.
“I don’t believe that,” she replied with a hint of her old spirit and a cheeky smile. “I’m very lovable, or so I’ve been told.”
As the waltz ended, Lucien reluctantly released her, though his eyes remained fixed on her face. “I will fix this mess,” he promised again. “And then, if you’ll allow it, I’d like to court you properly. No schemes, no pretenses. Just us, discovering who we are together now.”
Courtney felt a curious lightness in her chest, a fragile hope taking root. “I’d like that,” she said simply.
Around them, the ball continued, the musicians striking up another lively tune. Gossips huddled in corners, speculating on the evening’s dramatic events, while couples whirled across the dance floor, blissfully ignorant of the drama unfolding in their midst.
“If it’s any consolation,” she said as they made their way off the dance floor, “I’ve always believed you think better in a crisis.”
He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Let’s hope that holds true. Because this, my dear Courtney, is most definitely a crisis.”
Her smile in response was both challenge and promise. “Then by all means, Lord Furoe, show me how well you can think.”
Chapter Seven
Baron Lockwood slumpedin the crimson velvet chair, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler that had seen better days. The Golden Pheasant was one of London’s most reputable establishments, but he rarely used its services. Too vanilla for his tastes. But the proprietress was always a mine of information.
“Another, my lord?” the proprietress, Mrs. Bellamy, asked, her aging but still striking features creasing with practiced concern.
“The whole damn bottle,” Lockwood growled, sliding coins across the polished mahogany table. His usual good humor had abandoned him since that disastrous night at Crockford’s. The memory of Furoe’s cold smile as he’d reclaimed his father’s vowels still burned like acid in Lockwood’s gut.
“Something troubling you?” Mrs. Bellamy settled her considerable frame into the chair opposite, signaling to a serving girl to bring the requested bottle. Despite her questionable profession, Mrs. Bellamy possessed a shrewd intelligence that had kept her establishment thriving for fifteen years.
“Furoe!” He spat the name like a curse. “The damned prodigal viscount returns from the dead.”
“Ah, yes.” Mrs. Bellamy’s painted eyebrows rose. “Word has spread through half of London already. Lord Lucien Furoe, miraculously alive after five years. Quite the sensation. But Ihave to inform you he has not partaken of the services my house offers.”
“Quite the inconvenience, you mean.” Lockwood tossed back his drink, relishing the burn. “I had plans, Bellamy. Five long years of careful planning, down the privy in a single evening.”
The serving girl, barely more than sixteen, with a face still retaining traces of innocence despite her surroundings, approached with the bottle. Mrs. Bellamy dismissed her with a flick of her bejeweled fingers.
“Plans involving the Danvers residence, I presume?” Mrs. Bellamy inquired, pouring Lockwood another generous measure. Though proprietress of a brothel, she kept abreast of society’s machinations better than most peers’ wives.
“The earl was nearly mine,” Lockwood muttered. “Another month—two at most—and he’d have lost everything. The London house is all I want. It used to belong to my grandfather, and the Danvers virtually stole it from him.” His eyes took on a feverish gleam. “I was to be the savior, you understand. The benevolent creditor, willing to forgive his debts in exchange for certain…considerations.”
“Such as?”
“His eldest daughter’s hand, for starters.” Lockwood smiled unpleasantly. “Lady Lauren Cavanaugh—beautiful, accomplished, and with no dowry to speak of. A perfect arrangement. I’d gain entrée to the highest circles of society through marriage to an earl’s daughter, and she’d gain financial security that I’d won from her father. And of course, the town home would be mine, as it always should have been.”
“How very charitable of you,” Mrs. Bellamy remarked dryly, likely tempted to remind him that it was his grandfather’s gambling that lost it in the first place.
“The London house,” Lockwood continued, ignoring her tone. “I’ve wanted that property since I was a boy. Mygrandfather used to point it out to me when we rode through Mayfair. Danvers House, used to be Lockwood House, elegant Georgian lines, prime location. ‘That,’ he’d say, ‘was our home. One day you will get it back for us.’ And now, just when it was within my grasp…”
“The son returns.” Mrs. Bellamy nodded sympathetically.
“Not just returns,” Lockwood snarled. “Returns and humiliates me before half the peerage at Crockford’s. Called me a predator to my face! Me, who was merely pursuing legitimate business interests.”
Mrs. Bellamy’s expression suggested she might have her own opinion on that characterization, but she wisely kept it to herself. “Well, I’m sure a man of your…resourcefulness…will find another path to your ambitions.”
Lockwood stared moodily into his glass. “The son was supposed to be dead. I made inquiries five years ago when rumors first surfaced that he might have survived the Irish Rebellion. My sources assured me he perished in the fighting.”
“Evidently not.”
“No.” Lockwood’s eyes narrowed. “Instead, he’s been living in some Irish backwater all this time, playing at being a farmer while his family slowly disintegrated. And now he returns like some conquering hero, full of righteous indignation about his father’s gambling debts.” He drained his glass again. “It’s intolerable.”
