His father had no scruples in mentioning other noblemen, or their wives. No, he would often berate them or make sport of them whenever possible. But Ramsey couldn’t remember the mentioning of their names even once.
The carriage lurched forward from a stop at a crossroads, then continued, and Ramsey’s thoughts slipped back in time. Lord Westhouse had died before he was born—his mind tickled with awareness that this piece of information was a clue, but he had no idea where it fit in the grand scheme of things. The carriage came to a halt just before the Ryman residence, and Ramsey took a fleeting moment to collect his wits. He wasn’t feeling in the mood to be in polite society, any society, really. But he needed to speak with Heathcliff about the information from John. And there was Grace.
Thinking her name snapped his attention back into place, and he alighted from the carriage. The ball was in full swing, and had been for quite some time based on the din of music and voices that carried out into the foyer. He nodded to several gentlemen who were speaking by the front door and then proceeded down the hall toward the ballroom. The air was more humid than usual, and he had the urge to tug on his cravat. As he walked into the crowded ballroom, he started scanning the sea of faces for Heathcliff, Lady Kilpatrick, or Grace.
“Evening, Lord Ramsey.” Lady Whipplemen nodded her head, fanning herself quite enthusiastically.
“Good evening,” he returned, then continued along, nodding to Lord and Lady Ryman, who were in conversation with Lord Pennwood. It was at times like these when he was thankful for his height. He could easily see over most of the gentry’s heads, unless they were wearing those dreadful ostrich feathers. Those were the bane of a tall man’s existence. Always in the way, and always tickling his nose. Bloody awful things. He made a wide arc around a few dowagers who were sporting the dreadful things, and scanned the faces for those he sought.
He was halfway through the crowd when he spotted Heathcliff. Not more than twenty yards away, he was beside his wife and next to her—his breath caught.
Grace.
Her hair was nearly glowing fire in the bright candlelight, and her emerald dress merely drew the eye to her creamy shoulders with just the barest hint of the curve of her breasts. Like the most delicious dessert wrapped in gold foil, she was tempting even from a distance. He took a deep breath to pull his thoughts into line, and started toward them. Belatedly, he noted the ending of the music as the first strains of a waltz began.
Grace turned slightly, her face no longer visible. Foreboding tickled his senses. A moment later, he knew why. Lord Westhouse had approached their small party and was extending his hand expectantly to Grace.
Foreboding quickly shifted to rage.
“No, refuse him,” Ramsey muttered, increasing his pace.
Grace turned her head slightly as if furtively searching for him nearby.
“I’m here, turn around,” he commanded softly, turning slightly to slip through a narrow space between two ladies with their backs turned.
“Don’t do it,” he muttered a little louder.
He noted the way her shoulders sagged slightly. No. They didn’t sag, they merely rounded, as if disappointed, and she followed his lead onto the dance floor.
Ramsey paused, watching her back disappear into the swirling dancers before he caught a glimpse of her face, but she didn’t see him. Her eyes were on her partner, and her expression was alight with amusement, as if Lord Westhouse had said something witty.
Ramsey took in a deep breath of frustration, releasing it slightly. Creating a scene in the middle of the Rymans’ ballroom wouldn’t be good for either him or Grace. Plus, there was something else afoot, he just didn’t know what.
When Ramsey forced his gaze away from Grace, he turned back to Heathcliff, only it wasn’t Heathcliff’s gaze that met his, it was Lucas’s.
And Lucas, eighth Earl of Heightfield and third partner in Temptations, was clearly back in town, clearly aware of what had just happened, and clearly amused that Ramsey was in hot pursuit of Heathcliff’s ward.
Good Lord. The evening just kept getting better.
He meant that in the most sarcastic way possible.
Lucas arched his dark brows, a knowing smile teasing his blue eyes. He took a step back as Ramsey approached, as if thrilled to be able to watch whatever happened, but not be necessarily close enough to accidentally get hit should it come to fisticuffs.
“About bloody time you got here,” Heathcliff said by way of greeting.
“Good evening to you, too,” Ramsey remarked dryly.
“What in the hell took you so long? I’ve been fending off Westhouse for nearly an hour and I ran out of excuses. But I must say that at least Grace acted less interested. Thank the good Lord for that small boon. No thanks to you.”
Ramsey thought her lack of interest was rather in direct thanks to him, but he didn’t think it was the time to mention that fact. Rather, his attention was shifted to the mention of Lord Westhouse’s name, and his blood boiled.
He cast a cautious glance to Lucas, who merely grinned and glanced away.
What a bloody useless friend, Ramsey decided. “Finally in town?” He directed the statement to Lucas.
“I figured you needed me. I was correct.” He shrugged. “My lovely wife did not accompany me, due to her delicate condition.”
“Samantha is still frustrated with that piece of information, though she understands. I’m sure you’ll have a visitor quite early.”
