Blood surged to his groin at the thought of what her smooth thighs would have felt like. She’d been willing, pressing herself against him.
He wanted Rhododendron Mossant. He wanted to marry her and bed her and not necessarily in that particular order.
Unfortunately, he needed a windfall of money in order to meet the needs of his new responsibilities.
He’d preached about love on more than one occasion. On marriage. How those who had experienced it must have been silently laughing at him. Love, he was coming to realize, consisted of so much more than steady consistency and commitment.
It was messy, turbulent. It muddled one’s thoughts and, at the same time, made things crystal clear.
Crystal.
Clear.
But did he have the stomach to do it? Justin broke into a run, as though chased by the hounds of hell themselves. Which was exactly where he might end up when all this was done.
He pumped his arms and ran faster. Perhaps heaven was overrated anyhow.
Rhoda had thought showing herself in society would be unbearable. She’d thought the cut directs would wear her down. But her worries had been all for naught. Members of thetonwere as nosey and curious as they were likely to judge. And they were fickle.
Despite the wager that everyone in London surely knew of by now, invitations continued arriving at her mother’s home daily. In fact, they poured in. Every lady, it seemed, was vying to be the hostess of the party where the outcome of the bet was announced, if not won outright.
Madam Chantal had even opened up her schedule so that Rhoda would be wearing one of her newest creations when the moment eventually came about.
Tonight, she wore an emerald green taffeta creation, enhanced with gold lace overlay. She’d given in to Madam Chantal, even, and showed more bosom than she had in the past. Not a lot more, but enough to feed the rebellion growing inside of her.
She would have laughed at it all if she wasn’t so upset over Lord Carlisle’s noticeable absence. He’d not called upon her. He’d not sent any flowers, and when she did manage to catch sight of him across a ballroom floor, he barely held her gaze, nodding grimly and then finding something else altogether more interesting.
Someone else.
He’d not danced with her once in the week since they’d had their… disagreement.
He’d danced numerous times with a handful of heiresses. Their mothers had fawned over him while the daughters clung to his arms.
The arms that had previously wound themselves around her.
Rhoda recognized her feelings. She could even give a name to them. In fact, the color of her dress was quite appropriate.
Jealousy so powerful, it was likely to turn her eyes green.
“Miss Mossant.”
Rhoda turned. One of the footmen stood before her and bowed. “The Duchess of Prescott insists she speak with you now but cannot enter, she says, as she is in mourning.”
“Sophia?” But what could possibly be so very important? Was baby Harriette ill? “Where is she?”
“She is outside, at the edge of the gardens, by the fountain. She asks that you meet her there immediately. Alone.”
For a moment, Rhoda hesitated at his final word.Alone?Why ever would Sophia insist she go alone? Rhoda scrubbed at the back of her neck.
“She says it is urgent, Miss.”
If Sophia needed her then she must go. “By the fountain?” She vaguely remembered seeing it earlier from the terrace. And she remembered it from before. From that first ball of the Season.
The Crabtrees liked to host the first and the last.
“Very well. If I don’t return shortly, will you please tell Mrs. Mossant, my mother, where I have gone?”
A gleam sparkled in the man’s eyes, but he nodded. Rhoda didn’t have time to mull over this strange request. Sophia would not send for her if it was not truly important.
