Delia frowned. “She’ll tell me to go lie down somewhere.”
“Very well then, tell her you’re going to vomit. Or that your courses have arrived. Tell her you need her to follow you to the retiring room. I don’t know! Be creative, Delia! Must I do everything?”
“I’ll tell her the vomiting thing. And then what?”
“When she arrives outside, Lord Chaswick will be long gone and she’ll have to believe he’s chosen to reject Lady Starling’s invitation.”
Which, Bethany considered, was indeed a possibility.
Delia raised her brows but then nodded. “That’s perfect.”
“Isn’t it though?” Really, there was likely nothing to worry about. From what she knew of these unspeakable arrangements such as Chase presumably had had with Lady Starling, they were usually short-lived.
Unless Chase had developed an attachment to the lovely widow.
Bethany scooped up her mother’s reticule and shawl and urgently shuffled toward the doors that exited onto the terrace.
Chapter 3
Saving Him
Dancers were just finishing up the quadrille as Chase entered the ballroom in search of the enthusiastic widow. He hadn’t even realized Miranda was back in London yet. If he recalled correctly, she’d mentioned something about visiting her late husband‘s family in Brighton.
But if she was indeed here…
His hand itched as lust slowly heated his blood. Her in-laws’ loss, then, was to be his gain. Thirty minutes yet, until midnight, but he could wait outside.
Not taking time to retrieve his hat or coat, Chase exited onto the terrace and paused to examine his choices. Which of these confounded paths led to the folly? He would meet Miranda for this one rendezvous tonight but then make himself perfectly clear regarding his intentions.
It wouldn’t do to allow her to become overly attached.
He removed a cigar from his pocket, along with his cutter, clipped the end, and then scorched it using one of the conveniently placed torches. After the cherry had thoroughly heated, he placed the tip between his lips, leaned forward, and sucked lightly until a hazy glow jumped across to the rolled vice.
Drawing smoke into his mouth and retaining it there before allowing it to escape, his irritation ebbed slightly.
Consuming a full flask of whisky ought to have sufficed.
Likely, his melancholy could be blamed on Westerley, one of his oldest friends. Blasted bounder. How dare he marry? Worse, how dare he fall in love? It was almost as though he was taunting him. Next thing, Mantis would be getting himself hitched. And then Stone, Greys, Peter, hell, even Blackheart.
Leaving Chase to juggle the dubious obligations he’d inherited from his father.
Frowning at his thoughts, Chase contemplated the various footpaths set out before him. Which of them would lead to nowhere, and which led to unspeakable amorous delights? Damned whisky. Strong enough to affect his ambulatory abilities but too weak to discharge his foul mood.
And damn Westerley and his bleeding happily ever after. Not that he cared for one himself. In fact, the opposite, really. Love was nothing more than a burden disguised as relief. Chase reined in any musings that had him thinking differently.
He leaned against a tree and examined his cigar before taking a second puff.
When a man’s best friend ups and falls in love, and then marries, dear God, it oughtn’t to send his friends reexamining their own less-than-satisfying lives.
Hell and damnation, he certainly didn’t need more women to protect. Such musings were preposterous.
Chase headed down the path again.
When—if—Chase ever married, it would not be for love, by God. One need only spend a few days with his mother to understand what a horrible notion that was. His father had once loved his mother.
Once. For a few months, a year?
And then he’d loved someone else.
