To Richard’s dismay, she brought the Kents with her.
“There you are, darling.” Lady Pandora Blackwood, a raven-haired beauty, arrived at her husband’s side in a swish of wine-colored satin. “I’d wondered where you’d gone.”
Not long ago, the Blackwoods had had a falling out, and Richard had witnessed first-hand the depth of his friend’s angry despair. Now the breach seemed to be entirely healed, the pair more like lovebirds than ever. As Blackwood murmured something in his lady’s ear, causing her cheeks to turn the same color as her frock, Richard wondered, not for the first time, why love came naturally for some yet remained an utter mystery to him.
“Lord Carlisle,” Lady Blackwood said, “do you know everyone?”
Meeting the stares of the group, most of them decidedly hostile, Richard felt his muscles bunch. Before he could respond, however, the lanky gentleman stepped forward.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Ambrose Kent.” The man’s amber eyes assessed him. “This is my wife, Mrs. Kent.”
Of course. Kent was the eldest brother and patriarch of the family. A professional man, he owned a successful private enquiry firm and had the reputation for being fair-minded and just. Per Richard’s recollection, Mrs. Kent had been a wealthy and rather notorious widow prior to her second marriage.
Richard bowed. “Good evening, sir. Madam.”
“How do you do, my lord.” Mrs. Kent’s emerald gaze was cool. “May I present my daughter Primrose and sister-in-law Polly? Come make your curtsies, girls.”
The two obeyed. The blonde, a vivacious replica of her mama, said prettily, “How are you enjoying the party, my lord?”
“Very well, thank you—” He stiffened when he heard a snort. His eyes cut to the source. “I beg your pardon. Did you say something, Miss Kent?”
“No, my lord.” Her whiskey eyes widened—the worst attempt at innocence he’d ever seen. “’Twas merely a sneeze.”
“I hope you are not catching a cold.”
“Oh no, I’m quite robust. I must have a sensitivity to something in the room,” she said airily.
His jaw clenched.
“There you are, Carlisle.” Wick sauntered up, followed by his band of merry ne’er-do-wells. With an ease that Richard could only envy, he introduced himself and his friends to the group.
Richard had made it his business to know his brother’s associates and thus recognized Lord John Parnell and Mr. Tom Goggston. Both were second sons, neck-or-nothings who treated drinking, whoring, and gaming as competitive sports.
“Splendid party, eh?” Wick said.
“Quite.” Miss Primrose dimpled. “Except there hasn’t been any dancing.”
“Rosie,” Mrs. Kent said quietly.
“But it’s true, Mama,” her daughter said with a pout. “What’s a party without atleasta quadrille or two?”
“I love a good dance myself, and I’ll wager you dance like an angel, Miss Kent.” Stout and full in the breadbasket, Goggston said eagerly, “If your card ain’t full, I’d—”
“There’ll be no dancing this eve,” Ambrose Kent said. “It’s getting late, girls. Time to go upstairs.”
“ButPapa.It’s not even midnight.” His daughter’s bottom lip quivered, her green eyes shimmering. “That’s not fair.”
“Upstairs,” Kent repeated firmly.
He and his wife herded the girls toward the door. Miss Polly looked as if she was trying to console Miss Primrose, but the latter flounced away. Richard predicted trouble ahead for Kent.
Goggston turned to Violet. “You’ll be a sport and dance with me, won’t you?”
“Why, I’d love to be second choice. Thanks for asking.” She rolled her eyes.
Wick chuckled. “She’s got you there, Goggs.”
“Yes, Goggs, leave the flirtation to Wickham. He’s the Casanova of our group,” Parnell said in drawling tones. The younger son of an earl, he had fair coloring, a narrow, aristocratic face, and an endless supply of ennui. It was reputed that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t try once. “You’d best stick to what you do best: collecting jug-bitten tavern wenches at the end of the night.”
