Phyllida looked at him, a serious aura of dismay clouding her eyes. “Not to insult the daughters of my friends.”
Mark sighed and squeezed her hand. “I apologize, Mother. I just wish you would relent on this quest. I am too lost to be a husband to anyone.”
“You say that, but I will never believe it.”
Because you have not heard me screaming in the middle of the night or seen my bruises from hitting the headboard.Yet another thought he would never express to her. “You should.”
She turned her hand, returning his squeeze. “Even Pandora’s box held a flutter of hope in the end.”
He stood. “I should find Lady Carys.”
Stepping away, he skirted the edge of the ballroom as he searched for the lady in question. His eyes, however, keptdrifting to either Edmund, Lord Sculthorpe, who Mark had finally spotted clustered with a group of his peers, or the dowager countess, who had been chosen for the upcoming dance by yet anotheryounglord. This one he knew—Gower—who gazed down at Lady Sculthorpe like a besotted schoolboy.
Annoyance congealed in his gut, and Mark could not fathom why—whether it was the men’s ages or that they seemed to look at her with the adoration of starving puppies salivating over a beefsteak.
A cleared throat got his attention, and he jerked, looking down at a young woman who could not have been more than seventeen—or five feet tall, making her more than a foot shorter than he was. Lady Carys. Mark dug deep, found his smile and his manners, and offered the lady his arm.
And the night suddenly felt even longer than it had before.
Chapter Three
Sunday, 17 July 1814
Sculthorpe Manor, Berkeley Square, London
Half-past ten in the morning
The longcase clockon the first-floor landing sounded half-past ten, and Judith’s mouth twitched. She had been awake for more than an hour but had remained in bed, staring at the burgundy damask-lined canopy, her mind lost in the events of the night before. She had not even bothered to ring for Epworth, which she should do soon lest the entire household began to think she had taken ill. Only her monthly courses took Judith out of her daily activity, and Epworth would know those had finished a few days before. Otherwise, half-past nine was late for Judith, much less an hour after, even though she had only returned home at three that morning. Between her boys and her desire to be up and out of the house in all but the most beastly weather, Judith never slept late. Too much life awaited outside these walls to lie abed, and the bright rays of sun that pierced through the curtains told her it would be a lovely day to be out.
But not even in her own mind could Judith decipher why she so focused on the previous night that she had become immobile. Her thoughts tumbled over themselves as she stared at the pleated cloth over her head, her eyes following the lines of the fabric from the four corner posts to the center medallion again and again.
Even more surprising, Judith had spent the night alone. Perry had wanted to join her, making it so obvious that she had almost scolded him on the dance floor for his indiscretion. She had not done so, nor would she ever indulge in such a public display, and normally she would have felt flattered by his attention, preening under his compliments. But he had seemed far too much like a relentless child, whining for a treat and annoying her. Over the evening she had become increasingly unsettled, unwilling to choose any of her previous lovers or cultivate a new one among the interested parties.
Instead, she could not rid her mind of a twisted smirk and glistening blue eyes. A wit of uncanny sharpness. A firm grip. A keen, muscular dancer. Dark hair with a bare wink of silver.
Ridiculous.
Lord Mark Rydell had to be at least five and thirty. At least. More than a decade older than most of her lovers. Perry Gower was but three and twenty. Judith preferred the younger men, those not yet ready for a wife, eager for an enthusiastic tumble and little more. She also refused to take a married lover. And Rydell, a rake with a reputation for preferring married women, reportedly had a current mistress, an actress. Judith had circulated in thetonlong enough to know most of the scoundrels, their relationships, and their family histories. And she knew Rydell’s as well.
But much of the scuttlebutt about his sexual proclivities stemmed from a time before he had joined his brothers at the battlefront. Although the youngest of the children remained in the family home, the three oldest Embleton sons—including the heir at the time but now the duke, Matthew—had followed Wellington to the Peninsula. Lord Mark Rydell was a soldier who had been more than five years at war, venturing back to England only on rare occasions. They had, obviously, returned to England when their father had died, but theon ditaboutthem told of men who had not returned unscathed. Matthew was said to be surly and unapproachable. The third son, Luke, had returned to France after healing from an almost crippling wound. And Mark, now the heir with all the responsibilities that go with that position, had supposedly lost the ability to sleep, with a tendency to wander at night in the most dangerous sections of the city, seeking fights in the roughest of boxing salons and gambling hells. Reports of numerous lovers had all but disappeared. Except for the actress. And only the actress, a relationship that had developed during one of his trips back to England. Rumor had that he had purchased the townhouse where she lived more than four years ago.
Convenient. Long term. Almost as if she were a wife.
How very curious for a man who seemed to revel in his reputation for bedding dozens of women.
Thus, between his desires and hers, no two people in London werelesssuited to each other.
So why did Edmund insist on introducing him to me?
Edmund knew she took lovers but had ignored it in his everyday dealings with her. Margaret had slyly mentioned “the young men of theton, so adorable, like new toys” when she and Judith had been alone in the boudoir. Margaret had been tending to her needlework while Judith attempted to read. Docile or not, Judith knew her daughter-in-law craved the juiciest of details and had blithely ignored the comment, finally setting aside her novel and turning the conversation to the latest issue ofLa Belle Assemblée. Fashion always distracted Margaret.
Something was amiss. Had Edmund begun gambling? Did he owe Rydell money? Did he think he could pay it back with Judith’s portion? That she would surrender it to Edmund if she married a duke’s heir?
No, that made no sense. She knew exactly how deep the coffers of the Sculthorpe estate ran, and any but a stupendous debt could be paid by selling some of their holdings or artwork. And unless a marriage was in the plotting, no guarantee could be made that Judith’s money could be circumvented into another’s pockets. And Lord Mark would remain the heir only until the new duke had children of his own.
So did the motive arise from the other direction? Was Rydell looking to marry a rich widow? She would qualify, but her sources indicated that the Embleton sons wanted to avoid the state of marriage altogether. Lord Mark was a second son, but there were no indications that his family withheld funds from him, especially as long as he remained the heir. If the rumors about the actress were sound, then he had to be supporting her, which wasnota frugal proposition. Judith knew of the woman, knew her reputation. Stella Ashley had expensive tastes and made no secret of it.
And even during the second dance, Rydell had given no indication that he was there for any purpose other than enjoying himself. The cotillion—not a dance for in-depth conversation—had been a slightly faster one than most, and his strength as a partner once again had shone during their moments together. Despite the rumors of battlefield injuries, he showed no signs of physical weakness. If anything, he seemed the opposite of wounded, with firm muscles, a trim waist, and obvious strength in his legs and arms. He had flirted with her, yes, but all men did.
