With no alternative available to him, Rhys had exercised patience and clean living with a few unbreakable rules for himself…
No drinking.
No gambling.
No more married women…or women, in general.
His appetites were too strong, for he’d realized women—the flirting…the chase…the consummation—were an addiction, too.
It had been a long, hard year.
He entered the banqueting room, which had been transformed for the night into a ballroom with dozens of couples swirling across the gleaming dancing floor beneath the warm sparkle of blazing chandeliers. He moved along the periphery like a shadow, his eye scanning the tops of heads for Sir Felix’s bald patch or the flash of emerald from Papa’s signet ring.
Ahead, a vibrant blonde surrounded by a crush of men snagged his eye. She was wearing a mask, of course, but not much else that would leave anything to the imagination. A dramatic black-and-gold creation, the bottom half of the dress was wide and floaty in the typical style of a ballgown, but the top half was a different matter altogether, fitted to her as if it were a second skin. Actually, the dress provided ample coverage, but the body beneath it simply wouldn’t be contained—curvy…lush… She was the sort of woman men vied with each other over—which was, in fact, what the gentlemen surrounding her were presently doing.
And the woman?
Her laughter betrayed not an ounce of care.
A year ago, Rhys would’ve tossed his hat into that ring—and he would’ve prevailed.
The reasons were simple and immutable.
He was a lord.
He was handsome.
He was charming.
And he was a rake known to be endowed with certain gifts.
What could he say?
Word got around about that sort of thing.
Two or three or ten drinks, and she would’ve been a path he’d gone down—literally.
His cock filled to half-mast at the very thought.
He gave himself a mental shake.
He could hardly blame his cock though, could he?
It had been a year.
He dragged his gaze away from the woman and the chase unpursued.
Sir Felix wouldn’t be in this room, anyway.
As the blonde was led onto the dancing floor, her curls bouncing with delight—other parts of her, too—Rhys wove his way through the crowd and into the Grand Salon that for this night was the gaming room. Every card game one could think of was being played beneath its sky-blue domed ceiling—Piquet…Whist…Faro…Commerce…Vingt-et-Un…Loo.
At a corner table, Rhys spied a familiar shiny patch of bald head.
Sir Felix Mortimer.
Anticipation flared through him.
There, at that table, sat his opportunity to make things right for the first time in his adult life.
