Robin kissed Mercy’s cheek. “Prettiest debutante at the ball.”
Charity looked every inch a duchess in a ball gown of gold satin with a diamond tiara in her fair hair. “The musicians are striking up. We shall talk after the dance.”
Chapter Two
GRANT AINSWORTH VISCOUNT Northcliffe, walked the length of the ballroom. As he moved through the crowd, voices lowered a fraction and heads turned in his direction. He’d expected it, but that didn’t make it any less annoying. His former mistress, Lady Alethea Archer, had been busy. Had he not been generous when they parted? Not enough to satisfy the widow’s demands apparently. Now thanks to the gossipmongers, thetonwere privy to details of their escapades, and many gleefully thirsting for more. He and Alethea had shared an adventurous two months, and there were plenty of titillating tidbits that might be gleaned, unless he could persuade her otherwise.
He refused to approach her where she stood with friends and pouted prettily at him. There would be no more fuel added to that fire if he could help it. Grant greeted two of his friends, Adam Dalgleish, Viscount Skye, and Hugh Sitwell, Baron Sexton.
“Not inclined to dance, Northcliffe?” Adam, a fair-haired Viking of a man, asked him.
Grant’s gaze drifted to the dance floor and the curvy, blonde debutante in pink and white with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. “I might, later.”
“I see you lookin’ at the Baxendale chit. Pretty girl,” Hugh observed.
“Barely out of the schoolroom,” Adam said. “Not your usual fare.”
“What is my usual fare, Adam?” Grant snapped.
“No need to get touchy with me, I wasn’t referring to Lady Alethea,” Adam said with a laugh.
“Why not?” Grant asked. “Everyone else is.”
“Behaving badly, Lady Alethea,” Hugh said. “I believe she intended you to marry her, Grant.”
“I made it quite clear from the beginning that I wasn’t the marrying kind.”
“Your grandfather, the duke, won’t be pleased to hear that.”
Grant felt there was so much more for him to do before he wed. Marriage closed a man’s future down whatever way you looked at it. He saw no sense in being one those men who cared little for their wives; who escaped the home to visit their clubs or their mistresses. A dishonest way to live. “I appreciate that I shall have to face the parson’s mousetrap and beget an heir at some point. But as Father is in line before me, still enjoying shooting quail and riding to hounds, and I trust that Grandfather will live for many more years, there’s no rush.”
“Then I’d give the Baxendale girl a miss,” Adam said. “Baxendale is lookin’ for nothing less than an earl for her. I suspect there’s a wager written in White’s betting book that she’ll snare a duke. Settled a handsome dowry on her. His railway shares have soared in value. Bought in early and made a fortune. The Stockton and Darlington railway is to open in the northeast in September.”
“He’s flushed with success after two of his daughters married dukes, I daresay.” Hugh straightened his long narrow frame. “I have a yen to ask one of the Abbott sisters for the next dance.”
“Not particular which one?” Grant asked with a grin.
Hugh shook his head. “Pretty as peas in a pod.” He took himself off and strolled toward the dark-haired twins who sat with their chaperone.
When Lady Mercy parted from Bellamy, Grant walked toward her. Ahead of him, a tall broad-shouldered man loomed out of the crowd, his coppery hair gleaming in the candlelight. He reached Lady Mercy before Grant could. A friend of Grant’s, Lord Gunn turned to give him a sympathetic grin, then bowed before the slender girl and her mother. Grant paused, smoothed his gloves and watched Lady Baxendale’s distinctly cool greeting. He chuckled. Gunn was a favorite of the King and a wealthy landowner in Scotland, but he didn’t appear to be welcomed with any degree of warmth.
Grant turned away. Not like him to be caught by a young lady in her first Season, but she’d met his gaze with frank curiosity, which was not the usual debutante’s reaction to him. They either blushed and simpered or looked utterly terrified. Still, it might be wise to abandon the impulse to flirt with Mercy Baxendale. There was a very good reason why he couldn’t consider marriage, that even his closest friends and family knew nothing about. He needed to keep that in the forefront of his mind.
As Grant sat at the card table in the games room, Colonel Black rested a large hand on Grant’s shoulder and leaned down close to his ear. “Might I have a word with you in the library, Northcliffe?”
At a rush of smoldering excitement, Grant nodded. He threw his hand in.
Horace Porter glared at him across the table. He’d suffered heavy losses tonight. “Tossing it in rather early, aren’t you, Northcliffe? I’d like a chance to win my money back.”
“I may give you that chance, later,” Grant said, gathering up coins and vowels with a nod of polite apology.
Porter sniggered. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with Lady Alethea.”
Tempted to teach the man a lesson in manners, Grant’s hands curled around the back of the chair. Remembering Black, he let the chair go. “You are welcome to try your luck there, Porter. But I suspect your bad luck will hold.”
Ignoring Porter’s snarl, and the laughs around the table, Grant left the room and headed down a corridor in the vast townhouse. He opened the library door and crossed the Turkish carpet to the upright figure, who stood with his back to the empty grate as if warming himself.
Black shrugged. “Force of habit.” He waved Grant into a chair. “Gossip doing the rounds about you,” he said in his gruff voice.
