Two
Hampstead Heath, London, One month later
Johnathan Parrish—the celebrated Earl of Melrose, the gentleman the young ladies sighed over, the Nonesuch, the Corinthian, the petted and admired darling of the ton—was two fingers of brandy away from casting up his accounts all over Lady Fosberry’s gleaming ballroom floor.
He couldn’t be certain, not being a man who usually drank to excess, but Johnathan had a vague notion casting up one’s accounts during a cotillion wasn’t the done thing.
The devil of it was, he couldn’t work out how the evening had disintegrated into a drunken debauch. He and Lord Cross had set out with the intention of going directly to Lady Fosberry’s ball, but one glass of brandy in Cross’s study had led to another, then another, and then somehow, they’d ended up at White’s.
It went a bit hazy after that, but now Lady Fosberry’s ballroom was spinning around Johnathan in a nauseating whirl of gold damask wallpaper.
“We would have done better to avoid this ball altogether, Melrose.”
Johnathan peered at Lord Cross. He didn’t seem to be in the least impaired by the brandy, but then those weaknesses that afflicted mere mortal men—drunkenness, lust, love—never had much effect on him.
Cross was scrutinizing the company with his usual expression—one eyebrow quirked, jaw relaxed, and infinitesimal crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “How in the world do you do that, Cross?”
The eyebrow rose a notch. “Do what?”
Johnathan waved a hand at Cross’s face. “Contrive to look both bored and amused at the same time. I’ve always wondered.”
Cross rolled his eyes. “My advice to you, Melrose, is to quit this ball before your senses quit you. I don’t know what’s come over you this evening, but you’re in no state of mind for a cotillion.”
Johnathan drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster, given his difficulties with the gold wallpaper. “Are you implying I can’t hold my drink? How dare you, Cross?”
“Did I imply it? I didn’t suppose I’d been that subtle. You’ve dipped too deep tonight, Melrose, and you’re too bloody foxed to take your lady out to the floor. Is that plain enough for you?”
Johnathan grunted. “You’re an unpleasant fellow, Cross. I don’t know why I insisted on having your company this season.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, but I wish you hadn’t.”
“And she isn’t my lady. She’s a lady, but not mine.” Nor would she ever be, in spite of what the ton might think.
Johnathan followed Lady Christine Dingley’s slender figure as she tripped gracefully through a country dance. She was wearing a pastel gown of some indeterminate pale purple shade, and appeared perfectly comfortable despite the excruciating heat. There wasn’t a hint of a flush on those delicate pink cheeks, or a glimmer of dampness on that smooth brow.
In a fit of misguided gallantry, Johnathan had engaged her for a dance this evening when they’d met at Lady Ponsonby’s breakfast yesterday, and it was too late to beg off now.
“Save your dance with Lady Christine for another ball, Melrose.”
“There won’t be any other balls for me. I leave for Kent at the end of this week.” Johnathan had been wishing himself anywhere but London since his first night at Almack’s, and it had only grown more tiresome since then. He was eager to leave the city behind, and join his sisters at his country estate.
“If you insist, but I’m warning you, Melrose, you’re sure to make a mess of it.”
“Am I still standing upright, Cross?”
“For the most part. Tell me, how many noses do I have?”
Johnathan squinted at Cross. “One, er…one and a half.”
Cross shrugged. “Eh, close enough.”
“Well, then, let’s get this over with.”
The ton would be highly offended to hear him speak so dismissively of the season’s belle. Johnathan himself was horrified. He was a gentleman, after all.
At least he would be horrified, if he were sober.
It was just that he was so weary.
