“Cockfield.”
“The obvious.”
“You?”
St James’s Street was somewhat crowded – otherwise he’d consider deploying his cane so that Winterbourne couldn’t sit for a month.
“One day, Winterbore,” he purred instead, “I shall enjoy watching a woman take you apart till you plead for mercy.”
“Hmm,” the vexing rogue muttered, “I never took you, the strait-laced duke, as having a thrill for voyeurism, but I can probably arrange something with my little opera dancer. Millie can–”
“I am for White’s,” he interrupted, not in the slightest amused. “Meet me at The Cooper’s Arms on Rose Street. Friday. And wear something inconspicuous. We will be heading for the Rookery.”
With a devil’s gleam, Winterbourne saluted and turned, ambling towards Brooks’s whilst tipping his hat at a pretty girl.
Banishing cherry-red lips from his disloyal brain, Rakecombe glowered and strolled to his club for a decent plateful of grub and some careful planning.
Before the Rookery, there was another useful source of information to tap and he would need to take the utmost care.
Chapter Three
What shall we be today? Sweet or tart?
“Thighs, forearms…arse.” Aideen ran through all the words that might cause Miss Gibbon to faint, although at this moment, she would prefer the girl’s mother, Viscountess Gibbon, to collapse in an untidy heap.
The lady was waltzing with the Duke of Rakecombe and both seemed to be having a grand time of it.
Earlier, Aideen had noted his arrival at the Gibbon’s ball, but he’d barely glowered an acknowledgement from his position by the gold jardinière, chinwagged with other nobles and guzzled all the pigeon pie, a disapproving effigy of spotless black and white.
A few ladies had attempted to talk to him, but he’d peered at them as though inspecting rodents, before nodding and turning away. Not exactly a direct cut, but definitely a light graze.
Then to everyone’s surprise, he had requested a dance with their hostess, and even from across the room, Aideen had seen the mesmerised expression on Lady Gibbon’s face. He might have a disagreeable reputation, but when he chose to express some charm, they fell like delicate maidens faced with a thigh.
The duke also danced superbly, elegant but without excess, and Lady Gibbon closed her eyes in apparent ecstasy every time he tugged her into a turn. The damn bug – life would’ve been so much easier if he’d twirled like a prancing fop.
Scowling, she crossed her arms and tapped her foot, causing a matron to frown her disapproval.
For nigh eleven months, she hadn’t set eyes on the duke and now this was the second time in a sennight. She hadn’t expected to find him at Lady Gibbon’s ball, as it was quite a crush of colour, and he stood out like a sultry panther in a jungle of chattering parrots.
Lady Gibbon obviously had a taste for…the ornate. Gold, golden and more gold adorned the ballroom, paining the eyes and causing a judder.
“Overwhelming,” Mrs Beckford had stuttered as they’d entered. “Overdone,” Aideen had mumbled.
“Miss Quinlan, your ratafia.” A glass appeared before her, held by a soft white hand. “I apologise for my tardiness.”
Oh, why did Lord Sherburn have to be so…so…nice! And why couldn’t she adore such niceness? And why didn’t she like sweet ratafia? And lilac waistcoats? What was wrong with her? She must have been born with some kind of shortcoming.
Her bosom friend Sophie adored the quiet life she now led with her genialhusband, but for some reason, which Aideen had never been able to quantify, she herself preferred tension, excitement and – she glared across the ballroom floor – men who wore black and hissed at you.
“Thank you, Lord Sherburn. I believe I’ll re-join Mrs Beckford.” Abruptly, she cocked her head. “Is that your mother calling?”
The agreeable chap hastily agreed, bowed, and set off in the direction of a short disapproving woman in yellow.
Aideen could almost hear the Duke of Rakecombe drawl in her ear, “Dismissed like a puppy… You need a firm hand.”
An uninvited shudder took her but instead of heading for Mrs Beckford, she strolled towards the ladies’ retiring room, swapping the insipid glass of red sweetness for champagne along the way.
The hallways were a blessed relief. A cloying aroma lay like fog over the ballroom, and under that nebulous layer was not clean air tickling the nostrils, but a ripe stench.
