“It appears I am… somewhat indisposed.”
“Indisposed, my lord? Or might your thoughts dwell elsewhere? Might I assume the visage of a certain lady to aid your recovery?”
The notion was both ludicrous and terribly tempting. Theo gave a hiccup that sent him toppling backwards into the nearest chair. “Perhaps if you could imagine the lady’s wild laughter, the way her hair tumbles like a midnight storm,” he slurred, attempting to conjure Hetty’s image, “and the fire in her eyes…”
“Quite the muse, my lord. I shall do my utmost to oblige.”
Theo’s head lolled back and his eyes closed as the actress began to kiss him softly, unfastening the buttons of his breeches. He pictured Hetty – the way her breast rose beneath that scandalous gown. He imagined lowering his lips to her, freeing her bosom and suckling gently at her nipples. What would her moan sound like? His cock stirred, swelling beneath the hands that touched him. His breath hitched with the delicious foolishness of it all, so lost was he in the impossible, absurd illusion.
“If it pleases you, my lord, I shall do my utmost to appear as modest and proper as any lady, though I cannot promise to be so once your breeches are undone.”
With a jolt, Theo blinked open his eyes, and there, inches from his face, was Miss Baines, her blonde curls shimmering in the lamplight. “By all the saints!” he slurred. “That – that is not something the lady – Miss Tolliver – would ever say!”
He fumbled awkwardly at his shirt, trying to settle himself, but only succeeded in knocking a candle from the table, sending it clattering to the floor.
Miss Baines laughed. “Indeed, my lord. I fear I must confess – I am no lady.”
Theo groaned, cursing his poor judgment and worse, his traitorous body. To sleep with a woman pretending to be Hetty – Hetty, by all that was holy, his childhood companion and the devil of his heart – was the very height of damnable folly. “Blast it all.”
He pushed himself to standing, trying to stave off the humiliation and confusion swirling in his muddled mind. “What a wretched, besotted fool I am.”
Dressing hastily, he departed into the night with his pride battered far more thoroughly than his knuckles.
Perhaps he ought to have paid no heed to those insipid gentlemen in the ballroom, and seized the moment instead – pressed his lips to Miss Tolliver’s, and laid claim to the ruin she so artfully contrived. She desired ruin, did she not?
Perhaps it was not too late. He ought to kiss her, yes, just once in the morning, if only to rid himself of the foolishness in his blood and mind, and then she would be his friend again, nothing more, for that was all it could ever be.
Though, damn Marchmont, who perhaps had already stolen that moment under the chandeliers, the very thought of which filled him with a jealous fire that no amount of whisky could quell. But no! It must be he who seized that kiss, or else his pride would be utterly shattered, and with it all hope of reason.
He swayed again, the road pitching beneath him, and his cock rising in protest to the foolish image of Hetty’s laughter and reckless smile, and he cursed himself most thoroughly – cursed the folly of a man undone by desire and whisky alike, muttering to the shadows that perhaps, just perhaps, he was the most ridiculous creature alive.
Chapter 8
The next morning, Theo was shown into the Tolliver drawing room with a degree of solemnity more fitting a condemned man on his way to the gallows than a gentleman of his standing. His head throbbed fiercely, a punishment from the night’s indulgences, yet he had awoken with no small measure of guilt and clarity borne of sober reflection: a certainty that Hetty would be none too pleased at his blundering interference in her carefully wrought scheme for ruin. He knew he must set matters aright without delay.
Still, beneath his resolve stirred a foolish delight: he rather enjoyed when Hetty was vexed, a remnant of their youth when provoking her sharp tongue and fiery temper was his favourite sport. It was a childish game, no doubt, but one he still took perverse pleasure in.
“Ah, Lord Langley,” Lady Tolliver purred from her seat by the fire, her embroidery needle flashing like a dagger. “How very good of you to call. Pray, do be seated. The weather is remarkably fine, is it not? Quite the day for… confessions, I should say.”
“It is indeed, my lady,” said Theo. He looked momentarily to Hetty, who remained unmoved, neither rising, nor smiling, nor evendeigning to blink. She sat poised, a folded newspaper resting in her lap.
“May I offer you some tea, Lord Langley?” Lady Tolliver inquired in the chipper tones of a woman laying down a winning card at whist. “We have lapsang, or perhaps something of a stronger persuasion to fortify you this morning?”
“No. Thank you,” Theo replied, his eyes never leaving Hetty. “Miss Tolliver. I trust you are in good health?”
“Oh, quite splendidly, thank you,” said Hetty unfolding the newspaper with exquisite care. “Though you will be pleased to know that you, my lord, are positively glowing with health, virtue and chivalry in the estimable eyes of theton.” She cleared her throat before beginning to read, each word dripping with venomous sweetness:
“‘Lord Langley’s display of gallantry at Lady Braithwaite’s ball was nothing short of heroic. In a scene worthy of Mrs Radcliffe, he defended the honour of a certain Diamond with one well-placed blow, restoring our faith that true gentlemen still walk among us. The earl’s devotion was as unmistakable as it was inspiring.’”
She snapped the paper closed, and Theo opened his mouth.
Hetty raised a single hand. “No, sir. I am far from finished.” She plucked another sheet from the stack beside her. “The Morning Observer,” she announced.
“Miss H.T., already a celebrated wit and beauty, is now the most sought-after lady of the Season. For what woman, gentle reader, would not wish to inspire such fiery devotion in a man of Lord L’s notorious coolness? Lord L, long thought immune to both romance and reason, was seen to strike a gentleman across the jaw in defence of Miss H.T.’s name, sending the scoundrel sprawling into a potted palm with a flourish worthy of the stage. Witnesses described the scene as ‘positively Byronic’and I, for once, can think of nothing more romantic. Let it be known: Miss H.T. may possess beauty, breeding, and a laugh sharp enough to draw blood, but it is her ability to bring Lord L to his knees that has truly captured Society’s imagination. If this is not love, dear reader, then I shall eat my bonnet.”
She stopped, folded the sheet in half, and bestowed upon Theo a look that might have made Napoleon reconsider his ambitions.
Theo remained standing with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, the very picture of a gentleman preparing to meet his execution with dignity. She was angry, to be sure, but her veneer of sweetness was more terrifying by far.
