Page 4

“This isn’t the bloody store, and you’re not in the Miltons’ employ. They’ve servants enough for that.”

Rafe didn’t much like spirits, but the next sip of ratafia went down with a satisfying scorch. Tonight, this company of pompous, sweating brats might turn him into an aficionado of drink.

He turned back to face the dancers. He had been kept out of these events for years, and at no disappointment to himself. His education, the immense success of his father’s store, and even the Royal Warrant awarded to it were not enough to procure such invitations. These people did not care if Queen Charlotte purchased silks from Balfour’s—or they did, but their admiration only went so far as to book private shopping appointments in which they could treat Rafe like one of their footmen. If anything, that warrant had only made the Balfour name more synonymous with mercantile pursuits.

That was something his father would never grasp. He would keep reaching, trying to attain … whatever he thought these people had that he did not.

It might’ve been a good deal of begging, or years of dangling after the ‘right’ sort of patrons, that saw Rafe standing here now. More than like, if he knew his father, it was simple and transactional. Thomas had paid prettily to get his son in front of the handsomest, most financially destitute earl’s daughter he could find: Miss Penney.

Rafe took another sip and swore it would be his last. No use for bitterness. He might be a part of Thomas’s next transaction, the next harebrained scheme to ingratiate Balfours with peers, but at least this spot of foolery would end in escape.

Suffer through this matrimonial affair and Thomas would finally cut him loose. He’d have his own share of the store’s earnings. Pockets, flush with coin—God, he could almost feel it! A house of his own.

His bleeding freedom.

A rush of air brushed the back of Rafe’s neck, and he turned, ever so slightly, to see a swish of red skirts receding from the refreshment room.

“A Miss St. Quinton,” Thomas said in a low voice. “She arrived with the Penneys.”

“Yes,” Rafe said. “I recall.”

Her skirts rippled in her wake. Black ringlets bounced at her nape. She was walking briskly. If her posture had not been straight with self-possession, her arms not loose at her sides, he might’ve thought her running away.

“This drink tastes as though it’s been watered.” Thomas set his glass down with a thunk. “One generally thinks the Miltons flush, but I did hear talk of some poor investments. Apparently, the man …”

The red-skirted lady disappeared into the crowd.

At some point, the dance had ended, and now a new group was assembling, or perhaps it was the old one rearranging. A cursory glance revealed Miss Penney pairing up with a different gentleman.

“Did you put your name down twice?”

Rafe’s shoulders stiffened. “No. I didn’t think it would be proper, our only having been introduced tonight.”

His father made a sound—less than words, but just as revealing. His jaw was set, his mouth no doubt in a grim line beneath the grey arc of his mustache. He shook his head.

“It’s not as though I’ve any real competition.” Rafe caught himself raising his glass again. He lowered his hand. “If Lord Penney intends to marry her to the highest bidder, he’ll certainly see you as such.”

“Me?”

Rafe realized his error too late. Thomas’s body had already shifted toward him, his thick middle brushing Rafe’s arm, the spittle of his hushed word landing sharply on Rafe’s cheek.

“It is you who must make a favorable impression, Rafe. You, who must give her ample evidence you’re more than a lad from the backcountry. My successes can only carry you so far!”

“Yes, sir. I’m aware.” He made his voice flat and neatly controlled, not at all in agreement with the riotous march of his pulse. It was a timeless trick, learned from his mother: Forget how badly you feel. Bite your tongue. Make yourself blank and cool, the opposite of him, and the storm will pass more quickly.

A footman emerged from the refreshment room with a silver pail of glass shards. The orchestra started up anew, seemingly louder this time. Heat crept up the back of Rafe’s neck, treading a path along his hairline. His entire damn face would turn pink if he didn’t get some air soon, curse his ghastly white skin.

“Excuse me for a moment.” He dipped his chin in his father’s direction without meeting the man’s eye.

The crowd didn’t part for him as it had done for the lady in red. It took significant maneuvering to prevent knocking shoulders with men and elbowing feathers off ladies’ heads, but the empty corridor was within sight. It looked like a bloody oasis.

His stride lengthened when he broke free of the sweaty masses. He could actually hear his own footsteps now, feel air circulating around him. If only they weren’t in Mayfair, he might have hoped for a proper garden or terrace to step out onto. The nearest vacant room would have to suit.

He had his fingertips against an unfamiliar door when a voice sounded from behind him, freezing every muscle in his body. “Balfour? Is that you?”

Rafe’s mind thawed first, issuing a silent barrage of curses. By the time he turned, Vice Admiral Crofton was within arm’s length of him. What the devil was he doing here?

“Ah, Vice Admiral. I hadn’t expected you’d be in company tonight.”