Rake in the Regency Ballroom: The Viscount Claims His Bride / The Earl's Forbidden Ward. Bronwyn Scott
felt the fire, too, and had given herself over to it. In that moment Valerian swore a silent resolution to himself in the fashion of old English tradition. By this time next year, he would have her. He’d already lived too long without her.
The orchestra struck up a tune for another waltz before the guests headed in for the New Year’s supper. Valerian swung her into the dance without asking. She protested with a laugh, ‘We’ve already danced once tonight.’
‘That was last year,’ Valerian parried easily, his elation only partially dampened by the stare of an infuriated Lucien Canton, who watched them from the sidelines, rage emanating from every pore of his impeccably groomed form.
Lucien viewed the pair waltzing with abandon and a disgusting amount of apparent ease in each other’s arms. They were beautiful to watch as long as one wasn’t also watching one’s opportunity to marry one of them decreasing exponentially. Valerian Inglemoore was most definitely an unlooked-for complication in the progress of his plans. He had meant to propose to Philippa in the spring when he could do it in high style in London among the haut monde. Watching her with the newly returned viscount, Lucien knew without doubt he couldn’t wait that long.
He had to strike before the iron was hot, as it were. Most people who knew him believed him to be a keen judge of human nature. Lucien knew his accuracy in guessing people’s motivations and desires was partly his own intuition, but also partly because he spied on everyone in his milieu. The duchess was not exempt.
His spies indicated that the viscount was besotted with her, stealing away from the dinner table last night to steal kisses on the veranda. It was no balm to Lucien’s concern that his spy also reported Philippa had slapped the bastard across the face. At the moment she might be conflicted over her response to the return of her curious friend, but hate ran a close parallel to love. From what Lucien had seen, if he waited until spring, the lovely and pivotal duchess would no longer be interested or available.
Without the Cambourne mines, his hopes to corner the tin market and establish an elite, profitable tin cartel, with holdings in Britain and South America, would become an idle dream. And without access to the Cam-bourne finances, he’d be hard pressed to cover some of his investments. It didn’t take any amount of genius to know that if St Just claimed Philippa’s affections, Lucien’s own friendship with her would come to a quick end. St Just was not the type of man who’d allow his wife to keep a close male friend.
Lucien’s hard gaze followed St Just into the last turn of the waltz. He’d ordered murder done before to get what he wanted. He wouldn’t hesitate to see it done again.
Chapter Four
‘He made you look the whore last night, ’Lucien bit out crisply over breakfast late the next morning in the library.
Well, there it was. Philippa had expected as much when she’d received the note requesting they privately break their fast together, away from the other guests. Lucien was a stickler for propriety. Not one of his more desirable traits. Apparently, he was covetous too. She’d not had reason to notice that before. But no one had ever posed a threat to his claims on her time.
Philippa buttered her toast calmly, unbothered by Lucien’s pique. ‘You can hardly be jealous because I danced with an old friend.’ That wasn’t to say she was pleased with her behaviour the night before. She had indeed let her guard down with Valerian, a behaviour she did not indulge in with anyone. But Valerian’s enthusiasm had been contagious and in his arms she’d felt the responsibilities of her world lift for a moment.
‘Old friend? The word is too tame,’ Lucien scoffed, reaching for his coffee. ‘I’ve never danced with the sister of an old friend the way he waltzed with you. He desires you, Philippa. One cannot not notice. He makes no effort to hide it. Such behaviour is better suited for a brothel than a ballroom.’ Lucien set his cup down and looked at her squarely. ‘St Just needs to understand in specific terms that his attentions are not welcome, even if they were encouraged in the past.’
Philippa met his stern gaze evenly, bridling at his insinuations about her virtue. She was the Dowager Duchess of Cambourne. She would not be commanded in such a high-handed fashion. She chose to ignore Lucien’s subtle probe into her past. Whatever had transpired between she and Valerian was their business alone. Lucien could speculate all he wanted. She hadn’t even told Beldon.
‘Are you suggesting I am forbidden to see him?’ This possessiveness was exactly the kind of behaviour she’d been trying to avoid in a relationship with any male acquaintance of her circle since Cambourne’s death. She didn’t need to take direction from well-meaning men who thought she couldn’t manage the reins of her estate or social life on her own. In Lucien, she’d thought she’d found a liberated man who would tolerate her independence.
It had been the basis of her attraction to him. Lucien had been a welcome friend during a difficult transition period for her. He’d been a loyal escort and adviser when she’d begun rebuilding her social circle after Cambourne’s death. She’d believed they complemented one another well and had a comfortable companionship between matched intellects and interests.
She’d helped him too in a myriad of ways, like acting the hostess when his busy sister wasn’t available. It had been the least she could do in return for the assistance he’d given her throughout the years.
‘What right do you have to make such a demand of me?’ Philippa flicked him a tight glance.
Lucien’s eyes flashed. ‘What right? We have been together for years.’
‘We are hardly married, Lucien,’ Philippa warned. They’d not explicitly talked in such terms before, although it would be unfair to say the issue had not arisen in other ways in the last year.
‘Perhaps we should be. Married, that is,’ Lucien said coldly.
‘Is that a proposal? Your lack of enthusiasm makes it rather hard to tell,’Philippa shot back. Damn Valerian for this, Philippa thought hotly. Lucien’s proposal, if one could call it that, was all his doing. He had to come rushing in and wreck everything with hot kisses and knowing caresses, making her remember the possibilities.
Philippa put down her napkin and rose, leaving her toast untouched, but it didn’t matter. Her stomach couldn’t tolerate a bite of food now. ‘I regret to inform you that I have no intention of accepting a proposal articulated with such lacklustre ardour. It bodes ill for the marriage.’ She tinged her voice with exaggerated ennui. The sooner she was out of the room the better. She hoped she made the door before she gave full vent to her temper.
Lucien rose, the glacial calm that usually accompanied his demeanour, melting at her comment. ‘My displays of “ardor” have been quite acceptable to you right up until St Just began stealing kisses on the balcony right under my nose.’
Philippa stiffened. How could he have known? But to accuse him of spying on her would mean admitting he had the right of it. She turned to face Lucien before sweeping into the hallway. ‘You’ve shown yourself in a poor light this morning, Lucien. Jealousy does not become you.’
Wrapped in a heavy wool cloak against the damp weather, Philippa stormed out to the gardens. No one else was about in such inclement weather. She was glad for it. She would make terrible company. She would be hard pressed to behave politely when all her thoughts were focused on less than polite behaviour.
Valerian and Lucien were worse than two stallions in season fighting over a mare and now Lucien had proposed, no doubt prompted by his sense of honour and apparently the belief that she needed protection from the likes of Valerian. In the three years of their association, Lucien had never once pressed her for a discreet affair. There had been nothing beyond a few private, dry kisses, a gentleman’s touch on the dance floor or helping her in and out of carriages. Nothing at all to compare with Valerian’s very public seduction.
Lucien’s kisses were preludes to nothing. They inspired no wish to lose control, to cross over the boundaries of propriety. Valerian’s kisses lit a raging fire in her, forced her to abandon her grip on control.