Chapter 7 #2
Theo stepped closer, his voice low and hard until the remaining man recoiled, sloshing brandy over the rim of his glass.
“The two of you will apologise to Miss Tolliver at once. In writing. With utmost sincerity. And you shall never utter her name again, neither in jest nor in drink, nor in any squalid corner of London where you fancy yourselves men. Not unless you are prepared to have your teeth scattered across the pavement. Is that sufficiently clear?”
The man shrank back another pace, nodding quickly.
The other, sprawled amidst Lady Braithwaite’s most exquisite greenery – Mr Ashcombe, Theo now recalled, the third son of a lesser baron and currently nursing a rapidly swelling jaw – blinked owlishly, as if unsure how he had come to find himself prostrate beneath a potted plant.
“Splendid,” said Theo. “Let this serve as a reminder that folly in Mayfair carries consequences.”
Lady Braithwaite did not so much sweep as glide into the circle of stunned onlookers.
Her gown, a formidable construction of grey silk and stiffened Honiton lace, rustled as she advanced, and her infamous fan – rumoured to have once belonged to an empress – snapped open.
She surveyed the scene with the expression of one who had long since ceased to be surprised by the follies of men, and who had no intention of permitting such vulgarities beneath her roof. “My lords. How very spirited of you.”
Silence fell across the crowd in earnest, and her withering gaze settled on the fallen figure of Mr Ashcombe, who was now attempting to sit upright amidst a tangle of fern fronds.
“You, sir, will remove yourself from my presence with all haste, for reasons which require no explanation to any person possessed of ears, manners, or moral sense.”
She turned uponTheo, her expression unsoftened, though the tilt of her chin betrayed a gleam of amusement. “And you, Lord Langley, must likewise take your leave – not for want of justification, but because I do not care to see another of my potted plants sacrificed to your sense of gallantry.”
There was a ripple of uneasy laughter from the gathered onlookers.
Theo bowed low with a grace born of breeding and contrition. “Lady Braithwaite, you have my deepest apologies. I fear I was provoked beyond the bounds of civility.”
Lady Braithwaite gave a delicate hum, the fan now stilled in her gloved fingers. There was now, unmistakably, approval in her eyes. “And yet still comfortably within reach of a good right hook. How fortunate for Miss Tolliver.”
Theo bowed once more and then turned on his heel. As he made his dignified retreat, he caught the quiet exchange that followed behind him.
“See Mr Ashcombe to the street,” Lady Braithwaite murmured to her butler, who had materialised at her side. “Do be gentle, but efficient. ”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And instruct the musicians to resume,” she added, already turning away. “Nothing calms a scandal quite like a minuet in a minor key.”
And with that, Lady Braithwaite vanished once more into the glittering crowd, leaving in her wake a thoroughly chastened ballroom and a scandal that would be discussed over every breakfast table in London by dawn.
—
?—
Theo stumbledthroughthe streets of London, the pilfered bottle of whisky a poor companion in his grasp.
He could have summoned his carriage and spared himself this humiliating walk, but no – he had chosen to stagger through the cobbled streets, for the last image branded upon his mind was that insufferable Marchmont’s dazzling smile, spinning Hetty across the floor like the very prize of the season.
He took another swig, the burn searing his throat and dulling his senses just enough. He had wrecked the evening with a single, ill-tempered blow, delivered not in defence of his own honour, but hers. And, truth be told, he was a damned fool for it; Hetty would be furious.
But what else could he have done? How dare those men speak of her like a common harlot.
A whore… an actress. God, perhaps that was the root of his current problem – he was drunk and fully aroused.
How long had it been since he’d taken a woman to bed?
Too long… too damn long. The cold spring air did nothing to quench the heat that smouldered just beneath his skin.
He fumbled with the bottle, nearly dropping it as his mind spun drunkenly between indignation and need.
Marchmont could have the damn dance floor; Theo needed a room with fewer witnesses and a bed that did not judge him.
So it was that he found himself at the modest lodgings of Miss Eliza Baines, an actress of some repute, and even greater skill at distracting him.
The door swung open before he could raise his hand, revealing a coy smile framed by honeyed curls and eyes that promised exactly what Theo most desperately sought: oblivion.
Miss Baines was nothing if not efficient.
Her hands set to work unbuttoning his coat and loosening his cravat as soon as the door closed, but no sooner had Theo begun to surrender to the moment than he caught sight of the actress’ blonde curls.
He blinked, attempting to steady his wits.
Alas, no amount of whisky could disguise the fact that he was thinking of the wild, dark-haired Hetty.
He tried to focus on the warmth of Miss Baine’s hands and the softness of her lips, but his body betrayed him.
The rakish Earl of Langley’s cock was decidedly limp.
Good heavens, he thought miserably, how utterly humiliating.
“Are you quite well, my lord?” Miss Baines murmured.
“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.