Chapter 7
“No, I’m not going,” Elowyn said. “It’s all hopeless.”
Humiliation still wrapped around Elowyn like an oversized cloak two days later in the drawing room, refusing to let her go even in the face of her two friends and brother’s encouragement and reassurances.
She’d thought this would be the season of seasons.
How wrong she’d been. Her season was ruined.
Absolutely ruined. How could she show her face in public again?
She refused to attend another ball.
She was done.
It was over.
“You’re overthinking, it’s not that bad . . .” Isadora murmured, then gave a small cough. “It’s not hopeless. Come with us to Lady Ophelia’s tea tomorrow. It will be fun.”
Elowyn shook her head furiously. “No.”
“Elowyn.”
“No, Zachary.” Her brother had been attached at her side since he rushed after her when she dashed from the ball. “Can you please leave us girls to conspire?”
He gave a long-suffering sigh before nodding. She didn’t miss the pleading looks he sent to her friends. “I’ll be close.”
Elowyn watched him retreat and sighed. If her father had been home, he might have dealt with that wretched family in one fell swoop.
Even her brother was restless to deal with them, but Lady Gabrielle was a woman.
The men were disarmed, so to speak. That woman needed a woman to sort her out, and Elowyn had no notion how.
She was not deft with malice. Lady Gabrielle’s art was calculation—diabolical calculation, if one must name it—and Elowyn was out of her depth.
Fortunately, she had friends such as Persephone, who had no qualms about equal retribution.
But still, she was not leaving this house for the rest of the season.
“It’s a tea,” Persephone argued. “It will be fun. Plus, I can assure you, the whispers about me and that harpy are much more than the whispers about you. Everyone is questioning her motives.” Persephone grinned. “Plus, I believe I sorted out your problem as well.”
“I wish I had been there,” Isadora muttered. “Not only would I have loved to see that woman brought low, she’d have another glass of wine splashed in her face!”
It could always have been worse. At least Elowyn’s dress had taken the brunt of the wine and not her face. “I’m still not going.”
“That woman won’t be there, and if she does show her face, we’ll splash it with tea.”
Elowyn’s lips quirked. “I won’t be swayed.”
“What if the Duke of Mandeville is there?”
Elowyn scowled. This was all that thieving barbarian’s fault. If he had not burst into her life like a thunderstorm, this would never have happened.
Liar. You could have said no. You could have exchanged anything else.
And yet he had covered her with his jacket.
A jacket that was still in her bedchamber draped over a chair.
A jacket that still had the tones of sandalwood clinging to the collar.
She should forget the man. Forget he ever existed.
Forget he kissed her. Danced with her. Protected her.
All that made her believe he cared for her.
But how could he? She was simply a means to an end with him.
While she . . . her heart . . . it simply couldn’t stop skipping a beat whenever she thought of the beast.
“Do not bring up that man in front of me. I’m determined to forget his existence.”
“Doesn’t seem like he’s determined to forget yours,” Persephone murmured thoughtfully. “I can’t believe he was your first dance. Or well, I can believe it because it happened, but to think your luck is so bad that you caught the attention of the one man that woman set her sights on.”
“I didn’t catch his attention,” Elowyn disagreed. “You forget, I’m the only reason he isn’t shackled to her right now. He simply wishes to ensure I don’t go back on my word.”
“Didn’t seem that way to me,” Persephone murmured. “The way he looked at you . . . so intense!”
“That still doesn’t excuse what Lady Gabrielle did,” Isadora said. “Fortunately, others seem to agree. I’ve heard she’s been cast off the guest list by several hosts. You might not have a problem with her in the future, which is why you should come to the tea.”
That bolstered her mood. “I see. That’s good.” Then Mandeville wouldn’t have a reason to steal any more of her firsts. What had her brother said again? The man didn’t do anything without gain. He seemed to be only one who won in the end.
Persephone grinned wickedly. “That woman was her own downfall. No one would raise a brow if Mandeville rejected her outright.”
“Serves her right,” Elowyn muttered.
“Speaking of serving, your new pink gown arrived, correct?” Persephone waggled her brows. “You must wear it to the tea. A dress like that deserves to be seen.”
Isadora grinned. “Yes! That dress was meant for your garden tryst, right? Well, we are going to a garden tea.”
Elowyn sighed, but the corner of her lips twitched.
“See. You want to go,” Persephone pressed. “You are meant to go.”
“Besides,” Isadora said. “Are you going to give up just like this? Going to let that woman steal your joy?”
Her face flamed as she recalled how she had tossed those words to Mandeville.
She’d said them in anger, not because they were true.
This season truly was off to a tough start.
But no, she didn’t want to give up. No matter how they came about, she had already accomplished two things on her list of items.
“Fine. I’ll go,” Elowyn muttered, shaking her head at the twin beaming grins of her friends.
It was a tea party, after all.
Both Isadora and Persephone would be there.
There was nothing to fear, right?
***
Julien couldn’t get her out of his mind.
The look of horror on her face as she realized what had just happened.
He had hated—hated—the humiliation swimming in those jewel-bright eyes.
It bloody haunted his every waking moment.
His every dream. He wanted nothing more than to see for himself that she no longer carried that shame in her eyes, but she hadn’t left her house once in the past three days.
And he’d know. He had two men stationed outside that informed him of every movement of that household.
The same with Dansbury and his niece. No one made a damn move without his knowledge.
Wrath entered White’s and made his way over to his table, plopping down. “I thought I’d find you here.”
“Nowhere else to be,” Julien muttered moodily.
“Heard Cranbrook called on you today. Good or bad news?”
“Good.”
Wrath nodded. “That’s a relief then. Sided with you?”
“It’s not about sides anymore. Dansbury’s niece has managed to anger quite a few women. It seems the chit dug more than her own grave with that stunt.”
“But you’re not happy.”
Of course not. His wildflower had been hurt. “I won’t be happy until I crush the life from their family fortunes and crush their spirits.” Watch the same humiliation and shame they inflicted on others cross their faces.
“Savage.”
“They brought this on themselves.”
“Are you sure you’re doing it for yourself? Or are you doing it for a certain lady, perhaps?”
“Same thing.”
Not the same thing, Wrath’s eyes taunted, but all he said was, “Have they dug your grave yet?”
Julien scoffed. “I don’t plan on destroying myself along with my enemies.”
“Why not just marry the girl and be done with it. That would be the biggest revenge against that family.”
“You know I won’t ever marry.” He’d made that vow to himself a long time ago, in a hallway that still visited him in his sleep, kneeling over his mother while his hands turned red and useless.
He would never be that powerless again. Granted, he was no longer that boy, but attachments made you powerless.
He didn’t want any attachments in his life.
He just couldn’t . . . He couldn’t ever face the possible pain of losing a loved one again.
His wildflower . . . She was too pure and too innocent to be sullied by the dark shadows that haunted him.
He was a petty man. A hard man. A man who kept a list of enemies and crushed them without mercy.
In fact, he had no mercy for foes. Only the desire to destroy them.
The urge consumed him whole until the deed was done.
He would, ultimately, destroy her, too.
Then let us not meet after this again.
Her words, and he’d agreed to them. Readily. Gratefully, even, because some small, sane corner of him had recognized a gift when it was handed to him—an exit, offered before he could do any real damage. As the lady wishes. Three words, and he’d meant them. He’d told himself he meant them.
The notes in his breast pocket scoffed at him.
So he kept all Frank’s notes on her movements. That didn’t mean a damn thing.
Wrath gave a noncommittal shrug. “I suppose I can give you one of my sons one day for your heir.”
“Get a wife first.”
Wrath chuckled.
A footman in White’s livery approached the table and cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, Your Grace. A note was delivered for you.”
Julien accepted it with a nod, recognizing the hand before he’d even broken the seal. One of his men. Frank. Stationed outside Lady Elowyn’s home. He quickly read the content, eyes lifting to Wrath. “Want to accompany me to a tea party?”