Page 6 of For a Scandalous Wager (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #3)

CHAPTER 5

E velyn had waited more than two hours in the garden, but the horrible Mr. Rochester never showed up. The question now was whether he’d done it to teach her a lesson or had she overstepped her bounds this time. She should have never written that note.

Or sent it.

But yesterday, when her father mentioned that the baron wished for an informal visit and then suggested a stroll through the park, she felt sick, and in a feverish moment of desperation, she’d penned the note to Rochester.

And he didn’t come. He didn’t even send a reply. Friends? Bah, humbug.

This was to be her last Season as an unmarried woman, and she found it dull without her friends. Addy, of course, had a good excuse, but Clover had been virtually absent because her brother, the Duke of Kingsley, rarely allowed her out of his sight.

Now, Evelyn stood among acquaintances at yet another ball, making small talk and hiding her dance card, wondering if one of these men was her almost betrothed. She had meant to ask her papa again for his name, but after Rochester’s rejection, she’d simply forgotten.

“Mr. Dalton Rochester.” The call went out, drolled in a monotone worthy of any good butler.

She barely heard the announcement over the chattering gaiety. In the same way that one is prone to hear one’s own name whispered in a hurricane, so too did she hear Rochester’s proclaimed in a sea of finely dressed men and women whose conversations hummed and hissed like a constant buzzing in her ear. She tried not to look at him. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of her continued humiliation. Perhaps she should take his advice and marry the baron. It certainly couldn’t be any more humbling than this.

Turning her back to the stairs where guests entered the ballroom, and ultimately ignoring Rochester, she nodded to Lord Sullivan, who took that as an invitation for convivial dialogue, which quickly turned into a dance. Not much older than Evelyn, Lord Sullivan stood several inches taller, with fair hair and compelling blue eyes. She smiled up at him warmly and even enjoyed his attempt at banter. The young lord thought to amuse her with exaggerated stories of racing phaetons and proper gentlemen sliding in horse manure along Pall Mall. She allowed him to bring her punch when the sets were done and purposely lingered overlong in his company.

When the scuff of slippers and the tap of heels passed beyond her in a mingling frenzy, she thought nothing of it until Lord Sullivan nervously smiled, shifting his gaze between her and something just beyond her shoulder. Though she tried not to take offense, her curiosity could not be squelched. She glanced behind her to see what had stolen his attention and almost dropped her punch as she desperately tried to whip her fan into submission. She’d have given the interloper the cut if not for Lord Sullivan, who greeted Mr. Dalton Rochester with a smile and a bow.

“May I introduce Miss Markham,” Sullivan said.

And just like that, Evelyn was forced to play nice with the man who had ignored her request and abandoned her in the garden.

“Miss Markham,” Rochester said, coming to stand in front of her, his hands behind his back because she’d busied herself with a fan and punch, avoiding the clutches of the proverbial feigned kiss. He raised his eyebrows like a taunt. To her detriment, she took in his height over Sullivan’s and the stark difference in their appearances. Both were handsome, yes. But Rochester’s devilishly dark hair, his rakish sunbathed complexion, and the sheer breadth of his shoulders were like a scream in a quiet theater. His presence echoed in her beguiled brain. Bathed in good looks and heart-palpitating proportions, she could naught but curse the heavens for his presence. She had work to do, and he was an unacceptable diversion.

“Mr. Rochester, what a pleasure to see you. I’d heard that you left the city.”

He cocked his head as if he might believe her.

She took no pity on him. “Not that I keep tabs on you, but the broadsheets aren’t always stuff and nonsense.”

“The broadsheets have me leaving Town? How odd?”

“Isn’t it?”

Lord Sullivan interjected as if she were unschooled in seasonal affairs. “I would not give the broadsheets any credit, Miss Markham.”

“Alas, I am reduced to rumor since my father hardly allows me the Times,” she said with a vapid air.

“Women need not bother with nasty news. I should think your father protects you against unforeseen reports that may cause a young lady undue distress,” Lord Sullivan expressed with a hint of real worry for her mental health.

“We wouldn’t want that. Would we, Mr. Rochester?” she asked pointedly. “We women are so easily outmatched and our esteem so fragile.” She turned her gaze on Sullivan and touched his arm. “You are a wise soul, Lord Sullivan.”

“Undoubtedly,” Rochester said, unblinking, his gaze riveted on her, his grin failing. “I trust you are in good hands. Good evening.” He snapped his shoes together at the heels and bowed.

Her heart felt heavy when he left. Had she hurt his feelings or just his ego?

“I would champion your esteem, my lady.”

Her head snapped back to the fair-haired Sullivan, and an idea took root. A little gossip might be the thing, and if Lord Sullivan proved as upright and gentlemanly as he seemed, then he might be harmless enough for a private conversation in an out-of-the-way alcove. But not too out of the way. She wanted a little scandal. Not a lot. Not enough to ruin her, but enough for the baron to hear of it and realize they would not suit. She’d consider it after another dance.

Rochester walked away, fighting the urge to throttle her or drag her from the ball and toss her in a cab. But if Evelyn was old enough to play games, then she was old enough for the consequences, his conscience be damned. The guilt he felt for leaving her with Sullivan died when he saw her sweep up the train of her lavender ball gown and waltz into the arms of the man he now dreamed of maiming.

True, he had said things he knew hurt her pride, her ego, her feelings, but he rather thought himself responsible for saving her virtue by not indulging her clear, reckless desire to destroy it. Wasn’t he something of a hero for that, at least?

Lord, God. Did he want her? Yes.

Could he have her? No.

Mrs. Brummel, the matriarch of matchmaking, waylaid his clean escape by laying a hand possessively on his arm. “Mr. Rochester, I am so pleased you graced our little ball this evening.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he put on his kindest charm, knowing what was coming.

“Have you met this year’s diamond of the first water? Miss Palmer has the loveliest manners. Her posture is perfection, and her dancing divine.”

Rochester half listened while he watched Evelyn accept her second dance with Sullivan. The impudent ass held her too close, and she laughed at something he said. Thankfully, this was their second and last dance. It would be unseemly to accept another. Although, he wouldn’t be surprised if she tried. The infraction wouldn’t destroy a reputation, but the room had eyes, those ready to feed the gossip sheets and the rest of London with their drivel. Even a minor indiscretion could be blown into a full Season of mindless gab and garbage.

Ruthless scandalmongers, and those looking for a quick shilling, greedily collected information they might sell. Diamonds of the first water were especially targeted for this. Rochester always thought them overrated. Those girls elevated to such a pampering pinnacle were either prey for rakehells or fodder for a column in The Female Tatler .

In Rochester’s opinion, women with several Seasons behind them were more interesting and made for better company. But perhaps that had something to do with the pebble in his shoe.

“Mr. Rochester, it is a waltz, and you’re not dancing. Such a shame.” Mrs. Brummel pouted.

“And who did you have in mind?” he asked conspiratorially, giving Mrs. Brummel an attentive pat on the hand that still rested on his arm as if she’d claimed his evening for him.

“I believe Miss Palmer has an opening for the next reel.”

“I’d be delighted,” he answered, glancing over Mrs. Brummel’s head to watch Evelyn and Sullivan whirl about the floor. The man’s hands on her waist made him clamp his jaw. He held her too close, and when Evelyn looked away, a laugh on her lips, Sullivan took the brief opportunity to visually feed on her charms.

He really couldn’t fault Sullivan, but neither could he fault the overwhelming desire to grab the man by his collar and cuff him a half-moon.

He didn’t stop to wonder if it was jealousy.

Mrs. Brummel introduced Rochester to Miss Palmer as the polished marble floor cleared in her wake. The Season’s brightest hope, it would seem. He smiled, bowed, and poured on an extra measure of charm. As the sets formed, he kept an eye on Miss Markham, who foolishly accepted another dance from Sullivan. When their gazes collided, he mouthed, “Three.” Then backed it up with a swift smile for the delicate, fragile debutante to his left. He gave a fashionable tug of his waistcoat and bowed as the music swept through the little group.

Without difficulty, he cultivated the steps he’d done so many times that he needn’t think about them anymore.

“You’re on shaky ground,” he hissed through a smile when he and Evelyn crossed paths.

She gave him a jaunty lift of her brows.

“Three,” he said again at their subsequent frolicking encounter.

She returned a smile, a well-practiced illusion of warmth that failed to reach her eyes.

Evelyn challenged his typically easygoing personality as he fought back a scowl for the sake of his partner. He could see in Miss Palmer’s mildly terrified gaze that she counted the steps. Rochester reassured the poor girl, “Your steps are lovely.” Miss Palmer blushed.

When the reel ended, Rochester pondered why Evelyn’s actions agitated him beyond reason. It wasn’t like him to act surly, picking away at a woman’s esteem. He was better known for leaving women highly satisfied and not just in bed. He was a gentleman. The kind that appreciated women with his words, his actions, his general respect. But when it came to Evelyn, he seemed to have lost all his charm, his good sense, and his place at the table.

He considered whether the society of wallflowers would accept his application. For the first time in his adult life, he felt outgunned by every other male in the room. And just like that, Sullivan took his shot. Rochester intensely followed his progress, watching the dullard lead Evelyn into an out-of-the-way alcove. As long as the curtain remained open, he’d hold his place while his sustained gaze held sentry, and he itched for an excuse to interrupt the dangerous game she played.

When he saw Sullivan hovering near the arch, Rochester couldn’t take the game another minute. If the woman wanted a scandal, then he’d just as soon it be with him. When Rochester reached the arched nook, he grasped the tassel holding back one burgundy velvet paneled drape, flipping the gold silk fringe easily from the jaws of a gilded lion. The panel fell, covering half the entry, and he checked his movements.

“What have we here, Sullivan?” An undercurrent of menace radiated from the words if not his tone. “Miss Markham, are you in need of rescuing?”

“How dare you,” Sullivan accused. “Miss Markham is in the best of hands and was quite winded.”

“Keep your voice down, Lord Sullivan. Or do you employ the raving journalists of The Female Tatler ?”

“Now, see here.”

“Mr. Sullivan,” Evelyn interrupted. “Mr. Rochester’s intentions are good. He and my brother are close friends, and he’s practically a guardian, like a brother to me. I had not anticipated a third dance. What a ninny I am to forget we’d already danced the requisite.” Her eyes were innocently wide, and her hand pressed to her chest. “You understand that I’m not blaming you. It’s me. Women naturally aren’t encouraged to study mathematics. One plus one and all that.”

Sullivan audibly swallowed with an apologetic wrinkle of his brow. Rochester could feel his cheek twitch irritably and watched as a nervous Lord Sullivan shifted his body weight, leaning toward an escape.

“I look forward to our next engagement, Miss Markham.” Sullivan bowed, then turned on his heel, swatting the curtain, in danger of tangling himself into a scandal or, worse, a duel. Rochester was that mad. After the other man left, Rochester took a moment to quell his anxiety-ridden frustration, repeatedly rolling his fingers into a fist to calm his stammering breath.

The alcove, a cozy little den, sported a red brocade chaise, a small bookcase and was outfitted with a table for drinks, which he was happy to see held none. It shouted: come have a smoke and a dalliance. Evelyn stood with the chaise between them, stroking the mahogany curve of the backrest with a light touch and trying to look brave.

“You’re a fool, an absolute fool.”

“And I thought I was a goose.”

“You’re a bloody pebble in my shoe, is what you are. Do you have any idea what you could have done here tonight?”

“You’re here. I suppose it can still be done, except scandal with the infamous Mr. Dalton Rochester would certainly make the papers. Shall we give it a go?” she said caustically.

“Shall we give it a…” He shook his head to clear it, placing his hands on his hips. “Seriously, Evelyn, are you trying to kill me?”

Both her brows rose. Her mouth curved into a stifled grin. “Kill you? You’re so dramatic. Half the curtain is open. And might I add that you are the one who did that?”

“Only because I didn’t want anyone to see me throttle you.”

“So, you are my father, after all. Sly devil.”

“I am not joking.”

“Nor am I. You want to dress me because I apparently know nothing about fashion, and then you ignore my desperate plea for help. And now? What? You’re here to pounce on my beau?”

“Sullivan’s not your beau, and you knew exactly what you did when you accepted that third dance.”

“And there you were dancing with Miss Palmer after sporting your mistress about at the theater. Tsk tsk .”

“Lovie?” Lord, this woman baffled him.

“Oh, you already have a pet name for her, do you? How sweet.”

For an instant, he stood there frozen in place, staring at her, bewildered, and then broke into a grin. “ Lovie is my cousin.”

“What a convenient ruse you play.”

“Excuse me? You’re bothered because you think I have a mistress?”

“I’m bothered because you keep dashing my best-laid plans.”

“If those are the best, I hate to see the worst.” He strolled to the other side of the chaise. She turned away from him but didn’t move, drumming her long, tapered fingers on the lounge’s rich fabric.

One small step, and he stood at her back, close enough to smell the lavender in her hair. With his mouth close to her ear, she flinched. “Is it a scandal you want? Or do you truly wish to discourage a marriage proposal?” Without stopping to think, he pressed a kiss on her nape. She sucked in a shaky breath, her body stiffened, and she clutched the chaise.

He had never kissed her. He’d never tried, not that he hadn’t thought about it since that house party when he saved her from midnight mistletoe madness. They’d played draughts instead, and he fulfilled his promise as a friend to Winn, keeping an eye on her. She had kept his hands full then, and now he only wished to fill his hands with her. He rubbed his nose against her smooth neck, breathing her in, and snuck an arm around her waist. He pulled her back against him and opened his mouth over her nape once more, tasting and sucking just before he let her go. Gooseflesh popped up over her exposed skin. He knew this was trouble for them both.

“Go home, Evelyn. And stay there. Do not make a decision that will affect your life before you meet this man.”

She pivoted. “What’s wrong with me, Rochester, that you should humiliate me at every turn? You cannot know what it is to have every decision made for you, for your life to be in someone else’s hands.”

“You’re wrong. My entire life was planned for me the moment I was conceived.”

“But you’ve been places. You go on holiday. You misbehave, and no one cares. In fact, they applaud you, drink with you, and celebrate with cigars over your foibles.”

“That perception is from a distance and not reality.”

“My reality is to marry a man I’ve never even met and then let him bed me without a protest.”

He closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead, trying to drown out the image. “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She pinned him with a dissecting stare as if she were slicing through his defenses.

He gazed at her mouth.

“Isn’t that interesting? You’re looking at my lips, and this time I didn’t even mention the word mouth, or was the word kiss?”

Oh, he most certainly wanted to kiss the smug smile from her soft lips. He wanted to teach her a lesson about playing with fire. But he knew it would cost him sleepless nights. His pulse already answered the call, as if he’d made it. Standing this close and virtually alone could not happen again. He would not allow it.