Page 17 of Miss Hawthorne’s Unlikely Husband (The Troublemakers Trilogy #3)

I t was too ridiculous. Rachel watched from her vantage point at the ballroom as Richard danced with that slave girl.

That base born cub of a trollop masquerading as a lady.

Lady Sterling may have been alright with that thing being paraded around her house because Lord Melbroke was her father, but Rachel saw it for what it was.

A disgusting mockery of what blood and breeding should mean.

Any person could learn to dance, did that make them a lady? It was insulting.

And Richard. Her Richard, dancing with that…

girl for all the world to see the way he’d never once danced with her.

Not that she would have publicly accepted a dance from a tradesman, let alone one of his background, but still.

He’d had the audacity to leave her . To leave her behind without so much as a ‘by your leave’.

As if he could take her or leave her even after ten years.

As if he could do without her. As if they were equals.

No, not equals. As if he was far her superior.

Every time she thought about it, she was left shaking with rage.

How dare he treat her as an inconvenience when he should have been grateful she ever deigned to look in his direction.

And now to see him with that girl as if they were already a couple, as if he was more interested in being with her than a born and bred lady.

A true English Rose. Was he going to court her?

Did he think he was worthy of a viscount’s daughter?

It was galling to see them together, his hands resting on her as if they belonged there, his eyes warm with affection.

As if he cared for her. As if that swine in a dress was more worthy of him than a true lady of the peerage.

A woman of substance and breeding, a true woman.

Perhaps the little slut had already given him something to lure him away.

She presented herself as quite the little lady, all wide eyes and pristine pearls, staying close to her chaperone.

All delicate airs leaving the room after one dance.

No doubt her mother had tried one of those tricks with Lord Melbroke, playing the delicate flower when they were nothing more than base born ilk.

And Richard was watching her, as if he wanted to go to her. To her .

Not Rachel. Not to a woman who would lift him from the oriental gutter he’d crawled out of.

No doubt he wanted Melbroke’s little island miss for her supposed purity.

As if women like that were ever pure. Men were depressingly predictable.

That little slut would show her true nature soon enough; they were always all too eager to get on their backs to get ahead.

No doubt her mother had the same idea to lure Melbrooke away from good sense.

In a way, Miss Hawthorne was doing the nobility a favor by removing herself from it entirely, but the idea of letting her win, of allowing her to take what was hers , was intolerable.

Richard Thornfield belonged to her. He was hers, goddamnit. Her hands curled into trembling fists. How dare he think he had the right to leave her behind.

His heart was dark and cold like hers, and he loved a good fuck just as she did.

She would die before she admitted he was the best lover she’d ever had, at once masterful and sensual with a body that never seemed to tire.

No time wasted on sentimentality. Was she meant to give that up to a slip of a girl who was nothing compared to her?

What could she possibly give him that she could not?

She would show him. She did the leaving. No one left her without her permission. She got what she wanted at all costs.

She would bring him back to heel by force if seduction didn’t work, and then she would break him for presuming to think himself better than her.

“Lady Tremaine,” she turned to face her hostess with an angelic smile she’d practised a million times.

“Lady Sterling, you have outdone yourself again.” She glanced at the stuffy little man beside her, waiting for an introduction. He’d been speaking to Richard earlier, and from all appearances, they weren’t on good terms.

“Nonsense, although I am pleased with how it turned out.” Lady Sterling finally gestured to the man beside her. “Have you met Mr. Simon Thornfield?”

“Any relation to Mr. Richard Thornfield, the manufacturer?” she asked.

“He is my nephew.” His smile was tight. How very interesting.

“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Thornfield.” Very pleased indeed.