Page 8 of Ruby in the Rough (Heiress #4)

Chapter

Eight

C hristian stood at the fringe of the Greenwich Park, a glass of deep-red claret in his hand and his mistress draped on his arm like a glittering ornament.

She was dressed to turn heads, jewels at her throat and a scandalous cut to her gown that promised far more than good company.

She laughed, a bright tinkle of sound that once he had found charming, but tonight it grated on him.

Her voice, usually warm and inviting, seemed pitched too high, too rehearsed.

Each laugh felt like a performance, as though she were trying too hard to hold his attention, and failing.

Around them, hundreds of guests mingled under the canopy of lantern light.

Gentlemen from every social standing crowded the land, each with a woman on his arm, as though this gathering were a haven where the rules of London society had been left at the gates.

The air was thick with cigar smoke, perfume, and a heady sense of lawlessness.

Christian had attended the Greenwich ball in past years, even looked forward to it. But tonight the scene struck him differently—less like a pleasure and more like something…seedy.

Perhaps, he thought grimly, he was finally growing old of it.

“Let us walk,” he said, offering his mistress his arm.

She smiled, tightening her hold as though she feared he might slip away.

They strolled through the throng of couples and onlookers, watching the dancers twirl to the music.

The musicians played with a wild, untamed vigor that had no place in the polite ballrooms of Mayfair, and yet here, in the cool air under the stars, it seemed suitable.

“You mentioned,” she said lightly, tilting her head up at him, “that I should have a new house in Marylebone. You will see to that for me, Christian? My modest rooms at St. John’s Wood are perfectly acceptable, but I think I should like to be nearer to Mayfair and you.

Everyone says it is the fashionable locale now. ”

Christian ground his teeth. The house she currently occupied—a Georgian townhouse—already cost him a small fortune to maintain. He could not imagine what moving her would entail, and yet he had no desire to have such discussions here.

“Tonight is not the night to speak of such things,” he said, forcing patience into his tone. “Let us enjoy ourselves.”

“It has been some weeks since we’ve been alone ,” she replied, her smile widening.

And yet, when her lips curved, he saw something hollow in her gaze. A falseness he’d not known before.

He lifted his glass to his lips to avoid answering—and froze.

Across the grass that separated them, standing stiff and startled like two deer before a hunter, were two figures who could not have been mistaken for anyone else, not even under their ridiculous wigs and poorly tied cravats.

His sister.

And Lady Cordelia.

God help them both, he would murder them.

He muttered a curse under his breath.

“What is it, dear?” his mistress asked, following his gaze.

“Nothing,” he said curtly, handing his glass to her without thought. “I’ve just spotted a few acquaintances who shouldn’t be here.”

“Introduce me?” she asked, a teasing lilt in her voice.

“Certainly not,” he said, perhaps a shade too sharp. “Excuse me. I shall meet you by the fountain later.”

She waved him off with a languid hand, perfectly unbothered by his abrupt departure. She was accustomed to this world and needed no chaperoning.

Christian cut across the crowd in long strides, his temper rising with each step. The sight of his sister and Lady Cordelia standing there in their ill-fitting men’s attire—breeches clinging in all the wrong places, their delicate faces peeking out from beneath wigs—was beyond the pale.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice low and edged with warning.

Both women turned to him. Their eyes flew wide, like a pair of children caught in the act of stealing pastries. His sister had the sense to remain silent. But Lady Cordelia—of course—lifted her chin, affronted as always at being reprimanded.

“You are not in charge of me, Your Grace,” she said with startling defiance. “And how do you even know who we are?”

He stared at her in disbelief. “How do I—? Are you truly asking me that? You two are far too pretty to be boys. You stand out like… Well, like very pretty boys who ought to know better. And let me tell you, in this company, that is not always a safe thing.”

His sister shifted uneasily, but Cordelia merely crossed her arms. “We are not here to cause trouble. We only came to see what sort of ball this is. Who may be in attendance and now we know.”

“No harm—?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to shake them both. “This is no place for you. You will leave at once.”

When neither of them moved, he reached for Cordelia’s arm. His sister immediately stepped back, wisely heeding his tone, but Cordelia wrenched free.

“Do not attempt to force me anywhere, Your Grace.”

“You will leave,” he said, his voice dropping to steel. “Or I will inform Ravensmere of your little escapade tonight. Shall I tell your guardian what sort of ball you thought appropriate for a duke’s daughter?”

Cordelia’s eyes flashed, but the threat did its work.

He escorted them both toward the docks, thankfully seeing and hailing his valet to join him. The night air along the Thames was cool and carried the tang of the river, a welcome relief to his rising ire. Unfortunately, the first water taxi could take only two passengers.

“You will return home now, ” he ordered his sister, bundling her into the boat and summoning his valet to accompany her. “Escort her across the river and then see her safely home. Ensure she does not set foot outside again tonight.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” his valet replied.

His sister glanced at him, and he could see the guilt weighing her down as the small wooden boat pushed off from the shore. Christian turned then to Cordelia, who stood with her arms crossed, looking far too composed for someone in so much trouble.

Blast the girl. She was dressed like a scandal waiting to happen. The men’s coat hugged her waist, and the breeches—tight and ill-suited to her figure—only emphasized her curves. And her shirt gaped just enough at the collar to reveal the swell of her bosom.

“Why,” he muttered, “you thought you could pass as a man in that…ensemble is beyond me. Silly chit,” he added under his breath, though she heard him well enough to arch an eyebrow.

The next water taxi arrived, and he helped her into it despite her muttered protests. “You are not accompanying me,” she said, her tone firm.

“I am.” Christian jumped in after her and gave the boatman their direction. “We will follow my sister and then I will see you home. From there I shall decide whether to tell Ravensmere of your foolishness.”

“It was not foolishness,” she argued. “We wanted to see a ball that is always barred to us. To understand what happens when men are not pretending to be perfect gentlemen. We had barely been there five minutes before you barged over to us like some—some ogre and sent us away!”

“Ogre?” His jaw tightened. “Five minutes is five too many at a place like that.”

“Well, why were you there?” she shot back.

“Because I am allowed to be there. I am a gentleman.”

She gave a sharp laugh. “If that was gentlemanly behavior, I am glad to be excluded. It looked like a gathering of men flaunting their mistresses with no care for propriety.”

He did not answer. There was nothing to say that would not make him feel more ashamed than he already did.

“Were you there with your mistress?” she asked suddenly, her tone sharper, her eyes alight with interest.

“That is none of your concern,” he said. “My private life is not up for your judgment.”

“Oh, so you were,” she said, the words tasting like disapproval. For reasons he could not name, her knowing glance made him feel unclean, as if her opinion mattered far more than it should.

“I do not understand men like you,” she continued after a pause. “What can a mistress give you that a wife cannot?”

He scoffed, unwilling to answer.

She pressed on, her voice low and unyielding. “Tell me, Your Grace. What is it like to own someone?”

The words landed like a slap.

“I do not own her,” he said, stunned.

“Really?” The sarcasm in her tone was unmistakable. “You do not pay for her rooms, her gowns, her very life? You pay her to stay loyal, to be available when you call. If that is not ownership, what is?”

He stared at her, at a complete loss for words.

She turned away, gazing out over the dark, rippling water. “If I were a man, I think I would be ashamed to pay for loyalty. Ashamed to think affection could be bought like a bolt of cloth. It shows very much of one’s morals.”

His mouth opened, but no words came.

“I do not own her,” he said finally, though it sounded hollow even to him. “I merely…provide for her, pay her a wage. It is different.”

“Well,” Cordelia said with a shrug, “it certainly feels to me like ownership.”

His jaw clenched, having heard enough. “I take offense at what you suggest. Neither I nor my family has ever owned anyone.”

She glanced at him, unrepentant. “Then I apologize. Or at least I would, if I believed a word you were saying.”

He glared at her, and she smiled faintly, infuriatingly calm.

“Shall we speak of something else?” she asked sweetly. “You seem to be upset, Your Grace.”

“Something else?” His voice cracked with incredulity. “After that barrage of nonsense?” He took a calm breath, righting his seat. “No, I wish for silence from here on out.”

She tilted her head. “Whatever you want, Your Grace.”

“Then silence it is,” he said darkly.

“Suits me.”

There was a pause. Then she added, almost as an afterthought. “Oh, and Your Grace? Do not presume to order me about again. I am not your mistress, and I certainly do not heed your commands.”