Page 44 of The Lady is Trouble
Humphrey laughed roughly and thumped the door against the wall. “Scamp, you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
Chapter 12
The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
~Edward Young
Chandeliers scatteredfiery prisms across the ballroom floor Julian traversed, his path blocked by viscountess, earl, baroness, marquess, earl—each an oar stuck at an awkward angle, pulling him off course through a lake of society jetsam. The orchestra played at a level allowing for conversation should he desire it, when he only wanted to make it to the veranda, imbibe his third glass of champagne, smoke his second cheroot, and wait the night out.
The tapestries in the vision had looked quite valuable—Boucher, he learned—a reasonable discussion point, viscount to duke. A footman had taken no note when he mentioned seeing them years ago and questioned if they were inthishome, one of Ashcroft’s many. The footman had been quite knowledgeable and had unwittingly given Julian the tapestries’ exact location. Interestingly enough, he’d also mentioned a house fire last week and advised Julian to pay no mind to the charred area staining the drawing room floor.
Humphrey was right. Ashcroft needed help before he gutted a structure to completion. Julian wanted to laugh when the topic was as far from humorous as one could get; the rumor circling the ballroom was that the Duke liked to dabble in pyrotechnics, hence the occasional blaze at his estates.
The subdued light provided a forgiving lens with which to behold the glittering, bejeweled mob, but still, the colors stunned, making him question how Piper tolerated it in combination with hundreds of brilliant auras. It was hard enough for him; already, his head pounded from the unwanted visions even as he tried to limit what he touched.
“No need to face this horde sober, Beauchamp.” Lord Holt, the Earl of Stanton, grabbed a flute from a waiting footman and thrust it at Julian, leaving him no opportunity to refuse. Holt had a fast wit and was one of the few men Julian knew who had stooped to commerce to save his earldom from insolvency—as Julian had done for the viscountcy. He gave Julian an update on his wife and his mistress, the upcoming Henley Royal Regatta—as they’d been in the same boat club at Oxford and soundly beaten Cambridge two years running during those years when Julian had tried so hard to fit in—before elbowing his way back into the crowd.
Leaning against a pillar, Julian dipped his head to avoid the interest of the ladies on the hunt. From first-season virgin to widowed countess, they were at turns wide-eyed and blunt. His attendance had drawn comment—it was rare. Strangely, the seductive glances, whispered entreaties, and bared breasts made him moody and even a bit cross, where before they’d left him bored. Chalk dust swirled with each passing group of dancers—a stunning floral design on the floor meant to keep the masses from slipping on new leather soles to their padded bottoms.
Amazed to feel so isolated in such a crush, Julian was quite simply alone with his visions.
A modest distraction, they shimmered through his mind, the champagne acting as an antidote. He felt weightless, unencumbered, able to take the cleansing breath he could not at Harbingdon. The wagers going on around him amused, though he took no part. Who would be the first to pass out in the Duke’s rosebushes or cause a scandal of the first order?
A steady wash of relief flooded him. Piper would not be there to win the latter.
He wouldn’t have to save her from herself.
Not tonight, at least.
Although, he thought, his hand going to the hairclip in his coat pocket—brought for stubborn locks should he need to pick one, not because he was a man obsessed—he would have loved to take her in his arms beneath a thousand glittering candles, draw her lithe body against his while whispering suggestive words in her ear. Ashcroft’s garden had concealed nooks ideal for clandestine activities.
Blistering images lit his mind. Of hiking Piper’s skirt and following her down to the dewy grass; fitting her across his lap on that massive stone bench beside the fountain, her legs on either side of him as she rode him to completion. He could make love to her for a month, in a hundred different ways, without leaving Ashcroft’s lawn.
Marianne Coswell found him moments later, as he’d expected she would, looking as beautiful as intended. Her hair, the color of a wheat field in bloom, was caught in an intricate knot at least two maids had assisted with. And the gown? Fit to perfection, a lustrous silver which perfectly suited her gossamer skin. He recalled her fingers tangling in his coat lapels as she pulled him into her carriage. Accustomed to being pursued, for the title and hint of intrigue surrounding him, her assault had been particularly acute.
When she reached his side, she flashed a knowing smile. Deep in his pocket, Piper’s hairclip pulsed, posing strong opposition.
He questioned if his cock could rise to Marianne’s occasion should his very life depend upon it. When seconds ago, fantasies he had no intention of satisfying had him considering a brief retreat to the gentlemen’s drawing room until the erection pressing awkwardly against his trouser buttons wilted.
“I’m beyond delighted to see you here, darling.” Marianne curled her hand around his wrist and a gemstone on her bracelet nicked his skin. A vision of her body twisting in ecstasy beneath someone flooded his mind. Someone who was most assuredly nothim. Closing his eyes, he focused on the masculine face captured in the throes of delight, because he really couldn’t help himself.
Oh. Lord Featherstone.
Julian repressed a shiver of distaste and uncurled her fingers. He and Featherstone had shared little in this life, and he wished it had remained that way.
She arched a brow, her lips sliding into a treacherous twist. “Would your indifference have anything to do with the recent arrivals?”
“Marianne, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She smiled, a genuine display that made his stomach sink. His former lover had him in some way he could not account for—and suddenly, they both knew it. “Your ward just arrived. With your devastating half-brother.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth, her cheeks glowing. “Give that boy a few years, and society is going to go mad over him, by-blow or no. Almost painful to gaze upon such splendor.”
Julian inhaled a startled breath of Marianne and chalk. He was going to strangle Humphrey. Then Finn.
Then he’d deal with Piper.
She hadn’t come alone, but he bloody-well knew whose idea it had been to come.
“Lady Scott is not my ward,” Julian said as he peeled off the pillar, “as I’ve stated on more than one occasion.”And Finn is the brother of my heart.