by Gaelen Foley
The recital would soon begin. For now, liveried footman scurried among the guests offering beverages. All around him, the elegant house was full of the sounds of people talking and laughing, glasses clinking, and friends meeting up, and he was feeling, as usual, slightly out of place.
This was caused, in part, by the several ladies sending him scowls and icy stares from around the room. Marriage-minded mamas dealt him expert snubs, but it was the trio of debutantes giggling at him from behind their fans that was making him feel the most self-conscious. What the hell was so funny?
He did his best to ignore them, turning his attention to his male acquaintances. Chaps he had last seen sprawled around the Satin Slipper had recovered and were out again tonight. The dandies were arguing over brands of pomade. The rakes were talking about who had lost the most at faro last night. The older gents were talking politics, which made Jason want to bang his head against the nearest column.
Sometimes it shocked him how much he did not fit in anywhere, really. Perhaps Felicity had been right. Perhaps he should have gone east on the grand trek with Pete.
But no. Even he possessed enough of a sense of family duty to realize that a duke could not go traipsing off into the jungles and risking his life until he had first sired an heir.
A legitimate one.
For, in truth, his title aside, there were two small but very important reasons he could not just go off risking his neck as his mate had, no matter how much he might like to do it.
Bored, he drifted over to talk to the musicians while he waited for Felicity. He had a genuine admiration for artists of all kinds. The musicians greeted him warmly, knowing who he was because of his patronage of that blasted good-for-nothing Italian, Leandro Giovanelli. But even as he chatted with them and learned that some surprise musical guest was to appear tonight, his mind stayed on Felicity.
If she did not arrive in short order, he supposed he should give up. Perhaps the weather had kept her indoors, he thought, already braced for disappointment. There was a steady drizzle tonight with gusts of wind and no stars.
Just then, the composer himself came bustling over to his ensemble again, tension apparent on his lined face. Jason greeted him with a smile. “Surely you’re not nervous, Schroeder? I’m sure you’ll dazzle us, as always.”
“Ah, Your Grace is very kind. Actually, sir…I would be obliged if you would listen for the key change at the end and tell me later on if you like it. I’m not sure if I should keep it.”
“My good man, that is far too much flattery for a dilettante like me. Believe me, I shall be listening with pleasure, but I am in no way qualified to advise you in your art.”
“Ah, but sir, my friend Giovanelli would argue that. He assures me Your Grace has an excellent ear.”
“Humph.” Of course, Giovanelli would say anything to keep the money flowing. Sometimes Jason even wondered if the bleeder was faking his Italian accent. But curse him, he was just so amusing that Jason could never quite bring himself to toss the man out on his backside.
“Tonight, sir, you see, it is the reaction of an educated audience member with taste that I desire most at this stage, not the critiques of my rivals,” Schroeder said confidentially.
“Well, if you think it would help you, I shall listen intently and give you my honest opinion. Speaking of your rivals,” Jason added, “I am grateful that your piece was ready for this evening. I know the Pelletiers pride themselves on unveiling new music for the Season at this annual concert night of theirs. Giovanelli’s new string quartet was to have been finished in time for tonight, but he cried off at the last minute. Claims the muse is not cooperating.”
“Ah, we have all had to wrestle the angel now and then,” Schroeder answered with a sympathetic shrug.
Jason did not say as much, but Giovanelli had quite embarrassed him by missing his deadline. He feared the flamboyant Italian had a work ethic that was even worse than a duke’s.
There was no getting around it. The contest among aristocrats for the honor of attaching one’s name to real talent through patronage was fierce, and in Herr Schroeder, Jason glumly had to admit that his neighbors had got the good one.
He left the German to his mission with a smile. “Best of luck, ol’ man. I’m sure it will be splendid.”
Schroeder bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
With an encouraging nod at the orchestral players, Jason withdrew, not wishing to pester them as they prepared for their performance. They had more important things to do right now than humor him.
When he turned again toward the doorway, at last, his vision was rewarded with the sight of Felicity.
She was just walking in alongside her chaperone, her cheeks still pink from the tossing of the wind outside, her golden blond hair fetchingly tousled.
The sight of her nearly stole his breath.
He was still slightly in knots over their conversation yesterday on her terrace. The merely friendly visit he had meant to pay her had taken a far more serious turn than he had expected. He couldn’t believe that she didn’t know how he really felt about her.
But how could she? To him, his desire for her had been like a thorn stuck in his paw for years. He was constantly aware of it. But to her, all she saw was his pointed effort to stay away from her. As he’d always known he must. He had a frightfully low resistance to temptation. Best just to stay away. So why had he asked her to come here tonight?
When she caught sight of him from across the room and sent him a little wave, the doubts and questions fled. He smiled at her, quickly striding over to her side to make her formal introductions to their hosts, since he gathered she did not know the earl and countess personally. Though Felicity had been out in Society for a few years now, they hadn’t seen much of each other—partly by design on his part.
On those occasions when they had even attended the same balls, Felicity and Lady Kirby had either been on their way out or had already left when he was just arriving. After all, rakes of a certain stature did not go out before eleven, and dowagers of a certain age did not stay up much past ten.
It had frustrated him sometimes that they were always missing each other, but it was probably just as well.
Of course, current circumstances had changed the situation. Felicity needed him now, and being needed was something Jason secretly craved. His life of pleasure and luxury left him starved for a chance to be of use and do something—anything—that really mattered.
Helping his darling girl had given him a much-needed mission. One he’d complete, whether she liked it or not.
Upon joining her, he introduced her and Mrs. Brown to their hosts and their daughter, Lady Simone. As greetings with welcomes and thanks for the last-minute invitation were exchanged, Jason noticed Mrs. Brown looking rather less than pleased to see him.
“Do take your seats, ladies,” the glamorous Countess of Pelletier said, relishing her role as the grand hostess of the evening. “They’ll be starting any moment now.”
“You see? You got here just in time,” Jason said fondly to Felicity as they drifted into the joined concert rooms side by side.
“I wasn’t sure we were going to make it at all,” Felicity confessed as they put just a little distance between the two of them and her chaperone.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. You look beautiful,” he added.
She laughed off the compliment, glancing around at all the brightly garbed ladies. “I feel like a lump of coal in the midst of a rainbow!”
“Well, at least you’re not the only lump of coal here. I wore black, too, so I could match you. See?”
She chuckled. “Maybe we’re just two diamonds in the rough.”
“Ah, me, no doubt. But you, my dear, are already very much a diamond.”
“Such charm! And directed at me, of all people! Are you feeling all right?” she asked pertly.
“Of course I am. I just don’t want you to feel out of place on account of your mourning attire. Lump of coal, indeed. It�
�s not the clothes that determine a woman’s beauty, anyway.”
“You would know.”
He ignored the jibe. “Besides, very soon, you are going to blossom like a flower into beautiful color again, and then you will outshine every woman here.”
She squinted up at him. “I really am going to call the physician if you keep saying things like that. Do you have a fever?”
“I’m just glad you came.” He gave her a rueful smile and offered her his arm.
She took it, her gaze intrigued. “So am I. The invitation arrived, just as you predicted.”
He smiled at her. “The Pelletiers are good friends of mine. They were dying to know why I wanted you here.”
“So am I, frankly.”
“What? To cheer you up in your mourning, of course. Why else?” he drawled. “Anyway, word has it there’s going to be a special guest for tonight’s grand finale,” he confided as he led her toward the orchestra, ignoring the stares as people watched him with Felicity, a young lady who, despite her beauty, had somehow managed to stay in the background of Society for the past few years.
As if she did not want to be noticed, hiding behind her eccentric dragon of an aunt.
As if some part of her was ashamed of herself. Or at least, did not trust herself.
And that was all his fault.
Oh yes, deep down, Jason knew how he had hurt her by rejecting her adorable, kittenish advance on him eight years ago. He’d had no choice. She was too young, too tempting, and at nineteen, he had been in no wise ready to take a wife, which was what the situation would have demanded.
Why, at that age, he hadn’t even known yet who he was, other than a randy young buck who wanted sex all the time, but good God, not from her!
Thankfully, he had discovered he at least had some semblance of morality that day, to his relief, and had walked away from what she had offered, turning his back on the girl that he knew worshiped him for some ungodly reason.
He had even told her brother what she had done, feigning mere concern about his little sister’s fast behavior. But in truth, he simply had not wanted her trying to tempt him again. He wasn’t that good.
Nevertheless, he ached to know how hard she had taken his rejection. No wonder all that anger had flashed out at him yesterday afternoon from under her smooth surface. She had reason.
At the moment, though, things were friendly between them, almost like the old days of childhood, before the little widgeon had decided that she wanted to marry him when she grew up. He had laughed at that when she was eight, scowled about it when she was twelve, and run like hell from it from the moment she had sat down on his lap.
“So who is this special musical guest supposed to be?” she was asking.
“They haven’t told us,” he replied. “It’s a surprise. Can I get you something to drink?”
She said she’d take a glass of white wine, while Mrs. Brown opted for a lemonade. Jason told the nearest footman and sent the fellow scurrying.
“How are you this evening, Mrs. Brown?” he asked politely.
“Humph,” was all the lady said, turning away to chat with an acquaintance.
Jason arched a brow at Felicity, then bent to murmur in her ear. “I take it she’s cross with me for coming over to see you yesterday?”
“No, she’s cross with me for not ordering the servants to wake her so she could sit with us. I got quite a tongue-lashing after she awoke.”
He winced. “Sorry I got you into trouble.”
“Nonsense. I assured her you were barely half an hour at the house, and besides, I’ve known you longer than I’ve known her. I did not argue with her, but I didn’t apologize, either. And why should I?” she whispered. “You came to help me. That is all. We did nothing wrong. Frankly, after talking to you, I realized maybe you were right.”
“About what?”
“Perhaps I’ve been the obedient companion long enough. I’ve done what they’ve told me. I’ve followed all the rules. But now, maybe it’s time I start taking hold of a little of my aunt’s independent spirit, since that was the whole point of her leaving me her fortune in the first place. Don’t you think?”
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said in amused approval.
“As dear Cousin Gerald pointed out, I’m not getting any younger. It’s not as though I’m a chit fresh out of the schoolroom anymore, like some of the debutantes here are, the sweet little things.” She glanced around at the sixteen- and seventeen-year-old girls clustered here and there, looking terrified, but if there were other females in the room, Jason had not seen them.
There was only her.
After a brief check with her chaperone, Felicity beckoned him closer. He leaned down breathlessly to catch her whisper in the noisy room and tried to hide his shiver of longing when her warm breath tickled his ear.
“Anyway, I have a sneaking suspicion that the real reason Mrs. Brown is annoyed is because she missed the chance to see my cousin Gerald.”
Startled out of his trance by this information, he straightened up with a roguish grin. “Really?”
Felicity nodded, her eyes dancing with wicked mirth. “She quite fancies him,” she mouthed, nodding at her chaperone’s back. “What we see as bluster, she views as strength. Decisiveness. She told me so once, and said Her Ladyship simply didn’t understand him.”
Jason laughed aloud, causing several folk to look at him strangely. “There’s your solution to the cousin problem, then.”
“Exactly. If Gerald hopes to avoid the sponging house, let him redirect his attentions to a lady who’d enjoy them, for I have no interest in the creature.”
“I see. And has any inspiration struck yet on what you might do with it in the interests of expanding this freedom your aunt intended you to enjoy?”
“Not yet. But I’m pondering the possibilities,” she said shrewdly.
As am I, Jason mused rather wickedly. Charmed by the sparkle in her eyes, he watched her take her wineglass from the footman, who had returned with the drinks he had requested.
Jason lifted the lemonade off the tray and offered it to Mrs. Brown with a penitent smile, but though she accepted it with a terse “Thank you,” she still eyed him with as much disapproval as any other matron in the room.
Ah, well.
“Cheers,” he said to Felicity as she lifted the wineglass to her rosy mouth.
Those lips…
“Cheers, Your Grace. To old friends,” she added meaningfully, and tapped her glass to his, holding his gaze as they each took a sip.
Her lips glistened, damp from the wine, and Jason flinched, forcing himself to look away. “Come,” he said, trying to emulate a breezy manner, “I saved you a seat. Best in the house.”
“You did? That was very thoughtful.”
“Unfortunately, I do not think it would be wise for me to sit with you, however.” He looked askance at her.
“Ah, I understand.” The grateful look she gave him said she was well aware that scandal tended to follow him. Though, honestly, it was never his intention.
He showed her to the seats he had reserved for her and Mrs. Brown in the front row. His gloves were on one chair and his hat on the other. He had chosen for himself one of the chairs on the side, where the U-shaped row curved around opposite the pianoforte. The players would be in profile from his vantage point and the sound would’ve been better in the middle, but what mattered to him was that he would have an unfettered view of Felicity.
Which was all he had really wanted.
Taking leave of the ladies, he went and sat down.
He quickly found that Azrael Chambers, the Duke of Rivenwood, had ended up beside him.
They were both members at the Grand Albion, which, in addition to the exclusive gentlemen’s club on the ground level, contained the famed Assembly Rooms on the piano nobile, as well as a few luxurious hotel suites on the top floor.
Though Rivenwood was not really a member of his set, they got on well enough and occasional
ly played cards. Still, Jason had to admit the highborn loner was endlessly mysterious. He seemed a haunted man, and struck Jason as, well, just a little damned strange.
At first, Jason had assumed they’d had the same idea—to watch the ladies rather than the concert—but then it occurred to him that, with Rivenwood, you just never knew what was going through that head of his. Rivenwood, the enigma, had a tendency to watch everyone and everything, but mostly kept his conclusions to himself.
Of course, he was pleasant enough, and rich as Croesus, but as for reputation, where Jason was called scandalous, Rivenwood was viewed as rather eerie. The rumors that surrounded his family were considerably darker than the merely adulterous tales of Jason’s own. Word had it he had seen his father murdered as a boy, but nobody in memory dared speak to him about it.
Rivenwood even looked mysterious, with his long, straight hair as pale as moonlight pulled back into a smooth queue. He was a tall, elegant man in his early thirties, with high cheekbones and strong, symmetrical features, but his intense eyes were the ice blue of a glacier.
What sort of father names his child Azrael, anyway? Jason wondered as he nodded to his acquaintance and took his seat. To be sure, the odd name fit.
Apparently, the previous Duke of Rivenwood had had some fixation with the occult secrets of antiquity and had thought it a fine idea to name his son after the archangel of death.
Poor beggar. And I thought my childhood was bad.
“Netherford,” his fellow duke said as Jason joined him.
“Rivenwood.” Jason flipped the tails of his coat aside as he sat down, then tugged his white silk waistcoat into place. “Evening.”
They sat in silence for a moment while the rest of the audience snatched up fresh drinks before settling into their chairs for the first hour of the recital.
“So who’s the young lady?” the archangel of death drawled under his breath.
Jason looked askance at him, briefly wondering about the reason for his interest as he met the man’s wary, pale blue eyes.
“That’s Felicity Carvel,” he conceded.
“Ah. The Kirby heiress I’ve been hearing so much about?”