The Heart of a Scoundrel

by Christi Caldwell

  As the daughter to one of the society’s most reprehensible letches, Phoebe really should crave that tedium. And yet…eying the twirling waltzers, she perched on the edge of the seat hungering for more.

  Ignoring her friends’ prattling, Phoebe’s gaze snagged upon one couple. A tall gentleman angled the lady in his arms closer and whispered something into her ear that brought a blush to the young woman’s cheeks. Phoebe’s heart doubled its beat. A wistful sigh escaped her. To be the recipient of that—

  Honoria stuck her hand out and waved it before Phoebe’s eyes, startling her into a soft gasp. “Hullo? Are you listening?” she asked with the same exasperation as a governess dealing with a recalcitrant charge.

  Phoebe stole a final peak at the lord and lady and returned her attention to her far more predictable, far less exciting life. “Er, no I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”

  “Phoebe,” Gillian wagged a finger. “You shan’t capture a single gentleman’s interest if you’re forever woolgathering.”

  She frowned. “I’m not forever woolgathering,” she said a touch defensively. Simultaneously, her friends arched a single eyebrow. She sighed. “Well, perhaps a bit,” she conceded. “About the waltz.” And being the recipient of such a gentleman’s devotion.

  Gillian gave her a smile of agreement. “I find it romantic, as well.” A twinkle lit her eyes. “Particularly if one has the right gentleman to—oomph,” she grunted as Honoria buried her elbow into her side. “There is nothing romantic about a waltz,” Honoria scolded. “It is only an opportunity for notorious scoundrels to place their hands—” Honoria continued over Gillian’s shocked gasp, “on a lady’s person. Cads all of them.” She jerked her chin. “Especially that one.”

  They followed her stare to Lord Allswood who brazenly eyed Phoebe, even over the head of his golden dance partner.

  Phoebe swallowed a groan. “Oh, blast.” Gillian patted her hand. “It is because you are so lovely.”

  “It is because he is so loathsome,” she muttered. She shifted in her seat, presenting the scoundrel with her shoulder. “My father likely owes him a debt.” After all, her father owed most gentlemen, and some not so gentlemanly men, one form of debt or another. The vile wastrel.

  “I daresay you require something such as Honoria’s hideous shawl to detract from your beauty.”

  Honoria touched the edges of the fabric. “I like this particular piece,” she said, defending the garment. She bristled with indignation. “Furthermore, we all conceal our…” she colored. “Er, attributes.”

  Phoebe reached over and gave the piece a bold tug. “Well, I, for one, think it is a silly habit for a young lady to fall into. Such protective garments should only be donned by aging ladies or ladies desperate to avoid attention.” She stuck her finger up. “Nor should a lady hide who she truly is.”

  Honoria pursed her lips. “I, for one, do not care for a gentleman who’d be so captivated by…by…” Her cheeks reddened.

  “Your charms,” Gillian supplied, her gaze still surveying the crowd.

  Though, it would be scandalous for any of them to say as much, they all knew what Gillian implied—Phoebe, too, needed to conceal her large bosom. Frustration ran through her at a world where women were seen for the connections they could make and their physical attributes and not the power of their minds or the beauty of their soul.

  A beleaguered sigh escaped Gillian. “Even honorable gentlemen are interested in…in…” She motioned to Phoebe. “That,” she substituted for which Phoebe was immensely grateful. It would hardly benefit any of their reputations to be discussing their…charms in the midst of Lady Delenworth’s crowded ballroom.

  “Regardless,” Honoria pursed her lips. “Well, we shall not allow him to approach you.”

  Phoebe stole a sideways peek at the still leering lord. He was nothing if not persistent in his intentions, intentions that were anything but proper.

  “No, you deserve an honorable and good gentleman,” Gillian said with a loyalty that pulled at Phoebe’s heart.

  An inelegant snort burst from Honoria. “There is no such thing.”

  She gave silent thanks when the strands of the waltz drew to a finish and the couples upon the dance floor glided back to their respective places in a flurry of satin skirts and brightly colored breeches. Phoebe worried the flesh of her lower lip. The tediousness of this whole husband-hunting thing was well and truly grating. She didn’t doubt she must make a match. It was inevitable. After all, there were few options for an unwed lady and one of scandalous origins, no less. Still, she held to firm ideals in the gentleman who would ultimately become her husband. Honorable. Respectable. Good-hearted. In short, a man nothing like her father.

  She studied the fashionable noblemen escorting their ladies out to the dance floor for the next set. The orchestra struck up a lively country reel and the couples whirred past in an explosion of vibrant satin skirts. Surely, there was a decent, honorable fellow among the lot. She cast a sideways glance down the row at her friends. Or rather, three. They required three gentlemen, more specifically. “Not all gentlemen are rogues,” Phoebe felt inclined to point out.

  Honoria let out a beleaguered sigh. “You are a hopeless romantic, Phoebe.”

  She frowned, not caring to be painted with their black and white brush. “Perhaps I am romantic,” she said, tilting her chin back. “But I’ll not judge everyone and anyone because of several dissolute men.” At her careless words, she bit the inside of her cheek.

  A pall of silence descended over their trio. Gillian, with her pale blonde hair and piercing green eyes was by far the most striking of the friends, and yet a scandal involving her sister jilted at the altar by a “rogue” had marked her as less than marriageable material. They took care not to speak of the scandal in her past—unless Gillian herself cared to discuss it. Which invariably, she did not.

  The country reel came to a rousing finish met by an explosion of applause.

  “Which dance is next?” Gillian arched her neck, in an attempt to see the orchestra as though in doing so she might find the answer to her question.

  “Consult your card,” Honoria said on a sigh. “Never mind,” she added and scanned her empty card. “A quadrille.”

  A gentleman, one of the roguish sorts with unfashionably long locks and a lascivious glint in his eyes, started toward Gillian.

  The three women fixed matching glares on him and sent him scurrying away.

  “He’d approach you without even a formal introduction.” Honoria jerked her chin toward the fast-fleeing rogue. “I told you. Nigh impossible to find the honorable gentleman you speak of.”

  Phoebe certainly hoped her friend was wrong in this regard, and she’d wager, if she were the wagering sort, which she assuredly was not, that both Honoria and Gillian hoped she was wrong, too. Gillian did not rise to Honoria’s baiting. “I know such a man exists.” Her eyes grew distant, hinting at secrets there. Widening her eyes, Phoebe stared at her friend. By the saints in heaven, some gentleman had captured Gillian’s attention? A blush stained the other lady’s cheeks and she rushed to speak. “Have you found such a gentleman?” Hope filled her almost lyrical words. From her pale whitish-blonde hair to the soft clarity of her voice, there was an almost otherworldly quality to the woman.

  Phoebe warmed under their scrutiny. “No, I hope to.” A gentleman who’d encourage her love of travel and welcome a lady who’d see the world beyond the dark, gray confines of their superficial London world.

  A wave of restlessness stirred in her and she fiddled with her ruffled ivory satin skirts. She surveyed the room once more and a shiver of distaste ran along the column of her spine. Lord Allswood, with his latest dance partner, continued to eye her with that lascivious gleam in his bloodshot eyes. Likely from too much drink. Gillian groaned and, for a moment, Phoebe believed her friend had noted horrid Lord Allswood’s unwanted attention. Then she looked out at the crowd.

  Gillian’s plump mother, the Marchioness of Ells
worth, marched through the ballroom with fleshy cheeks and a determined purpose in her stride. She had her fingers wrapped about the forearm of a reed thin, too-tall dandy in pink satin knee breeches.

  “Knee breeches, for the love of God and all the saints in heaven,” Gillian complained, mouthing a prayer to the heavens. “What gentleman wears knee breeches?”

  “Pink knee breeches, no less,” Honoria pointed out unhelpfully.

  Phoebe jabbed her in the side with her elbow. “Ouch.” The other lady winced. “I was merely pointing out…” Her words trailed off as the Marchioness of Ellsworth stopped before them. She peered down her broad nose at the ladies her daughter had marked as friends, in clear disapproval. Then with a dismissive once over, turned to her daughter. “Gillian, please allow me to introduce you to Lord Appleby Hargrove.”

  At the prolonged awkward pall of silence, Phoebe discreetly nudged the suddenly laconic lady with her knee.

  Gillian sprung to her feet with a pink blush. “My lord,” she murmured, dropping a curtsy.

  He tugged at the lapels of his mauve coat. “Lady Gillian,” he said in a nasal tone that caused all three young ladies to wince. The gentleman’s valet who’d let him go out with pink breeches and a mauve coat should be sacked first thing, Phoebe thought dryly. “A pleasure,” he said, his gaze lingering overly on Gillian’s generous hips as though she were a broodmare he was sizing up. Phoebe’s fingers twitched involuntary with a need to plant a facer in the letch’s face. Surely, the marchioness recognized even with the scandal in their family’s past, Gillian deserved a good deal better than a suitor more interested in her friend’s generous endowments?

  The marchioness reluctantly looked to her daughter’s companions. Phoebe wasn’t certain if the lady’s disapproval stemmed from their scandalous pasts or their status as mere misses. “Lord Hargrove, may I also present to you Miss Phoebe Barrett and Miss Henrietta—?”

  “Honoria,” her daughter corrected.

  “—Fairfax,” she went on as though Gillian hadn’t spoken.

  The young gentleman flicked his gaze disinterestedly over Honoria’s trim frame and ivory skirts. “Charmed.”

  “Undoubtedly,” she muttered under her breath.

  Pride swelled in Phoebe’s breast at her friend’s unerring pride in the face of the rude young nobleman.

  Next, Lord Hargrove passed his blue-eyed stare over Phoebe. His gaze fell to her décolletage, his eyes lingering overly long on her too-generous bosom. When he looked at her, a glint of lust reflected in the depths of his eyes. She shivered, willing to trade her left hand in this moment for her friend’s cashmere shawl.

  “I was mentioning how very graceful you are, Gillian,” the marchioness said sharply. By the hard glint in her eyes as she alternated her gaze between Phoebe and Lord Hargrove, she’d detected the dishonorable gentleman’s interest in a woman other than her daughter. “His Lordship has asked that I coordinate an introduction so he might ask you to dance.”

  With seeming reluctance, he returned his attention to the by far loveliest of the scandalous trio. “My lady, will you do me the honor of partnering me in the next set.”

  A desperate glint lit the young lady’s eyes, but then her mother fixed a black glare on her and Gillian spoke on a rush. “It would be a pleasure, my lord.” He held his arm out. Gillian hesitated a moment and then with the same enthusiasm as Marie Antoinette being marched to the guillotine, she placed her fingertips upon his satin coat sleeve and allowed him to escort her off.

  The marchioness stared after the departing couple and then without a backward glance for her daughter’s wayward friends, turned on a huff, and beat a hasty retreat.

  “A lovely lady,” Honoria said. “Why, I give thanks every day that it is just my aunt, so I do not have to contend with an overbearing mama and her scheming ways.” She gave a mock shudder. “A mother who would turn her daughter over to such a dandified fop, a shame, indeed.”

  Phoebe opened her mouth to agree just as her gaze collided with Lord Allswood. She bit back a curse.

  “What is it?”

  She ignored her friend’s quietly spoken question. The determined gentleman moved through the crowd with a singular purpose in his step. Phoebe hopped to her feet. Honoria looked up at her and then followed her attention across the ballroom. She immediately rose in a flurry of white skirts. Having made too many hasty escapes from the determined Lord Allswood, they immediately sought refuge behind the towering Doric column, and proceeded to skirt the edge of the crowded ballroom. Their ivory and white skirts pressed together, they made their way to the back of the ballroom and slipped past the crimson red drapes, into an alcove.

  The ladies shared a conspiratorial smile. “I wish we could stay in here forever,” Phoebe whispered. Or at the very least until Lord Allswood took himself off to the card tables set up in Lady Delenworth’s back room. “Why does he persist?”

  “Because you’re perfectly lovely and clever.”

  She snorted. A cad such as Lord Allswood would hardly care whether she was as empty between the ears as a plaster wall. He was, if nothing else, tenacious.

  “We cannot remain here all night.”

  No, no they couldn’t.

  A spark glinted in Honoria’s eyes and then she fiddled with her haircombs while chewing her lower lip in deep concentration.

  Phoebe furrowed her brow. “What are you—?”

  “Aha,” she said, with a pleased smile as she managed to untangle the haircombs from her dark tresses. She stuck them between her teeth and spun Phoebe around.

  “What—?” She winced as with her hasty efforts, Honoria tugged too hard at her hair. She gave one more tug and tears sprung to Phoebe’s eyes.

  Engrossed, Honoria tossed the butterfly combs onto the small, velvet chair where they landed with a soft thump. She took the rose, diamond-encrusted combs worth more than any and every bauble shared by Phoebe and her younger sister, Justina, combined and tucked one into Phoebe’s brown hair. “Gentlemen do not look carefully enough,” she carefully arranged the other diamond-encrusted comb. “They see white skirts and certain garments.” She removed her ivory cashmere shawl and draped it over Phoebe’s shoulders, and then guided her around. “Such as my shawl, and then don’t see beyond that.”

  Phoebe widened her eyes as her friend’s efforts made sense. Honoria thought to deter Lord Allswood’s efforts. She made a sound of protest. “I cannot take this from you,” she said, shrugging the delicate slip of fabric from her shoulders. As long as she’d known the other woman, this scrap of cashmere had been the dearest item in her friend’s possession. She was never without the garment.

  “You’re wearing it incorrectly,” Honoria scolded, ignoring Phoebe’s concerns. She carefully arranged it just below Phoebe’s shoulders. “And yes, you can. Come. I imagine he’s since gone and now you may move freely.” They slipped outside the curtained alcove and startled gasps escaped them.

  “Father,” Phoebe murmured, dropping a hasty curtsy. Her friend followed suit.

  He ignored their polite greeting, his frown deepened as he looked between them. “There you are, gel,” he said at last. “Been looking for you,” he snapped.

  Having learned long ago to not rile him, as he was always unpredictable in his temperaments, she calmly said, “I’d torn my hem and it required repairing.” The lie came effortlessly.

  He ignored her words, turning to Honoria. “Miss Fairfax,” he said.

  “My lord,” she returned.

  Wordlessly his beady blue eyes went to her décolletage and Phoebe fisted her hands at her side, knowing there was supposed to be a sin in putting one’s hands upon one’s father, but, by God, she wanted to bloody his bulbous nose for the way he leered at Honoria. Guilt at having commandeered the other woman’s shawl filled her.

  Sorry, she mouthed as regret and mortified embarrassment lapped at her conscience.

  Except, when the viscount picked up his gaze there was a detached coolness there. “Come a
long,” he commanded and wrapped his fingers about Phoebe’s wrist, all but dragging her away. “There is someone I wish for you to meet.”

  She cast a longing glance back at her friend who stood staring commiseratively after her, and then returned her attention forward to where Lord Allswood waited, a triumphant grin on his hard lips.

  “…Lord Allswood…”

  Phoebe groaned. “No.” She dug her heels in, either forcing him to stop or drag her to the floor.

  He stopped and scowled at her.

  “I require a moment of air,” she said quickly, her mind turning entirely too slowly.

  Her traitorous father scratched his bald, sweating pate. “Air?” he said it as though she sought the king’s crown.

  Nonetheless, she nodded once. “Air. The heat of the ballroom is too much,” she finished lamely.

  Before he could issue protest, she spun swiftly on her heel in a flurry of whispery skirts and all but sprinted away from her father, away from Lord Allswood and away from the ballroom—in desperate search of peace.

  Chapter 3

  Edmund passed a cynical gaze over the tedious activity of the crowded ballroom. Foppish swains converged upon the Diamonds of the First Water. Couples twirled in a kaleidoscope of colorful satins. The tinkling of giggling ladies grated. He’d quite studiously avoided such infernal crushes. Not for the reason of avoiding the marriage trap. Even the simpering ladies knew better than to seek his favor. He belonged less in this polite world than the devil did in that fabled heaven.

  The rare appearances he made were never without purpose and certainly not without reason. This night was no exception. He skimmed a hard stare over the lords and ladies present. White gown upon white gown created an almost cloud-like effect of debutantes. The unfortunate lady he’d selected as the lead player in his scheme was no exception. He eyed the dark-haired young woman with her nondescript features, brown eyes, white gown, and that silly shawl. Though in fairness to that otherwise useless scrap of fabric, tonight it had served its purpose. So, this was Miss Honoria Fairfax, Margaret’s niece, and also the young woman he’d wed.