Nevertheless, Angelina drowned in shame and humiliation. And gut-wrenching fury toward Charles. Actually, all men at the moment, the rotten hypocrites.
“Unfortunately, as you’ve learned, men in general cannot be trusted.” Mama’s voice developed a strident edge Angelina hadn’t heard before.
Yes, that she’d learned too well, bitter lesson though it was. God would judge Charles’s deception and harshly too, she prayed.
Judge not, that you be not judged and forgive others their trespasses.
Two of Papa’s favorite scriptures sprang to mind. Two principals her father broke on a daily basis.
Hypocrisy, again. Apparently, a common male trait.
Angelina firmed her lips lest she bend them into an unladylike sneer. Overflowing with pain, sorrow, and anger at her naiveté, her battered soul lacked room for forgiveness at present. Maybe ever.
Gads, she’d been a cork-brained ninny. Utterly trusting.
Where were the honorable males, the men of integrity? Did nothing more than charlatans and frauds populate the world? How did one know the difference?
Not by listening to pretty compliments or tender words. Or by allowing devilish smiles and faces too handsome for words beguile her.
Charles Moreau, Pierre Renault, whoever the fiend was, better hope he never encountered her again. He wouldn’t find a gullible moon-eyed miss next time. Narrowing her eyes and resolutely squaring her shoulders, Angelina made a rule.
Never again trust a man or allow emotions to make me a victim.
Chapter 3
London, England
Early May 1818
Champagne flute in hand, Flynn, Earl of Luxmoore, scanned Lord and Lady Wimpleton’s overflowing ballroom.
Where was she?
Dozens of bejeweled and elegantly gowned ladies swirled by, but none were the charming damsel he sought. He’d met the delectable Miss Lydia Farnsworth three weeks ago and had made a point to appear at every function she was rumored to attend from that evening onward.
Avoiding the eager hawk-like gazes of plotting mamas and the hungry expressions of their husband-hunting daughters, he sent a questioning look to the Duke of Harcourt lounging against the ballroom’s entrance.
Sporting a cocky grin, Harcourt shrugged and raised his champagne flute mockingly.
Blast the man.
He’d sworn his Scottish cousin would be in attendance tonight. Should Flynn make his excuses and try to find Miss Farnsworth at another gathering? Which one? He’d received at least a dozen haut ton invitations for this evening.
Flynn feared he’d fast become a besotted fool. He took a swallow of champagne and grinned. He rather liked the idea. In fact, he intended to call on Harcourt tomorrow and state his intentions regarding Miss Farnsworth.
How long should he wait to propose to the refreshingly intelligent and witty young lady? Confident she returned his admiration and would accept his offer, he wouldn’t delay. He’d propose to Lydia tomorrow, after he’d spoken to Harcourt. Yes, when next he ventured into the social fray, he would be betrothed.
A delightful laugh echoed behind him.
Turning slowly—it wouldn’t do to appear too eager—he spied the raven-haired beauty in a stunning pink and white gown. As usual, a bevy of calf-eyed beaus surrounded her. Little did they know by this time tomorrow, she’d be unavailable to the drooling milksops.
He took a leisurely sip of champagne, trying to decide on the best strategy to steal Miss Farnsworth away for the next waltz. And the supper dance, of course. Perhaps she’d agree to stroll the gardens with him, and he’d finally sample her sweet lips.
In his mind, he’d already claimed her as his countess.
Catching his appraisal, she sent him a dazzling smile, mischief sparkling in her hazel eyes. Murmuring something to the smitten swains, who frowned and glowered at Flynn, she glided toward him.
Oh, yes. She would accept his offer. Of that he’d no doubt. Allowing himself a smile of triumph, he handed his half-full glass to a passing servant.
“My lord.” Miss Farnsworth’s lilting voice vaguely hinted of her Scottish heritage. She dipped into a deep curtsey, giving him a most delectable glimpse of her generous bosom.
Flynn indulged in an unhurried perusal before bending over her gloved hand. He boldly skimmed the material with his lips. Her perfume teased his nose. Fresh, light, seductive. The roses entwined amongst her glossy curls were the exact shade of pink as her lips.
“Miss Farnsworth, finding you in attendance this evening is such a lovely, yet most welcome, surprise.”
A loud snort announced Harcourt’s presence. “Wholly unexpected surprise, I’m sure.”
“Forgive me, dear cuz.” He’d sidled near Flynn, and bowed to his cousin. “Luxmoore, boor that he is, pestered me incessantly at White’s today until I told him where you’d be tonight.”
Her lips curved, and she blushed prettily.
“Is that the truth of it, my lord?” A hint of flirtation laced her question.
Harcourt veered his attention to the trio approaching on his right. “Ah, Sethwick and Faulkenhurst, you were at White’s with Yancy. Wasn’t Luxmoore making a nuisance of himself? Didn’t he leave the moment I divulged my cousin’s intentions for the evening?”
“Lord and Lady Sethwick, Mr. Faulkenhurst, it’s wonderful to see you again.” Miss Farnsworth executed another graceful curtsy.
“Miss Farnsworth.” Yvette, Viscountess Sethwick, smiled at Lydia before leveling Flynn with a knowing look. Lady Sethwick’s sapphire eyes twinkled, and her lips twitched with suppressed mirth.
“Indeed, he seemed determined to know your whereabouts tonight.” Chancey Faulkenhurst half-bowed, keeping his left hand partially tucked inside his coat. Recently returned from India, he’d lost two fingers and the partial use of his arm in the Third Anglo-Maratha War.
Sethwick winked conspiratorially at Harcourt.
“It’s true. Luxmoore was most persistent, and he did beat a hasty retreat. As a matter of fact,” Sethwick shifted toward Flynn, “you left before your father arrived. As I climbed into my curricle, I glimpsed the marquis stepping from his carriage. Were you aware he was in London?”
At the mention of his father, a stab of unease gripped Flynn. Nevertheless, he chuckled good-naturedly, not at all abashed by their teasing. Despite their needling, Sethwick and Harcourt, two of his closest cohorts, had expressed their pleasure at his interest in Miss Farnsworth.
“Guilty, as accused. I simply had to know whose home the fair Miss Farnsworth would grace this evening. And I’m delighted Father is in Town, though I didn’t know of his arrival until now.”
What business had Father in London? Had Mother traveled with him? Why hadn’t he sought Flynn upon his arrival?
Perhaps he had. Flynn had given his butler leave to visit his ailing, elderly mother. No doubt an inexperienced footman or parlor maid answered the door when Father called and forgot to inform Flynn upon his return to the house this afternoon.
He glanced at Miss Farnsworth to find her staring at him raptly. He smiled and let his gaze linger on her lips a trifle longer than acceptable.
A charming flush once again pinkened her cheeks.
Still, Father’s visit to White’s disconcerted him. His father had sworn off drinking, gambling, and the London Season seventeen years ago—after the accident that crippled Francesca, Flynn’s younger sister. The marquis hadn’t ventured to Town in as long either. Although a good distance from London, he and Mother lived contentedly at Lambridge Manse.
The Duke of Waterford owned a country estate adjacent to Lambridge. To Flynn’s knowledge, His Grace never called upon Mother or Father. Not since the accident, in any event. The last Flynn had heard, Waterford contemplated selling Wingfield Court. He might have done so by now
.
Worry niggled, but Flynn quashed it. Nothing could be done tonight. He’d call on Father tomorrow, and if Mother was in London, ask her to host an intimate dinner party.
This presented the perfect opportunity to introduce Miss Farnsworth. With scant few weeks left in the Season, he’d best move quickly if he wanted a wedding date set before she returned to Scotland. If he had his way, she’d not be returning at all, except to visit. Instead, they’d be enjoying an extended honeymoon on the continent.
Perhaps fate orchestrated Father’s return to London on the cusp of Flynn deciding Miss Farnsworth would make an exquisite countess.
He turned his attention to the delectable woman before him. “I’d be honored to introduce you to my parents.”
“I’d wager you would.” Harcourt waggled his eyebrows and boldly elbowed Faulkenhurst in the ribs.
Blushing enchantingly, Miss Farnsworth gave Flynn another, somewhat shyer smile. “It is I who would be honored, my lord.”
“Gentlemen, for shame.” Lady Sethwick waved her closed fan at them. “The poor dear’s coloring under your infantile banter.”
The Viscountess linked her elbow with Miss Farnsworth’s and led her away. “Were you aware Flynn and my husband are distant cousins?”
“No, Lord Luxmoore hasn’t mentioned it.” Miss Farnsworth swept a sideways glance toward Flynn. “Does he have Scots blood in his veins too?”
If the sparkle in her eyes was any indication, the notion delighted her.
“Yes, I believe the connection is on his mother’s side.” Lady Sethwick gave her husband a warm, promise-filled smile.
“I’m quite parched. Let’s make our way to those chairs along the wall.” The viscountess motioned at the row of chairs neatly lined against a jonquil papered wall. “I’m sure we can persuade one of the gentlemen to signal a footman for us. Some ratafia would be just the thing, don’t you think?”
“Hold there, Lady Sethwick.” Flynn disregarded Harcourt’s quirked brow and Sethwick’s knowing grin. “I intended to ask Miss Farnsworth for the next waltz.”
“Oh, and he must,” Miss Farnsworth blurted. Nibbling her lower lip, she slanted a nervous glance round the room.
“I’ve been rather ill-behaved, I’m ashamed to admit.”
She gestured at the young bloods clustered like disgruntled Bantam roosters where she’d left them. Holding her open fan before her face, she whispered, “I made my excuses to the other gentlemen, telling them Lord Luxmoore had claimed my hand for the next dance. A complete taradiddle, I confess, but if he doesn’t dance with me, my reputation . . .”
“We cannot have the lady’s reputation tainted, can we?” Flynn advanced and deftly placed Miss Farnsworth’s dainty hand on his arm. “A true gentleman would never permit such a thing to occur. He does everything within his power to preserve her good standing.”
He winked at her before issuing Harcourt a mocking challenge. “Does he not, Your Grace?”
“Indeed,” Harcourt drawled. His eyes crinkled with humor. “Doing it up brown, isn’t he, Falcon?”
Faulkenhurst chuckled and adjusted his wounded arm. “Thick enough to shovel, I’d say.”
Flynn smiled at Miss Farnsworth, noting the green flecks in her irises and her softly parted lips, begging for his kiss.
“There’s nothing for it. Honor demands it. We simply must share this dance, Miss Farnsworth.”
The first violin strains announced the start of the waltz, and the dance floor filled with elegantly clad couples. He escorted Miss Farnsworth to the center and grasped her hand, placing his other palm on her slender waist.
Her head scarcely reached his shoulder.
What a petite darling.
“That was forward of me, wasn’t it?” She smiled at him, a trifle anxious. Her troubled gaze dipped to his neckcloth. A faint hint of pink grazed her ivory cheeks. “And terribly rude, as well.”
She did color rather a lot. No doubt due to her youth and inexperience. How old was she? He would ask Harcourt tomorrow, not that Flynn considered himself too advanced for her. He hadn’t yet seen his eight and twentieth birthday.
Miss Farnsworth timidly met his eyes once more. “I don’t know what possessed me.”
She peered around the ballroom, as if expecting a vexed matron to swoop down upon her at any moment.
Flynn bent his head near her ear. Her perfume flooded his senses. He breathed in her essence, whispering, “I won’t tell, if you don’t.”
She trembled and missed a step.
Ignoring propriety, he dared to draw her the minutest degree closer. She didn’t protest. The music ended, and he reluctantly turned her toward the chairs edging one side of the ballroom.
Flynn came to a sudden stop.
A grim-faced Yancy, the Earl of Ramsbury, strode purposefully across the sanded floor, headed in Flynn’s direction. Sethwick, Faulkenhurst, and Harcourt, equally severe expressions on their faces, accompanied him.
A concert of curious gazes, accompanied by murmurs and whispers behind fans, followed the quartet approaching him. This didn’t bode well.
Lady Sethwick whooshed in from behind him. Tears shimmering in her eyes, she hustled Miss Farnsworth from his side. “Come, my dear. Lord Luxmoore needs a moment.”
Forehead furrowed, Miss Farnsworth peeked over her shoulder.
Flynn curved his mouth reassuringly.
She half-smiled, angling her head to listen to something Lady Sethwick murmured as the viscountess guided her away by the elbow.
“Luxmoore, I need to speak with you.” Tension grated in Yancy’s hoarse voice. “Wimpleton has made his study available if you’d be so good as to accompany us.”
Flynn searched his friends’ strained faces. An alarm ticked along his nerves. His gut wrenched sickeningly. He inclined his head and marched toward the ballroom’s open doors.
Premonition, reminiscent of the day Franny had been crippled, engulfed him.
Flynn stared at the crackling fire blazing in Wimpleton’s study.
How had he come to be here?
His mind was a muddled mess. Thoughts spiraled round and round, bouncing off his skull. His head throbbed. He rubbed his forehead, trying to curb the pounding in order to gather a coherent thought.
Father is dead.
Sethwick sank into the chair beside Flynn’s. The viscount stretched his legs before him and raised a half-full glass to his mouth. The flames reflected off the crystal, covering Sethwick’s fingers with miniature rainbows.
“Brandy or something stiffer, Luxmoore?” Yancy waited beside the liquor cabinet, holding a glass in one hand and a carafe of umber-colored liquid in the other.
Harcourt, like Sethwick, already nursed a drink. He stood to one side of the marble mantel staring morosely at the dancing flames. Every now and again, he shot Flynn a worried glance.
Faulkenhurst sat in the shadows near an overflowing bookcase beside the fireplace. Brimming with concern, his dark gaze never left Flynn. “Luxmoore, a dram might do you good.”
A dram? Hardly.
Flynn wanted an entire damn bottle, perhaps two, of hardy, aged Scots whisky. He’d drink himself into oblivion and stop imagining his father’s final moments.
The last time Flynn had seen him, Father had, once again, teased him good-naturedly about grandchildren.
“I’m not getting younger, my boy.” He had laughed and slapped Flynn on the shoulder. “I’d like to live long enough to take my grandsons hunting and fishing and spoil my granddaughters with baubles and trinkets.”
Yes, Flynn wanted a bloody stiff drink. Instead, he shook his head. “No, not now.”
Not later, either.
He needed a clear mind. Attempting to absorb the shocking news imparted moments before had befuddled
him enough.
Drink was something he refused to use as an escape. Too many years of watching his sire and grandfather take that course effectively squelched any tendencies Flynn might have had to engage in overindulgence. When he did imbibe in anything stronger than ale, he limited himself to one glass.
No exceptions.
For the past three generations, the Marquis of Bretheridge had held the inglorious moniker of a sot. That notoriety ended with him.
Yancy replaced the tumbler, but brought the carafe to the sofa situated opposite the leather wingback chairs Flynn and Sethwick occupied. Placing the bottle on the table between the men, the earl eased onto the couch. The leather creaked in soft protest as Yancy crossed his legs and slung one arm atop the sofa’s low back.
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 3