Cocky Baron: Regency Cocky Gents (Book 2)

by Annabelle Anders

  She tapped her right toe three times, and then her left, and then tapped each of her fingers to her thumb, counting out words. L-a-c-k-i-n-g. Seven letters. I-n-v-i-s-i-b-l-e. Nine.

  No, it was something about her actual person—her essence. It was as though she repelled them.

  “May I ask you a hypothetical question?” Delia broke the long silence that had fallen between them.

  “Those are the very best kinds,” Bethany responded, happy that Delia hadn’t commented on her dismal attempt at flirtation. “Because there is no wrong answer.”

  “Let’s say you know a young lady… hypothetically, of course.”

  Bethany lifted her gaze to Delia’s. “Of course.”

  “Imagine that this young lady has become rather desperate to marry a wealthy gentleman, due to an unfortunate turn of her family’s financial circumstances.”

  “I know we’re being hypothetical and all, but, Delia, you are describing half the ladies in the ton.”

  “Oh, but this particular young lady is exceedingly desperate.” She lowered her voice. “Her dowry has been squandered away but no one must know!”

  Again, nearly half the ladies on the marriage mart. Bethany raised her brows. “Hypothetically.”

  “Well, yes,” Delia agreed. “And in her desperation, this young lady has decided—hypothetically, of course—to trap a certain gentleman.” Delia’s brown eyes clouded in concern. She was obviously very troubled for whoever this hypothetical young woman might be.

  “She is not you,” Bethany stated.

  “Oh, no!”

  Bethany tapped the fan against her lips. Trapping bachelors into marriage, unfortunately, was not uncommon. And while it was frowned upon by most, a few applauded those who succeeded.

  Silently, of course, all the while publicly tsking and bemoaning that a young woman would lower herself to such a drastic course of action.

  “I suppose,” Bethany considered the dilemma carefully, “it depends on the details. Is she trapping him because he’s taken advantage of her already? That would make it somewhat justifiable, although why she would wish to be tied to such a blackguard is beyond me.” As the younger sister to a, until recently, highly sought-after and marriageable earl, Bethany had long ago formed a strong opinion on this unseemly practice. “I can’t abide by the notion otherwise.”

  Delia moaned. “What if he is a rake but also a charming and kindhearted one?”

  The description fit Chase rather aptly. “I would not wish to have marriage thrust upon me, just as I’ve no doubt you wouldn’t want it thrust upon you. Don’t we all deserve the opportunity to make such a life-altering choice independent of societal expectations?” Bethany knew this was a romantic ideal but she believed in it just the same.

  “I agree with you. It’s partly why I’m vexed with her.”

  “We are not speaking hypothetically, are we?”

  “No. But… She refuses to listen to me.”

  Bethany inhaled. The hypothetical young lady undoubtedly was Delia’s older sister, Miss Rachel Sommerville. Rachel had exhibited such manipulative and conniving tendencies on multiple occasions since she and Bethany had become acquainted.

  Bethany had not been aware, however, of the loss of her dowry. Rachel might as well have lost her reputation than something so critical to reeling in a husband. Bethany almost felt sorry for her.

  But not if she was preying on Chase!

  “How is she planning to accomplish this?” Bethany asked. “And who is her victim?”

  Another moan. “I told her it was a despicable thing to do to any man. It doesn’t matter that he’s wealthy and titled and so very good looking. Father’s debts are no excuse for her to trap him.”

  Bethany felt like something large was pressing down on her chest. Chase was very wealthy, and titled, and so, oh so very good looking and kindhearted. “Who, Delia? Who is she planning to trap?”

  “Why, Lord Chaswick, of course.”

  Chapter 2

  A Vice

  “If you hate these affairs so much, why do you bother?” Stone asked, reviving the resentment Chase had managed to numb with drink.

  Chase threw his ante into the pot and stared at his cards. He must truly be dead inside, because the sight of three queens and two aces did nothing to excite him.

  “My mother.”

  Two words. Two very simple words, and yet, they explained so much. His frail, delicate mother didn’t ask much of him, nor of anyone for that matter. Attending a few ton affairs at her request was the least he could do. Not that she attended with him, but so that he might regale her with anything interesting that failed to make it into the papers.

  “I’ll raise you.” Lord Manningham-Tissinton, or Mantis, a giant of a man, scowled as he tossed in two more coins.

  “Who pissed in your whisky?” Chase taunted, but Mantis only answered with a growl. Even before the viscount had gotten the right side of his face slashed, he’d been the least expressive of their bunch.

  “I fold.” Stone turned to the Marquess of Greystone. “I take it Blackheart is proving to be capable in his new… position?”

  Chase shook his head. The Duke of Blackheart, having lost a meaningless wager earlier that year now had to act the part of Greystone’s butler, performing all requisite duties, until the Season was over. If Blackheart failed to complete the terms, the wager mandated that Blackheart be compelled to marry a woman of Greystone’s choice.

  Chase would hate to see that happen.

  A number of other wagers, of course, had sprouted up out of the scenario. One of which had Chase watching closely for Blackheart to show he was weakening. If Blackheart failed, Chase would find himself in a most embarrassing situation come June.

  He, Stone and Mantis had wagered with Greys and Westerley that Blackheart would succeed. The losers would be compelled to make a mad dash through the park wearing nothing but their dignity.

  One side of Greys’ lips twitched. “Unfortunately, he’s currently managing my entire staff like he was born to it.” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Keep quiet about it, though. If any of us blow his cover, I’ll have to forfeit. What would be the fun in that?”

  “What do you take us for, Greys? A bunch of gossiping old hens?” Stone growled.

  “Touchy, aren’t we tonight?” Greys murmured. “And I’m in, Chaswick. What have you got?”

  Chase displayed his cards face up.

  “Impressive,” Mantis observed. “But not impressive enough.” Braggart had four tens.

  “I’ll make a generous donation to the foundling home on behalf of both of you,” Greys smirked and then laid his cards down one by one. Clubs—a two, three, four, five, and six.

  “I hate it when you win.” Chase lifted his glass and downed what remained of his drink with a grimace. He’d become spoiled by the magnificent whiskey Westerley had provided them at his mother’s house party a few weeks before. “At least Westerley has the bollocks to give us a chance to win back our losses.”

  “Had,” Stone intervened. “Now that he’s taken a wife, I foresee him spending future winnings on her. That distillery he’s having built is no doubt costing a pretty penny.”

  “A whiskey making countess.” Mantis actually grinned as the four of them contemplated the brilliant luck Westerley had in landing a wife whose hobby was making scotch whiskey. “I’ll drink to that.” He lifted his glass.

  “When is he returning, anyway?” Perhaps Stone would know, seeing as he had promised to look after the younger sister.

  “When they were ready. And that’s a direct quote. It’s a honeymoon, after all.”

  “Nice for him.” On the rare opportunities Chase could get away from London, he never quite escaped the pull of his own never-ending responsibilities. The image of three pairs of girlish eyes, very similar to his own, nagged his conscience most persistently.

  The mere possibility of adding another woman into the mix had him wanting to loosen his cravat. He
grimaced instead and lifted his glass for another pour.

  It was only the first ball of the Season, and he was already feeling the pinch of resentment: the resentment of enduring careless gossip, the resentment of keeping up appearances, the resentment of protecting his mother’s world.

  The manservant who filled his glass bowed and then presented a folded missive to Chase. “I have been instructed to deliver this to Lord Chaswick.”

  Letters sent to gentlemen in the middle of a ball could only mean one of three things. Either some distant relative had died, he was being challenged to a duel, or, and the last was the most appealing, a lady was inviting him to a tryst.

  “Right here, good sir.” Chase palmed the servant a coin for his troubles as he accepted the note. “Well, well, well.” No one had died, and he wouldn’t be meeting some gent at dawn.

  He did nothing to hide his pleasure as he read the contents.

  “Don’t tell me. That pretty little blonde I saw you with last week,” Stone guessed at the same time he shuffled the deck.

  The question was an annoying one, but Chase merely held his grin. “Not at all. An older lady, one with far greater expertise. The most delightful Lady Starling.” Ironically, he never would have learned of her stimulating appetites if he hadn’t lost a bet to these gents up at Westerley Crossings.

  Unease fused with lust as he contemplated his options. When they’d parted, he’d bid her farewell, giving no indication that he wished to extend their affair beyond the house party. Any sort of long-term arrangement was impossible. He hadn’t the time—even if he did have some inclination.

  As tempting of an offer as it was, he might just be opening Pandora’s Box by starting up with her again. And yet…

  Meet me at the little wooden bench behind the folly at midnight. You won’t regret it. –M.

  Miranda.

  A glance at his timepiece revealed it was not quite eleven. The night was yet young.

  Chase carefully refolded the parchment and tucked it into his coat. The invitation was problematic but also… tempting. His cock stirred as he remembered the variety of bedsport she’d introduced him to. It was one certain way to release the irritation building inside of him.

  “You in, Chase?” Stone demanded.

  In answer, Chase tossed his ante into the pot.

  Two hands later and he was down fifty pounds. Since he apparently wasn’t going to be lucky at cards this evening, he might as well be lucky at love—or more accurately—at lust.

  “I’m off.” He pushed back his chair. “You’ll have to filch some other poor bloke for the remainder of the evening.”

  Perhaps Chase would take a stroll through the garden after all…

  “I’m out too. The supper dance commences soon, and I’ve promised some chit’s mother that I’d partner her daughter,” Mantis rose.

  “Anyone we know?” Stone ceased shuffling the cards long enough to ask as the larger man rose.

  “Is there anyone you don’t?” Mantis certainly was in ill humor.

  “Who is this most tolerant lady who’s willing to take a turn with you?” Chase teased.

  “Miss Coleus Mossant. Lady Felicity had promised me the set, initially, but later changed her mind.”

  “Impudent chit,” Greys commented.

  “Says she accidentally promised it twice. Makes no difference to me.” Mantis grimaced with a shrug. “Lady Felicity’s loss is Miss Mossant’s gain.”

  “Have a care,” Stone warned. Because they all knew that a mother’s involvement was never a good thing.

  “Worry about yourself, Mister Spencer,” Mantis grumbled.

  Not well done at all of Lady Felicity. It was no wonder Mantis was in a mood.

  With a silent wave, Chase sauntered out the door before heading down the corridor to the much louder, larger gathering in the ballroom. Perhaps they all needed some of what he was going to get that evening.

  The air whooshed out of Bethany’s lungs at Delia’s announcement. “Lord Chaswick? But he’s in the card room.”

  “The trap is set for midnight.”

  “Thank God.” The dancers had just begun another quadrille, so by her estimation, she had not quite an hour to undo Delia’s older sister’s reprehensible plan.

  “We have to stop her.”

  Delia covered her face with her hands. “I was afraid you were going to say that. Rachel’s going to make life miserable for me after this. That is, if she doesn’t murder me in my sleep first.”

  “What exactly is she planning to do, Delia? I need to know everything.”

  “And, of course, she’ll tell Mother. But I had to say something. I knew it wasn’t right. And he’s such a nice person, for a rake and all—"

  “Delia.” Bethany resisted the urge to snap her fingers. “What is Rachel planning to do?”

  The other girl sat up straight and seemed to gather her bearings. “At your mother’s house party…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, the chamber Rachel and I shared was adjacent to Lady Starling’s. You know, the spectacular-looking widow with the auburn hair and the giant…” Delia gestured to her chest.

  Indeed, Bethany knew who Lady Starling was. “What does she have to do with any of this?”

  “We could hear her. Her and Lord Chaswick.” Delia blushed red as a tomato. “Doing… things.”

  Bethany ought to have known. She didn’t even bother to attempt to catalog all the emotions that Delia’s words churned up.

  And then she did. Jealousy. Anger. Resignation.

  Curiosity.

  How ill-fated was it that the gentleman she’d most unfortunately fallen in love with was also an itinerate rake?

  “Are you certain it was him?”

  Delia glanced around and then, closing her eyes, clasped her hands beneath her chin and gasped in a breathy tone, “Chase. Oh, Chase! Yes! Yes, Chaswick!” And then, modulating her voice to sound baritone, “Miranda, God. Miranda!”

  Bethany reached out a hand and covered Delia’s mouth. It was… disturbing in more ways than one.

  Was she really jealous of Lady Starling? A little. Yes. But she’d overheard her brother and his friends discussing far too many assignations such as this to take them seriously. The ladies were willing, and although perhaps hopeful the gentlemen would declare their undying love, well aware that they usually didn’t.

  Hadn’t. Ever.

  In addition to that, these temporary affairs seemed to be something wealthy bachelors simply… did.

  Sexual congress, she’d come to rationalize, was something of a sport to them. Rather like hunting, gambling, or… whatever else they got up to.

  She was oh so very proud that her brother had actually fallen in love with a delightful woman and married her. Seeing Westerley pledge himself to his soul mate provided Bethany with the tiniest seedling’s worth of hope. Which was foolish of her, she knew, and would most certainly only lead to further disillusionment.

  “Anyway,” Delia continued. “Rachel has orchestrated a missive to be sent to Lord Chaswick. The sender requests him to meet her behind the folly in the garden at midnight. She signed Lady Starling’s name.”

  It was barely a quarter past eleven. She had plenty of time.

  This wasn’t so very bad, now was it?

  Delia added, “And she’s arranged for her mother, her mother’s companion, and likely other ladies to show up at the same time. In fact, she’s come up with the perfect ruse. She’s going to spread word that—”

  “But Lady Starling is not in attendance this evening.” Bethany’s mother had mentioned the young widow was going to be in Brighton with her late husband’s family this Season.

  “Of course she isn’t. Rachel is going to meet him. The area behind the folly isn’t illuminated, and my sister intends to allow Lord Chaswick to think she is Lady Starling and do… Well, I’m certain you can easily imagine her intentions… When the sticklers arrive, torches in hand, they’ll catch Lord Chaswick ravishing Rachel,
doing those things with her that he thinks he would only do with Lady Starling.”

  “Won’t he notice that she’s the wrong woman when he kisses her and when he…?” Bethany vaguely indicated her own breasts, which although more generous than most, still weren’t nearly as substantial as Lady Starling’s.

  Furthermore, one might say perhaps that the good Lord had been er… rather… stingy… where Miss Rachel Somerset’s bosoms were concerned.

  Delia shrugged. “Apparently, timing is crucial but Rachel doesn’t seem overly concerned. She’s enlisted Coleus and a few other girls.”

  “Behind the folly, you say?” The quadrille had just come to an end and although there was time to spare, Bethany needed to act quickly as she wasn’t as familiar with the Willoughby gardens as she’d like to be. If she was going to lose Chase to anyone, she certainly didn’t want to lose him to Rachel Somerset.

  “By the wooden bench. It’s ideal really, secluded and dark.”

  “I think I know where that is. Probably best for me to simply warn him.” Bethany burst to her feet. “Do what you can to stall your sister. Don’t tell her that I know but make something up that will keep her from going outside.”

  “What should I tell her?”

  Bethany searched her brain. “Tell her you’ve a headache and you wish to go home.”

  Delia frowned. “She’ll tell me to go lie down somewhere.”

  “Very well then, tell her you’re going to vomit. Or that your courses have arrived. Tell her you need her to follow you to the retiring room. I don’t know! Be creative, Delia! Must I do everything?”

  “I’ll tell her the vomiting thing. And then what?”

  “When she arrives outside, Lord Chaswick will be long gone and she’ll have to believe he’s chosen to reject Lady Starling’s invitation.”

  Which, Bethany considered, was indeed a possibility.

  Delia raised her brows but then nodded. “That’s perfect.”