Regency Desire: Mistress to the Marquis / Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

‘Struggling?’ Razeby raised an eyebrow.

‘Dragging it out,’ Devlin explained.

Razeby smiled because the barb was dangerously close to the truth. ‘I am merely being selective in my choice.’

‘Selective? That’s a good one,’ quipped Monteith. ‘I must remember “selective” when it comes to deferring putting my head in parson’s trap.’

‘What’s to select?’ asked Fallingham. ‘There’s only three criteria to be considered: how well connected they are, how much money they bring to the deal, and how far they can open their legs.’

The men laughed at Fallingham’s crudity. All except Razeby and Linwood.

Razeby glanced round at his friends—the group of society’s most disreputable gentlemen. ‘One glance at the company I’m keeping and the duennas won’t let me near their charges.’

‘We could always take care of the duennas for you, Razeby,’ Monteith said. ‘There’s much to be said for the older, more experienced lady.’

‘There’s a truth in that and no mistake,’ agreed Devlin. ‘I heard a story about the widowed Mrs Alcock—’

‘We’ve all heard the story of Mrs Alcock and if you repeat it in here you’ll have us all thrown out, and then where will Razeby be?’ said Bullford.

‘Push off, the lot of you,’ said Razeby as if in jest, but meaning it. ‘Before Lady Jersey sees you.’

‘There’s gratitude for you,’ drawled Monteith.

Razeby gave an ironic smile.

‘You know where we’ll be.’ Fallingham finished the contents of his glass in one gulp and waved a farewell.

His friends moved off, all except Devlin and Linwood.

Razeby met Devlin’s eye. ‘I really have heard the story of Mrs Alcock, Devlin.’

‘Wanted to speak to you,’ said Devlin. ‘Slightly sensitive subject.’

Razeby felt a sudden uncomfortable premonition of just what that ‘slightly sensitive subject’ might be.

‘Not like you to be bashful,’ he said and waited to see what Devlin would say.

‘I just wanted to ascertain the situation. Regarding you and Miss Sweetly.’

Razeby’s heart beat harder. ‘I am looking for a bride, Devlin. Does not that say it all?’ He forced his muscles to stay relaxed.

‘I thought perhaps you and Miss Sweetly might still have something going.’

‘We do not.’ The words were curt. He kept control.

‘I am glad to hear it.’

Razeby’s gaze sharpened on Devlin. But Devlin did not seem to notice.

‘The thing is, Razeby…’ Devlin cleared his throat. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Now that you and Alice are no longer together I thought I might ask her out. You wouldn’t have any objection to that, would you?’

‘Why would I possibly object?’ he said drily. But inside he could feel the thud of his heart too loud and hard in his chest and the cold prickle of his skin, and something primitive and menacing snake through his blood.

‘Thank you, Razeby.’ Devlin gave him a nod. ‘I had better catch up with the others.’

‘You had better,’ said Razeby in a voice that barely concealed the warning. He stood there and watched Devlin leave with a jaw clenched so tight it was painful, only shifting his gaze to Linwood once Devlin had disappeared through the door.

The two friends exchanged a glance. ‘You are over her, remember,’ Linwood said quietly.

‘I remember,’ Razeby replied grimly. ‘Remembering is all I do.’

Alice slipped the cloak hood from her head as the Linwood butler ushered her into the hallway of Venetia’s rooms.

‘Alice.’ Venetia came hurrying out of the drawing room to see her.

‘You don’t have anyone in, do you?’ Alice asked, darting a cautious look over at the drawing room.

‘No one. I am just writing some letters while Linwood is out this evening.’ She made no mention of exactly where Linwood had gone. She did not need to. Both women knew that there was a matchmaking ball at Almack’s tonight and that Linwood would be there with Razeby.

‘Is something wrong?’ There was a look of concern on Venetia’s face that made Alice feel guilty.

‘Nothing,’ Alice lied. ‘I just fancied a chat, that’s all.’

‘Come on through. A chat sounds much more inviting than dealing with a pile of business letters.’ Venetia ordered a tray of tea with crumpets and jam.

The drawing room was cosy, the curtains drawn against the darkness outside. They drank the tea and ate the crumpets, even though Alice was not one bit hungry. The scene reminded her too much of the dark winter nights when she and Razeby had toasted crumpets by the fire and spread thick butter on them to melt and drip down their chins and all over their fingers as they snuggled together beneath a blanket. She pushed the memory away.

They talked of the theatre, of how much Venetia missed it, of the current plays, of Kemble and people they knew in common—indulging in a little gossip and laughing together.

‘Talking of gossip,’ Alice said and it sounded a little contrived even to her own ears, ‘I was wondering…’ She hesitated, then, taking a breath, asked the question that she had come here to ask. ‘Have you heard any rumours concerning Razeby?’

‘What kind of rumours?’

‘About Hart Street.’ Alice swallowed. ‘It seems he’s kept the house on.’

‘I had not heard.’

Alice looked at her friend, wondering if she was telling the truth, or just sparing her feelings.

‘I am sure if it is true there is a perfectly good explanation behind it.’

‘It’s true all right,’ Alice muttered and then blushed when she realised just how much that reply revealed.

Venetia did not question her on it. ‘Whatever Razeby’s reasons, I doubt very much they stretch to what the gossipmongers are saying.’

‘I thought you hadn’t heard the gossipmongers saying anything about him.’

‘And neither I have, Alice. But I can well imagine.’ Venetia raised an eyebrow. ‘I know what you are thinking.’