Steadfastly ignoring Anthony’s presence, Ella stared down at the line drawing. There. It wasn’t perfect, but it would be good enough, she hoped. Whisperwind Comics’ offer was an incredible break for her, and if she could land the lead artist spot on Admiral Action she’d have a steady paycheck for at least twelve months. A nice setup in this business. Being a comic artist, her lifelong dream, wasn’t exactly the most stable of careers. But she’d loved Admiral Action since she was old enough to tie her dad’s blue bathrobe to her back and zoom around the living room. She couldn’t screw this up. It was too important.
Mentally crossing her fingers, she wrapped the board and carefully slid it into her portfolio with the others. She’d have to hand-deliver these to the inker.
“Hey, Ella?”
She looked up from packing her messenger bag. “Yeah?”
Anthony sat up on the couch, eyes narrowed in thought. His leg trembled a little bit, and Ella stared. “Are you okay?
“Yeah,” he laughed, an unfamiliar, nervous tremble in his voice. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat.
Bemused, Ella shouldered her bag, grabbed her portfolio, and went over to Anthony, who was still struggling to speak. She sank down on the couch next to him, careful to perch on the edge.
“What is it?”
He didn’t look over at her. “I just wondered, um, I mean…”
Ella shoved her black braid over her shoulder. “Anthony, can you spit it out? I need to get to Max’s before he cuts out for the night.”
Anthony slammed his eyes shut and the words shot out of him like fizz from a shaken-up Dr. Pepper. “Would you go out with me?”
Ella froze. She hadn’t heard that right. One of her eyebrows had climbed all the way to her hairline, and it simply refused to let go. Her other eyebrow seemed to be twitching a bit. She searched for the right words, the ones that would indicate that she had zero interest in the poor guy without crushing him. She didn’t need a romantic entanglement right now. Her career was finally taking off, and the last thing she wanted was to screw that up with a boyfriend. Anthony was nice, but he wasn’t her type. At all. He tried too damn hard, with his skinny jeans and ironic lens-free glasses. When she jumped back into the dating pool, she wanted it to be with somebody who wasn’t ashamed to be who he really was.
“I mean,” Anthony’s laugh climbed even higher. “If you’re not interested, that’s cool. I know it’s weird, since I own the studio and you sort of work for me. We’re friends. I mean, we should just be friends. Probably.”
“No, I mean, yes we’re friends. And you’re right, it’s kind of odd. Listen, I should probably get this to Max. I’ll see you later.” She grabbed her bag and her portfolio and bolted out the door before she could pry her eyebrow back to an acceptable level.
Slumping against the side of her rusty yellow Jeep, Ella blew out a heavy breath. That had been a way-too- narrow escape. Anthony had been after her to go out with him for a while, but he hadn’t actually come out and stated it so clearly until now.
Ella glanced up at the rapidly darkening sky. The cloud cover was too thick to see any stars, but she wished anyway.
“I just want to be happy,” she whispered to the sky. “I think this job will do it, but if not? I’m sort of clueless. So if anybody’s up there, I could use a little luck.”
Maybe someone upstairs had heard her plea. Maybe not. Either way, she was determined that her life was about to start.
Patrick Meadowfair, third Viscount Meadowfair, smiled tightly as he bowed his farewell to the young debutante. Turning on his heel, he wound his way through giggling debutantes and avaricious mamas. His toes ached inside his boots. Damn chit was possessed of two left feet, and that quadrille had seemed interminable.
Almack’s was becoming more and more like a slaughter, and gentlemen of his age and circumstance were the preferred victims. If not for Amelia, he’d never show up there again.
The young lady in question waved him down before he could claim his greatcoat and make his escape into the bitter night. It was unseasonably cold for April, and the chill ran down to his bones. He had the sneaking suspicion that the shiver had less to do with the weather than it had with the company. Chaperones lined the walls like hungry vultures.
“Meadowfair,” Amelia called him over with another desperate wave of her gloved hand. “You must come and meet Mr. Cuthbert. He’s ever so amusing.”
Patrick smothered his irritation and made his way to her side. He’d known Amelia Brownstone since he was a young man of eleven, and he’d been thrown from his pony on her family’s property. The tiny girl had announced that he was her prisoner, and marched him nearly half a mile to Brownstone manor. Thinking she was amusing, he’d played along at the time. Things hadn’t changed much since then.
“Mr. Cuthbert,” Patrick said smoothly after Amelia made the introduction.
“Your lordship,” Cuthbert said with a bow and a bob of his shiny bald head. He grinned broadly at Amelia, who winced. “’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Such a fine lord as you, yes. I was just telling Miss Brownstone here about my new cattle. A beautiful matched pair of bays, you see, with…”
Just then, the orchestra began again, and Amelia grabbed Patrick’s arm. “Oh, do excuse us, Mr. Cuthbert. The viscount had reserved this dance ages ago, and I mustn’t disappoint him.”
Before the surprised Mr. Cuthbert could respond, Amelia and Patrick had maneuvered their way into the crowd of waltzing couples.
“You know I cannot rescue you again tonight, Amelia. This is our second waltz. The dragons would have us wed.”
Amelia thumped his shoulder surreptitiously. “Do be quiet, Patrick. I cannot think with your preaching.”
Patrick’s eyebrows winged high. “Preaching? Dear girl, you were the one who summoned me like a fishwife hawking her wares. I believe that I’m entitled to a bit of friendly advice.”
“I suppose,” she blew out the words like they tasted foul. “Thank you for rescuing me from that wretched bore. Mother insisted that I meet him.”
“Is your father still determined to see you wed this Season?”
Amelia nodded, biting her lip in consternation. “He still refuses to believe that I love George as I do. He’ll never let me marry a poor clergyman, Patrick. Since Father has no heir, he’s determined to see me well settled.”
She turned her face up to him, and his heart softened at the pain in her light blue eyes. “What am I to do? He’s threatening to force me to wed the next man to ask for my hand. I couldn’t bear being separated from George forever.”
He considered as their feet moved through the swirling patterns of the waltz. It was a knotty problem.
As much as Patrick cared for Amelia, he knew better than to offer for her himself. She’d drive him mad with her machinations and schemes. And besides, he was only nine-and-twenty himself. Much too young to be leg shackled.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll think of something. You always do, more’s the pity.” He mumbled the last bit.
She laughed, and the sound made Patrick smile.
“I suppose you’re right. If only you were more of a rakehell, Patrick. Then we could plan a scene that painted George as my rescuer.” She sighed dreamily, but Patrick’s innards twisted. This did not bode well. He knew her lovesick little brain was churning, and he was quite certain that whatever plan she’d make would be singularly dangerous to his…
“I’ve got it! Patrick, I know what we must do.” She gave a gleeful hop just as the violinist’s string popped and the song ended.
“I have a definite feeling that I’m not going to like this plan,” Patrick said as he escorted her from the floor.
“You’ll adore it! All the ladies will flock to you afterward, you’ll see. Women do so love a rake. Meet me in the park tomorrow at dawn, and I shall lay down what we must do.”
