Robert hurried forward. “There you are. Thought you wanted to get there before supper. Been waiting upwards to a half hour.”
Her chin went up. Black curls draped down one side of her neck and danced enticingly against the pale curve of her breast. “I did my best.”
Robert stepped back. “Never mind. You do look rather well tonight, Izzie. Don’t you think so, St. Evert?”
Valen pulled his jaw together and swallowed, suddenly unable to look at her. He nodded. “Very well.” He slammed back the remaining contents of his glass. Very well, indeed.
He escaped into the study and shut the door. She looked like an angel, a sweet, innocent, very desirable angel. And he was about to make people laugh at her.
Valen stood at the window staring out at the blackness of the night. He strained to see a handful of stars glittering through the London haze or glimpse the shadow of trees at the edge of the park. What he couldn’t escape, and saw all too readily, was his own reflection in the glass. It didn’t please him.
What had he become that he would humiliate a young woman this way? He hated her arrogance. Hated all of the beau monde for their self-important airs, the way they treated with contempt anyone one who didn’t have a suitable wardrobe or a significant enough pedigree to warrant their approval. He despised pompous aristocrats, like his grandfather, who had treated Valen’s mother as if she were nothing more than dross. May he rot in hell. They deserved to be ridiculed, mocked, taught a lesson.
But did Izzie? That was the question.
He turned away from the window and refilled his brandy snifter. She’d worked so hard on that blasted gown. It was brilliant. “Although”—he raised his glass, arguing his case to the dim room—“it really ought to conceal more of her... her charms.” He couldn’t stop picturing exactly which charms it ought to conceal. He knew full well other men would not be able to resist looking at her either.
He concocted a scenario wherein he wore the hideous peacock coat to Lady Ashburton’s. Izzie would hurry out of the ballroom. Safe from leering eyes. Valen would run after her and offer to bring her home, just the two of them in the carriage, and... He shook off the ridiculous daydream. In truth, the high and mighty Lady Elizabeth would never forgive him. She would stomp and frown and ring a peal over his head loud enough to put the bells of St. Paul to shame. Furthermore, he’d deserve it.
If he wore the coat, he’d be tormenting her. Not so different from his grandfather, after all? He suddenly had no desire to attend Lady Ashburton’s ball.
The study door opened.
“What’s this? Brooding?” Honore gave him her usual thrust to the throat.
He set his glass on the desk and refused to parry.
“Well?” She bent over an oil lamp and lit it. “Obviously you aren’t going over the household accounts. What can be plaguing you?” She tapped her cheek. “Hmm. Let me guess? Could it be someone who carries her nose rather high in the air?”
“Taken up mind reading, have you?”
“Good grief, Valen. Don’t need a crystal ball to read you. Now, go put on something hideous, and we shall go see what trouble we can churn up at Lady Ashburton’s.” His aunt looked positively eager.
He sighed. “Don’t know if I have anything suitably revolting.”
“How very odd. Just this afternoon one of the maids told me she came across a ghastly green-and-orange coat in your rooms. A coat so revolting it would make Beau Brummell cross his eyes and faint dead away.”
He folded his arms and frowned at her. It shouldn’t come as any surprise that she spied on him.
“Oh, don’t get all up in the boughs. Put the ugly thing on and let us be on our way.”
“I find it no longer fits.”
“Whatever do you pay your tailor for, my dear boy? You just brought it home today.” When he didn’t answer, she continued. “Fortunately, I have just the thing, one of my stepson Marcus’s coats. Perhaps not as garish as you prefer, but a trifle too green for my taste.”
Valen tilted his head, trying to decipher his aunt’s motives. She was up to something. He had little doubt of it. She smiled, innocent as a lamb, albeit a very crafty lamb. Or, more likely, a cantankerous she-goat preparing to butt some unsuspecting passerby in the hindquarters. How could he resist such a game?
“Very well. Let us have a look at this coat.”
9
Stick a Pin in It
Lady Elizabeth stood in Lady Ashburton’s magnificent ballroom, the walls covered in watered gold satin and large ornate mirrors. She stared bleakly at her three suitors, Lord Looks-Like-A-Cherub, Sir Blah, and Lord Horton of the Pointy Nose. Instead of comparing their bank accounts, she found herself entertaining the troublesome question of which one had the most backbone. If only she hadn’t cut St. Evert’s rant short, she might have heard the end of his sentence. “Someone more worthy of—” Of what? What was it he thought her suitor should be more worthy of? It gnawed at her, annoying her all the more because she couldn’t keep from glancing toward the enormous double doors, hoping to see a tall man enter, his golden-red hair tied back as if he’d newly arrived from the Georgian era and wearing a perfectly dreadful ensemble.
Lord Horton interrupted her thoughts. “My Lady, is there something troubling you? If you don’t care to perform the waltz with me, I will withdraw my offer.”
St. Evert wasn’t even present, and she was frowning.
