The older lady snapped her fingers. “Someone find a copy of that dratted paper. He deserves to know what he’s up against.”
“I have a copy.”
Tensford froze as Lady Hope Brightley approached their group, moving against the flow of traffic heading for the door.
“And as the entire debacle is my fault, I’ve come to apologize.” She met his gaze directly. “I went to your home, first, my lord. I’m afraid I convinced your butler to reveal your whereabouts.”
Dread sitting heavy in his gut, he held out his hand.
She gave over a folded newspaper, open to the pertinent page. “I am sorry,” she whispered.
He read it.
Such a small thing. Just a few short sentences to have so much power—the ability to shape a man’s life.
He should be used to it. Used to the frustration and madness of being judged unfairly and found wanting without true cause. But the hope that had begun to grow today made it worse. The thoughts about this girl that had unfurled deep in his heart . . . He looked at her set expression, at the worry in those pretty, dark eyes—and fury erupted in his chest.
It wasn’t her fault. Or his either. But his name was a byword again. More notoriety, but no more money. He glanced over at the sniggering men, watching for his reaction. Any remote chance at finding a girl like . . . He looked at Lady Hope.
Perhaps a wellborn girl or two might look more kindly upon him now, but convincing her family to accept his suit—well, he still had not a snowball’s chance in hell.
He wanted to rage. At these fools around at them, at the fickle Lady X, at the petty, bored ton, at the whole damned world.
He thrust the paper back at her, not trusting himself to speak. Instead, he pushed past her and out the door, ignoring the calls, the questions from them all.
Setting out, he jammed his hat on his head. It was a long, damned way home from Southwark. Maybe he’d feel better by the time he got there.
But he doubted it.
Chapter 3
I confess, I am at times bewildered at the antics of the young bucks of our Society . . . Lady X deigns to remind you that there are far worthier activities than making fools of yourself for the sake of a betting book gamble . . . we beg of you -- go forth and find one, gentlemen!
--Whispers from Lady X
Straightening her gloves, Hope gazed across the crowded room. Mr. Jack Alden, young as he was, held a reputation as a noted scholar and a specialist in ancient cultures, but he was developing an interest in the natural sciences after the discovery of two tree-sized fossilized ferns at his family’s Dorsetshire estate. A second son, he was using his brother’s house to throw this party and had invited the scientific set to come and discuss the findings and view his etchings and notes.
Hope knew Tensford had been invited and suspected it would be an impossible evening to resist. She’d wangled an invitation to accompany Miss Nichols—who was invited everywhere—so that she could finally face Tensford and offer a proper apology.
And good heavens, she did owe him one. She hadn’t been in Town when he’d been saddled with that first nickname. She scoffed at it now and would have then, no doubt, but if the hue and cry and attention had been anything like what he suffered now . . . she shuddered.
The young bucks of the ton were having a grand time amusing themselves at his expense.
“Yoo hoo, Lord Tender!” They waved and called and batted their eyes at him whenever he ventured beyond his door.
And the pranks . . . they were endless. One young wit hired a parade of women to knock at his door one day. One after the other, when the door opened, they all thrust a child forward. “The birch rod does no good with this one,” they all proclaimed in one version or another. “P’raps Lord Tender’s ways might reach him and show him how to go on.”
Another bribed a butcher to pull a beef-laden cart to the earl’s door. “Here’s all my toughest cuts of meat,” he bellowed loud enough to be heard all over Portman Square. “Lord Tender, help me out with ’em, won’t you?”
Next a broadsheet had been plastered all over Town, depicting a risqué musical number being performed in a brothel—and being interrupted by the distraught bawd. No, no! she screeched in a bubble over her head. You are all too coarse for this delicate piece! Somebody fetch Lord Tender! He’ll show ye!
Society’s ladies were not much better. Half of them had declared that this latest was just a ruse on Tensford’s part, to make everyone forget his true, terrible nature. The other half had decided that such acknowledged instances of gallantry showed promise and must be encouraged.
It was a disgrace, the way they all behaved—and it was all Hope’s fault. The very least she could do was apologize.
But then she remembered the magnificent storm in his eyes when he’d read that gossip. And the night that they’d met and his slow, warm smile, the way her pulse had quickened at their banter and how the air between them had come alive . . .
And she knew that she wished to do more than the very least.
She feared it was too late.
But she meant to find out.
Stepping up next to Miss Nichols, she smiled as her friend took her arm. “He’s here somewhere. I’d wager on it,” she said.
Hope grinned. “Let’s hunt him down, then, shall we?”
They found him in the parlor, talking with their host. Miss Nichols patted her hand and went on, but Hope
