He was filthy rich, and he spoiled her rotten—without nitpicking over her expenditures. He provided her with a generous allowance too, and as any wise mistress would do, she was quietly squirreling away various amounts. Should the day ever arrive when he tired of her, she’d have a hefty nest egg to tide her over.
He never noticed what she stole from him. Most of the time, he was too intoxicated to focus on any detail. She should have felt guilty over how she was protecting herself, but she would never forgive him for choosing his cousin over her. Each farthing she pilfered was a salve to her wounded feelings.
She understood about Caroline’s fortune, about the trust fund that would vest when she turned twenty-five. She understood that her ostentatious style of living was wholly dependent on his shackling himself to Caroline.
She understood it, but she didn’t have to like it.
She was a selfish female who didn’t like to share, and—if Gregory had been a real man—he’d have confessed about Lucretia to Caroline. He’d have explained that Caroline would be his wife, but Lucretia was his partner.
He was too much of a coward to confess it though, and he expected Lucretia to cower in the background and pretend to have no heightened claim on him. Well, she’d never been good at cowering or pretending, and if the truth leaked out to Caroline, Lucretia would be delighted to clarify a few facts.
Once Gregory was wed, Caroline would have to swallow her pride and permit him to gambol in the city with his favorite person in the world. And that person was Lucretia. Caroline Grey couldn’t interfere in Lucretia’s happiness. It simply wasn’t in the realm of possibilities.
“Let’s go down to the party, shall we?” she said. “Your guests are waiting.”
“I imagine I have to.”
“Buck up and cease your complaints. It will be an interesting afternoon. I promise.”
“What if it’s not? What if the games Caroline has devised are stupid and tedious?”
“Then we shall hover in the corner of a tent and snicker about her failings. It would be lovely to admit that she has some.”
For just an instant, her smile slipped, but she shoved it back into place. She clasped his arm and led him away, being determined that everyone see them stroll outside together.
Caroline hovered on the verandah, staring down at the garden party and studying the guests who were reveling in the grass. There were dozens of people present, the majority of them Gregory’s friends from town. The rest were younger neighbors from the area who’d visited to join in the fun.
She’d had the cook prepare buffet tables of food, and the beverage offered was supposed to be a fruity punch. But from the animation of the London crowd, she suspected a stronger ingredient had been added, and she tamped down a sigh of frustration.
She tried to never be a prude, but was it necessary to imbibe of hard spirits in the middle of the afternoon? It seemed illicit, as if they were on a bad track.
Since the worst offenders appeared to be Gregory’s chums, what was she to make of their conduct? He had an exciting life in town that didn’t include her. Had she the right to complain about his choices and habits? Or should she keep her criticisms to herself?
Ooh, how she wished there was a wise matron with whom to discuss various issues before she walked down the aisle. It would have been nice to receive some useful guidance on numerous weighty topics.
It was three o’clock, the hour when Gregory had told her they could have a private chat. He was standing in the center of a boisterous group and had obviously forgotten about it. Lucretia Starling was hovered by his side, and she was clutching his arm as if they were more closely attached than they should be.
A hint of unease slithered down her spine. What was the actual situation between the pair? What did she really know about Mrs. Starling? Should she nag at Gregory until he supplied some firm answers?
An archery target had been set up, and male guests were shooting at it, but none of them were very good. Most of the arrows had flown off into the shrubbery. After significant ribbing, Mr. Ralston had agreed to participate, and she observed from her higher vantage point.
He was next to Gregory, so it provided an exhausting chance to assess them in a manner that was wrong and unfair. In any comparison, Mr. Ralston would win hands down. He was tall and handsome, slender and fit, sophisticated and elegant. His expensive coat showed off his healthy physique in an arresting way.
Gregory, in contrast, was shorter, plumper, his hair balding, his face lined from dissipation. He and Mr. Ralston were both thirty, but Gregory might have been twenty years older. His suit looked cheap and poorly sewn, and he’d gained so much weight that his shirt and trousers were stretched to the limit.
She realized how avidly she was tabulating Mr. Ralston’s stellar attributes, and Gregory’s lack of them, and she scoffed with disgust. She had no business drooling over Mr. Ralston, but she couldn’t stop. She pushed away from the balustrade and headed down into the grass.
As she approached the group, Gregory was crowing, “A hundred pounds says you can’t.”
Someone in the crowd hollered, “Gregory, have you a hundred pounds to throw away?”
People snickered as if it was common knowledge that Gregory had no money.
Mr. Ralston replied with, “A hundred pounds would be fine. How many arrows shall I shoot?”
“Everyone else shot three,” Gregory said.
“Must I hit the bullseye with all of them?” Mr. Ralston asked.
Gregory inquired of Mrs. Starling, “What is your opinion, Lucretia?”
“The other contestants had to hit the target once, but it’s such a large bet. He should be required to hit it three times.”
“You heard her, Ralston,” Gregory said. “It must be all
