‘And Lord Dallington has been watching you all night as well.’ Her mother’s smile grew brighter. ‘I suspect he’ll be asking you for the next dance.’
Hazel’s mood sank from dispirited to despondent. Lord Halthorpe was bad enough, but Lord Dallington was impossible. The man was sixty if he was a day and his florid complexion and bulbous nose suggested he was fonder of his brandy and port than was good for him.
Had she been reduced to this? Being sold off to an ageing dullard who could bore the birds out of the trees? Her mother smiled at someone across the room. Hazel followed the direction of that smile. When she saw the recipient the temperature of hell rose by a few degrees. Lord Dallington was smiling back at them, his large, yellowed teeth visible even at this distance, and he was making his way across the crowded room towards them.
This was asking too much. Lord Dallington was even more desperate for money than Lord Halthorpe. She had been forced to dance with him at her last ball and he had made it clear that he was very interested in asking for her hand, although she knew what he was really interested in was getting his hands on her dowry.
Her parents would never expect her to marry someone against her will, but with each passing Season they were getting increasingly worried that she might never marry and would suffer the ignominy of being an ageing unmarried woman. She didn’t want to disappoint them, but Lord Dallington—that was surely asking too much. Dancing with him was bad enough, never mind marrying the man. It was time to take some evasive action.
‘I’m sorry, Mother, I need the water closet. Right now.’
Ignoring her mother’s wince of disapproval, she departed. Fast. She elbowed her way through the crowd of elegantly dressed men and women, to the accompaniment of ouches and Well, I nevers, proving that the dance floor wasn’t the only place where people weren’t safe from her crushing feet.
Taking a quick, furtive glance over her shoulder she saw that Lord Dallington was also pushing through the crowd, his eyes firmly fixed on his prize. He wasn’t going to let her, and her money, get away that easily. She quickly scanned the ballroom, looking for a safe refuge from the determined Lord.
Could she hide behind one of the large potted ferns lining the edges of the room? Would anyone notice if she secreted herself under one of the linen-covered refreshment tables? But Hazel knew herself well enough. Instead of finding refuge, she was more likely to draw attention to herself by sending the ferns crashing to the floor or plates laden with tonight’s supper flying across the room as she upturned the table.
And there was no point hiding out in the ladies’ retiring room. It wouldn’t surprise her if Lord Dallington and Lord Halthorpe staked out the room, both reluctant to let such a valuable heiress escape.
But she had to get away. She had already suffered enough tonight. Ignoring more outraged looks and disapproving comments, she continued to elbow her way through the crowd, her desperation rising with every step. She needed to find a place to hide. And she needed to find it quickly.
Lucas Darkwood needed a mate. Not just any mate, but a mate with specific qualities: an excellent pedigree, high stamina and the potential to breed profusely and regularly.
It was the search for such a mate that had brought him to Lady Clarmont’s ball. He ignored all the debutantes vying for his attention and headed straight for the card room. That was where he would find the Earl of Bromley, the man who could provide him with the mate he required.
If Lucas Darkwood had been the sort of man to admit to having faults, the only one he would have owned was a determination to succeed, no matter what. At school and university his competitive nature had seen him win every sporting event he entered and excel academically. And that determination continued when he entered the world of business and finance. He would not come second, no matter what.
And that was why he needed the Earl to provide him with a mate who would ensure he continued to be victorious.
Breeding racehorses was his latest passion. He now owned several brood mares with impeccable pedigrees, and his stallions were among the best in the country. But he wanted the Earl’s horse. She had already given birth to Ascot winners, even when bred with second-rate stallions. If Lucas mated her with his stallion, he knew they would produce superior horses that would be unbeatable. Particularly as he had secured the services of the country’s best trainers and jockeys.
Unfortunately, the Earl knew how determined he was and he was taking advantage of, for once, having Lucas just where he wanted him.
He entered the study, which had been converted to a card room for the ball. It provided a refuge for men who, like himself, did not care for idle chatter, or the dancing and matchmaking that was taking place in the ballroom.
Bromley was seated at the baccarat table and signalled for Lucas to join him. It seemed Lucas would have to endure a few rounds of cards while he spoke to the Earl, even though baccarat bored him. It relied too much on luck. Lucas took pleasure in winning only when it was due to his own skills, not the roll of a die.
‘Have you given any consideration to my latest offer?’ Lucas asked as he sat down.
The cards were dealt and Lucas placed a bet, hardly looking at his hand.
Bromley stared intently at his cards, trying to calculate whether he had a winning hand
