My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3) (10 page)

Surely Anne had not been staring at Mr. Frazier who—Jemma blinked—was striding straight toward them with long, cocksure steps. Jemma narrowed her eyes and tried to picture the man as sweet, innocent Anne would. He was very tall with thick, golden hair, piercing light-blue eyes, and an easy, open smile. The closer he drew the tighter her stomach became. Surely,
surely
, Anne was wise enough not to fall under Mr. Frazier’s spell. Why, they’d not been around him enough for Anne to fall for him. Had they?

Jemma quickly thought back. He’d been at the ball Grandfather had given—and at Jemma’s invitation because she’d wanted to irritate Grandfather. He’d been at several dinner parties, a garden party, a musicale... She groaned as he stopped in front of them and Anne let out a little sigh. Heaven above! How had she missed that Anne was smitten? Was this Anne’s secret? Dread filled Jemma. Mr. Frazier was a rake to the core and would break her sister’s huge heart with his big, clumsy hands.

Mr. Frazier bowed as he came to stand before them. “Good evenin’, ladies.” His Scottish brogue was as thick as ever.

“Mr. Frazier, might I present Lord Glenmore, and of course, you already know my sister.” Jemma watched them carefully as Anne curtsied to Mr. Frazier and he bowed to her. Were Anne’s eyes locked on him in a dreamy way, or was Jemma imagining it?

Lord Glenmore offered Mr. Frazier a condescending smile, showing his true nature in her judgment. Lord Glenmore was a self-important addlepate.

Before she could think of a topic of conversation to fill the silence among the four of them, Mr. Frazier turned to Anne. “Is this dance taken?”

Jemma silently willed Anne to say,
Yes
.

“No,” Anne gushed and didn’t even look at Jemma as she handed her dance card to Mr. Frazier and he scratched his name on it before offering Anne his escort.

“If ye’ll excuse us,” Mr. Frazier said.

“Anne!” Jemma gasped as Anne started to leave with him.

Her sister turned back to her with a beseeching look that Jemma could not ignore. Jemma clamped her mouth shut. One dance in a crowded ballroom would not lead to disaster. Besides, Mrs. Featherstone was watching them. Tonight, when they returned home, she would warn Anne against Mr. Frazier. It wasn’t just that Sophia swore he was a social climber, either; there was a predatory gleam in his eye for which Jemma didn’t care.

Jemma faced Lord Glenmore and tried to determine how to get rid of him. She gave a little cough. “I’m awfully thirsty.” She’d slip away when he went to get her a refreshment.

He snapped his fingers at a footman a few feet away who was carrying around a tray of ratafia, and when the footman came near, Lord Glenmore snagged a glass and thrust it at her. “Here.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled as he waved the footman away.

Lord Glenmore flicked his blond hair out of his eyes, then made no pretense of sliding his gaze down her body and back up. When his eyes met hers, the tiniest line appeared as he narrowed them, and the gleam came back. He pressed his thin lips together for a moment. “My father tells me your father was a commoner and that makes
you
a commoner, duke’s granddaughter or not.”

Jemma lifted her chin. This was the first time since coming to London that someone had openly disdained her origins, and it stung, which made her angry for caring. “It’s no secret my father was not a lord.”

Lord Glenmore nodded. “I have to admit when Father demanded I return from my Grand Tour to court you, I was not pleased, large dowry or not, but I’ve heard whispers about you tonight that you don’t heed the English rules of etiquette, and I like that.” He ran a finger down her bare arm, and the feel of his flesh against hers made her skin crawl. “I can see the fire in your eyes. You’re no English rose.
You
are a
wild
American flower, and I’m a wild gentleman. I bet you have a hefty appetite.”

“I eat like a bird, actually,” she snapped, fuming that her grandfather would tie her to this disgusting man without so much as blinking an eyelash.

“Come”—Lord Glenmore’s voice had taken on a slick, slimy tone—“we both know I’m not speaking of food.”

The heat of anger flushed her chest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He leaned closer, too close for them to have just met but not so close as to call attention to his actions. He was clever. She’d have to be cleverer. His smell, an unpleasant, sickly sweet odor, surrounded her. “I require an obedient wife in all ways,” he murmured.

She had to force herself to unclench her jaw to speak. “Then I’m afraid, Lord Glenmore, you’d not be happy with me as your wife.”

“Make no mistake, I plan to tame you before I marry you. But don’t fret. You can be as wild as you wish when it is just you and me.”

Jemma felt her lips part in shock, and when Lord Glenmore smirked, she understood he’d wanted to astound her. Her heart pounded so viciously her chest hurt.

“Give me your dance card,” he demanded in a cold voice.

She drew her wrist, with the blank card attached to it, close to her. “I’m so sorry, but all my dances are already taken.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”

“Only a fool would call a lady as beautiful as Miss Adair a liar,” a smooth, deep voice said from behind her.

Jemma whirled around and gawked at the sight of Lord Harthorne, dressed in black evening attire, right down to the dark cravat that matched his amused gaze. He filled his coat out very well. Very well, indeed. How had she missed before this moment how broad his shoulders were and how wide and solid the expanse of his chest?

Embarrassed at her thoughts, she yanked her focus upward. He smiled, and it lit his face, and to her astonishment, her skin not only prickled but her heart raced. Then he turned his eyes toward Lord Glenmore, and Lord Harthorne’s gaze turned frigid, as if a winter blizzard had chilled him from the inside out.

“Glenmore, since I know personally you
are
a fool, I’m not surprised at your asinine behavior.”

“Is that any way to speak to a friend?” Lord Glenmore said in a sarcastic tone.

“No,” Lord Harthorne said in a deadpan voice. “And that should tell you all you need to know on the subject of our onetime friendship. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Lord Harthorne said and turned to look down at Jemma, “I believe you promised me this dance?”

If he was willing to rescue her, she’d gladly let him. She scooted closer to him, and immediately, his scent—a woodsy musky smell—filled her nose. It was heavenly. She didn’t remember him smelling so good before. She tilted her head to answer him, and he drew nearer, and Lord, but she could swear it was to protect her. Dear heaven, she hoped she was not sliding back into being the dreamy, foolish girl who’d been duped by Will.

No
. She firmly shook her head.
Never that.

Lord Harthorne frowned at her. “I beg your pardon. I thought it was the first dance I’d claimed. My apologies.”

When he started to step away, she grasped his arm and yanked up her card in a show of checking. “No, no, you’re quite correct. It was the first dance.” She fairly dragged Lord Harthorne away in her haste to put distance between her and Lord Lecher.

The thick crowd in Sophia and His Grace’s home made it impossible to beat a hasty retreat. A crush of people coming off the dance floor stalled Jemma’s progress at the edge. When she glanced over her shoulder, Lord Glenmore was headed toward them. The last thing she wanted was to have to speak to that odious man again tonight.

She whipped to face Lord Harthorne. “I know you must have overheard my conversation with Lord Glenmore and you were gallantly trying to rescue me, but would you please consider really dancing with me?”

“I never considered otherwise,” he said smoothly. He took her hand, and the notes of another quadrille were just starting as he steered her among the dancers.

She bit her lip as they took their positions, and then, swallowing her pride, she frantically whispered in his ear. “I have only practiced this dance once, and it was a dreadful disaster!”

He winked at her. “Follow my lead. I’ll not let you make a cake of yourself.”

He wanted her to trust him? She caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth. What choice did she have?

The music picked up pace, and she took a deep breath and did as Lord Harthorne said, following his lead. Several times when everyone else went one way, she seemed to be going the other. Every such moment, though, Lord Harthorne was suddenly beside her, laughing and sending her in the correct direction, until soon the rigid muscles of her jaw relaxed and she found herself laughing, too, and actually enjoying herself as she had not in ages. And when Lord Harthorne took her hand for the last spin of the quadrille and his large palm pressed into the small of her back, she shivered from the warmth of the contact.

She glanced sideways at him and found him staring at her intently as the dance ended. As couples started filing off the dance floor, they stood there with one of each of their hands intertwined and his other hand still resting ever so gently against her spine, and stared into each other’s eyes. In that moment, she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt that he might, just possibly might, be one of those rare creatures known as gentlemen. Not that she cared. She didn’t. Truly, it didn’t matter. She wanted a bakery, not a husband.

He smiled, and two appealing dimples appeared in his cheeks. “Would you care to take a stroll on the balcony with me?”

Would she? Her heart roared in her ears. Did she dare agree? What did it mean if she did? One little choice, such as an innocent stroll or helping a certain delivery boy carry a cake to his home so many years ago—
Will
—could lead to tragic mistakes, even if the consequences were years in the coming. Her insides felt as if someone had reached in there and tied them in a large, impossible knot.

Lord Harthorne cocked his head to the side, released her hand, and ran his own hand through his hair, making it a disheveled, irresistible mess. “It’s only a stroll. Other people will be out there. It’s not as if I plan to squire you away to Gretna Green for a quick marriage. I know I’m warm, and by the flush of your cheeks, I assumed you were, as well.”

In actuality, a line of sweat was dripping down her back from the oppressive heat in the ballroom, but she’d never admit such a thing. Lord Harthorne was correct. It was only a stroll, and she was not the foolish, naive girl she had been six months prior. One stroll did not mean she’d stepped into the Garden of Temptation and someone had slammed the gate, locking it behind her.

“All right,” she said, wincing at the slight tremble in her voice.

A
s Philip led Jemma toward the open terrace doors across the ballroom, he saw Scarsdale standing with his wife and one of her friends near the refreshment table. Scarsdale raised his brow, giving him a clearly questioning look that said,
What the devil are you doing?
Damned if Philip knew. He wove a path toward the terrace doors as he considered things.

Earlier this afternoon, he had confided his financial problems to Scarsdale, the only other person besides Aversley who Philip trusted enough to talk to about his situation. Scarsdale had begrudgingly admitted that if he were in Philip’s situation, he would likely proceed as Philip was proceeding. Once the duke had attested to that, it had not been hard to get his friend to help him. That help had consisted of Scarsdale—who just like Aversley and himself had no clue who the debutantes with large dowries were this Season or any other—calling Sophia into his study and making her take a vow of secrecy before he explained that Philip needed her help creating a list of eligible debutantes. Scarsdale’s man of business had been waiting to see him, so he left Sophia and Philip, and they sat and made a list of ten names. Or rather, Sophia penned the list and he just sat there.

Frankly, at the end of the conversation with Sophia, Philip was depressed. It was disturbing to know he was now most definitely in the lot of men searching for a wife with a large dowry. He considered once more whether he should borrow the money Aversley had offered, but when you borrowed something that meant you repaid it, and he currently could not see how he would ever repay Aversley, even for what he’d already borrowed. He’d be doing the exact same thing his father had done, which had gotten them nowhere and only made matters worse. Borrowing against nothing wasn’t the answer. The only thing he had of worth was his title. It wasn’t the grandest of titles, but some ladies would be happy to be married to an earl. He had to sell himself to save his family. That was it—the cold, hard, indisputable truth. Hopefully, the buyer would be a woman he could love.

So what was he doing escorting Jemma onto the terrace for a breath of fresh air? He should be accompanying one of the ladies on his list onto the terrace or dancing with them, but when he’d walked by Jemma and Glenmore and overheard the cad demand to see the lady’s dance card and then call her a liar, he’d had an actual momentary mental picture of stalking up to Glenmore and planting him a facer.