The Betting Season (A Regency Season Book) (43 page)

Patience ran through the rain, Marcie close beside her, holding the umbrella aloft in an effort to keep Patience dry. She trod as carefully as she could and held her gown aloft so as not to splash water or, God forbid, mud onto her hem. The driver, drenched from head to toe, held open the carriage door for her and Marcie, and they both stumbled into the warmth of Rowan’s conveyance.

“
Dreadful night for a ball,” he said as Patience settled onto the seat, running her hands over her gown to smooth away any water spots, though she knew the attempt was futile on silk. The pale yellow was probably a poor choice for tonight; a darker color would have been more sensible. Patience sighed. Her mother would have thought of that detail.

Pushing those thoughts aside, she glanced up at her cousin who was lounging against the squabs with not a care in the world and not a drop of rain on his person. “Yes, it is,” she replied pointedly. “For those of us forced to run through the rain. Those who have covered walkways probably don’t find it nearly as dreadful.”

“
I did luck out with that bit of property, didn’t I?” Rowan smiled. “But I also had great luck with a certain…
assignment.
”

Patience appreciated his discretion. She hadn’t told Marcie about her plan. If she did, the entire staff would know within minutes, and eventually it would get out that Patience had commissioned the bet and duped some poor man into marrying her. No, discretion was the only way in this matter.

Even still, Patience was rather surprised Rowan had worked so very quickly. After all, they’d only met this morning to discuss the plan. “Well, that’s wonderful news,” she said absently, and then, pretending to change the subject, said, “Did you enjoy your luncheon at the club this afternoon?”

Rowan played along easily. “Oh, yes. Delightful. Ran into a good friend actually, and we dined together.”

“
Indeed. Anyone I know?”

“
Perhaps…” Rowan shifted in his seat and swatted an invisible bit of dust from his sleeve. “Lord Swaffham.”

Patience sputtered on her own saliva, and dutiful Marcie immediately began pounding on her back.

“
Are you all right, Miss Patience?” Marcie asked, grave concern etched in her too-thick brow.

Patience waved her away. “I’m fine, Marcie, thank you.” She cleared her throat again and tried to catch hold of her faculties, but it wasn’t easy. How could Rowan have plotted this with Lord Swaffham? He was a known reprobate, but no one had ever been able to snare him into marriage, despite the fact he’d nearly stolen many a girl’s virginities. This was going to be an impossible task. “I suppose,” she continued, “that he provided interesting conversation?”

“
Quite so, cousin. A most interesting fellow.”

“
I’m sure he is.” Interesting indeed. Blast, but she would lose in this, and therefore, so would Rowan. She’d told him this was a sure thing, but now she wasn’t sure at all.

Rowan sat forward a bit and leaned his elbows on his knees. “Patience, is everything all right?”

Patience narrowed her eyes at her cousin. It was a leading question, that much was for certain. “Well…what if no one asks me to dance again tonight?”

“
You will certainly be asked to dance, but you mustn’t be too forthcoming. Accept, but with reservation. Don’t smile too much. Certainly don’t laugh or give the impression that you enjoy the man’s company.”

Patience could feel Marcie shift on the seat beside her and watched, from the corner of her eye, as her maid’s mouth slowly dropped open. Clearly, this bit of cousinly advice was unexpected and rather odd. But Patience knew exactly what Rowan was getting at. Obviously he’d indicated that she’d be a challenge, and being such a proud man, Lord Swaffham couldn’t help but take the bait.
Nicely done, cousin.
She gave him a little nod of approval.

“
I will do my best to follow your suggestions, Rowan. Thank you for your sage advice.”

The Davenport Ball was the antithesis of the Heathfield Ball. Where the Heathfield Ball had been a mad crush, the Davenports had succeeded in barely filling half the ballroom tonight, and sadly for Patience and her friends, it was filled mostly with eligible young ladies.

“
Why are we here again?” Patience crossed her arms over her chest, not caring if she seemed unladylike. There wasn’t anyone important to see her here, anyway.

Pippa sighed. “I’m not entirely certain.”

“
I’m sure it will get better,” Georgie put in optimistically.

But Patience wasn’t feeling very optimistic about the evening. And furthermore, her corset was tied far too tightly. Thank heaven it wasn’t a crush or she’d be swooning into a heap in the middle of the ballroom.

She spotted Moira on the other side of the ballroom, who had been summoned by her mother just minutes earlier. The poor dear looked miserable, and Patience wondered what cruel and unusual beauty treatment the dowager countess was planning for her daughter.

Patience turned her head toward the open doors at the back of the ballroom that led to the terrace. A slight breeze blew the wispy, blonde curls of a woman who stood near the doors. Blast, but a bit of air would be nice.

Patience swayed side-to-side, contemplating whether or not she should make a run for it. Rowan had gone to fetch her a glass of lemonade, but perhaps she could go quickly and be back before he noticed.

Making up her mind, she turned to her friends. “I’ll be right back,” she said quietly. “Will you tell Rowan I’ve gone to the ladies’ retiring room if he returns before I do?”

“
But where are you going?” Georgie asked, her brown eyes flashing with curiosity.

“
For a bit of air, but I’ll only be a moment, I promise.”

She darted toward the doors before her friends could stop her, weaving around the debutantes and their mamas. She emerged onto the terrace and took a deep breath of the damp, spring air. The rain had stopped and left a glorious, balmy night in its wake.

Daring a few more steps, she moved toward the stone wall that overlooked the gardens. She couldn’t see much past the few lanterns that had been lit around the perimeter of the wall, but she could tell the Davenports kept a lovely garden.

“
A young lady ought not to be caught on the balcony alone,” came a deep voice from the shadows.

Patience stated a bit and then whirled around to see who had spoken to her. “Isn’t it better she be caught alone rather than in the company of a man?” she returned, squinting to make out the figure that remained in the shadows.

“
Touché.”

The gentleman finally stepped into the light, and Patience’s breath caught. He was like a golden statue—the kind that, when worshipped, got you smote by God. Patience took an instinctive step backwards.

“
Allow me to introduce myself.” The man bowed to her and then straightened again. “I am Baron Swaffham.”

Coming to her senses, Patience eked out a startled, “Oh!” and then curtsied as deeply as she could without getting speared by her too-tight corset. “Forgive me, my lord.” Blast, she wasn’t prepared for this, and she absolutely despised being taken off guard.

“
Nothing to forgive. Might I have the pleasure of your name, Miss…?”

“
Findley,” she said, straightening up and shoving her nose in the air.

“
Findley, Findley.” Lord Swaffham tapped his cheek thoughtfully, as if he hadn’t that very afternoon made a bet on her virtue. “Any relation to Rowan Findley?”

“
My cousin,” she clarified, even though it wasn’t necessary.

“
Of course. My condolences on the loss of your mother.”

Patience forgot herself momentarily, taken by surprise at the sincerity in his voice and at the thought of what might have been. How different this night would have been if her mother had been here. For one, she wouldn’t have had to dress to the sounds of an infant screaming from down the corridor.

“
Thank you,” she finally managed. “But I don’t think I should be out here with you. We could be caught.”

“
May I claim a dance, at least?”

Patience fought the smile that threatened to give her away. He was like putty in her hands. “I suppose I cannot say no, can I?” she replied in her most frigid of tones.

Swaffham was clearly enjoying the challenge already, if his wide grin was any indication. “Hand me your wrist.”

Patience raised her arm. Lord Swaffham moved closer, opened her little book and scribbled his name down.

“
There,” he said. “I’ll see you for our waltz.”

“
Our what?”

Swaffham blinked at her. “Have you never waltzed before?”

“
Not with a man,” she returned, and then realized how awkward that sounded. “I mean, only in lessons, at school.”

“
Well, we shall test your skill tonight. Now go, before you are discovered here with me.”

Tristan chuckled as Miss Findley—
Patience
—scampered back to the ballroom. She was charming, despite the fact she was clearly a bit prudish. But that would all change soon. One dance with him would begin the melting process. A carriage ride, another dance, a trip to Vauxhall…he’d easily have her compromised by the end of the week, and then he’d be two hundred guineas richer. Which would be a great help to him, actually.

He lit up a cheroot as he thought of his inheritance. He’d made a few too many bets at the Faro tables lately when he should have been repairing Hamlin Abbey. His idea that he’d use his winnings to make the extensive repairs was clearly misguided, since he’d lost more than he’d won. Now he’d have to pay back his debts before he could do a damn thing about the estate.

“
Oh, here he is, Mama!” came a shrill from the doors to the balcony.

Damn. Why had he agreed to come to this blasted ball? The eligible misses were out in droves. He made a mental note never again to be indebted to a man with five daughters of marriageable age.

He desperately wanted to flee now, but he’d already been spotted by one of his more recent conquests. There was nothing to do now but lie through his teeth about his relationship—if one could even call it that—with Miss Lara Banfield.

“
Lord Swaffham!” The eager young woman bounded towards him, her mother—who was actually quite an appealing woman—close on her heels. “I was hoping to find you out here. I know how much you wish to avoid the matchmakers in the ballroom.”

Clearly, the irony was lost on the green girl.

Tristan said nothing, but simply nodded his head in acknowledgement as he awaited the introduction.