There.
Her heart pounded with such brash vigor in her bosom that she wondered if he could feel it as he held her.
“I see.” His demeanor had stiffened.
His Grace looked a bit like he wanted to flee right now. He avoided her gaze, minding the steps of the dance with great care, as though he suddenly feared they might both go sprawling.
“So, you know my very heart, then?” he asked at last through gritted teeth. “My private emotions?”
“They’re pretty transparent, Jason.”
He eyed her warily. “I don’t like being given ultimatums.”
“And I don’t like being treated as though I’m worthless. It hurts me, you know.”
The confession seemed to rein in his temper abruptly. “Th-that wasn’t my intention.”
“I realize that. But there comes a point, my darling man, when good intentions aren’t good enough. I need—no, I
deserve
more.”
He was silent for a moment, as though unable to argue that point, but wanting to say
something
for his pride’s sake. “I see. So is this the part where you get your way again by threatening to tell your brother about us?”
She lost patience as the dance ended. “My brother has no part in this! This is between you and me.” Fed up with him, she released him as though touching him had burned her, and started to walk away.
“Felicity,” he said.
Despite her better judgment, she paused and looked over her shoulder at him.
His face was stark. He took a deep breath. “I
have
missed you. Terribly.”
Her heart leaped, but she shot back, “Good,” and started to leave him again.
“Felicity,” he repeated, more insistently this time, as she spotted Mrs. Brown beckoning to her.
“What?” she exclaimed, glancing back at him again.
He gazed at her with a slightly chastened expression. “Shall I call on you in a day or two? Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“That is entirely up to you, Your Grace.”
“But will you be at home?” he demanded, realizing he had behaved badly enough, it seemed, to warrant being turned away at the door like her other suitors when she didn’t feel like seeing them.
After what he had put her through, Felicity could not help relishing this one moment of uncertainty she had struck in his arrogant heart, overcoming his gargantuan selfishness and even his ducal pride.
“We’ll see,” she said with a noncommittal shrug, then returned to her chaperone.
As she strode across the ballroom, her magnificent gown floating out behind her, Felicity’s step was light, her heart lifting with the first intimations of her inevitable victory.
By God, she’d bring the rogue to heel within a fortnight.
CHAPTER 11
Temper, Temper
W
hat a debacle.
Hours later, after the ball had ended, Jason wandered down to his club on the first floor of the Grand Albion to have a stronger drink and brood.
Irritating woman.
Wasn’t it enough that he had simply shown up? He did not appreciate Felicity trying to back him into a corner. Of course, he did not like hearing, either, that he had hurt her.
He let out a grim sigh and sat in a wing chair in the shadows, ignoring his club mates playing billiards nearby.
Oh, he knew what she wanted. She had made it very clear. Had warned him in no uncertain terms that her offer to give him the love he craved so much would soon expire.
You are in love with me, and for some mystifying reason, I’m in love with you, too.
To her, it was that simple. But she had not blundered her way through the number of disastrous affairs that he had over the years, hurting others, hurting himself. In his experience, love meant pain.
Felicity was still relatively unscathed, and he dreaded trying to love her and botching the thing. What if he hurt her? Disappointed her? Failed in the relationship, as he’d failed so many times?
He took another swig from his glass and stared into space.
To be sure, this particular dance between them had been going on for a long time now. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for tiring of it. A woman wanted certain things out of life.
So she had demanded a decision from him tonight, one Jason had thought he had already made. But she had persisted just that little bit longer, hanging on to him in subtle ways, just as she’d always done, refusing to let him fully walk away.
And now that it came down to it, he had to face the truth. That he could not bear the thought of losing her. Losing what she alone gave him.
Still, he was not resolved to it at all.
Yes, he had already opened Pandora’s box when he had pleasured her that sweet afternoon in the parlor, but if he moved forward with this, how would he explain the change of circumstances to her brother when Pete got back to Town?
And what on earth would he say to Felicity about his children?
Would she even still want him if she knew?
He let out another low sigh, looked at his again-empty glass, and wondered why the liquor wasn’t helping.
“Netherford, ol’ boy, fancy a game of speculation? Ten guinea ante tonight,” Lord Sidney called with his usual sunny grin.
Jason shook his head. While several other rakehells in his set sat down to play, he remained by himself in the corner, pondering his tangled existence, and feeling damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.
He wasn’t really listening to the other men around the room, but he half-heard some ask if their friend, Gable, Viscount Roland, was ever coming back from Scotland with the bride he’d snatched away in their elopement last month. This roused irreverent laughter from the rakes, who clinked glasses and made toasts: “Better him than us.”
A new round of players took over the billiard table. Some fellows ordered food from the kitchens while others joined the card game taking shape at the long, narrow table. A small knot of men were smoking by the open French doors to the terrace. They did not step outside, however, for the storm that had been threatening all night had finally broken.
Rain lashed at the club’s windows. Sidney and the other card players counted to three in unison and then carried the table farther away from the open doors so they might enjoy the night air without having to worry about their cards blowing away.
As they set it down again and carried the chairs over to their new location, a snippet of conversation from another region of the club drew Jason’s ear.
The tipsy dandies lounging around on the leather club chairs and settees in front of the fireplace were bantering over the club’s infamous betting book, which lay open on the low table in the middle.
Jason glanced over, saw who it was, and arched a brow in sardonic suspicion.
Oh Lord, they’re here again.
A rival set of rakehells to his own—Lord Alec Knight and his ridiculous friends, Lords Rushford, Fortescue, and Draxinger. They held memberships at the Grand Albion, but usually ruled the roost over at White’s, at least now that Beau Brummell had fallen from grace.
“Egads, that girl’s got a body on her, what? I can’t believe I never even noticed her before,” the blond-haired youngest of the innumerable Knight brothers slurred.
“Sweet heaven, yes, and those charms were on full display tonight, I daresay.” Draxinger hiccupped.
“Aye, I couldn’t stop staring at her bosom,” Rushford, the heir to a marquessate, declared, blunt as usual. “Well, she’s fair game, now that she’s out of mourning.”
At that, Jason’s full attention suddenly homed in on the men.
He lifted his head and swiveled around in his chair to stare at them in disbelief.
They can’t be talking about…
“Did you get to dance with her?” Lord Alec asked his mates.
“Twice!” Draxinger boasted.
“I’d like to do some dancing with that lass myself…between the sheets,” said Rushford.
Raucous laughter broke out among the scoundrels, and Jason stared murderously at them from the shadows.
Lord Alec laughed and loosened his cravat. “Well, you must admit she makes an irresistible little package—that face, that body, and a fortune to boot. I’m telling you, boys, Miss Carvel’s all mine. You’ll see. I’m not keen on marriage, God knows, but a younger son’s got to do what he must.”
“Well, don’t count your winnings just yet, m’friend,” Rushford warned, flashing a wolfish grin. “I rather fancy her myself. And when the rest of you fail in our wager, you’re all going to owe me a lot of money.”
Jason shot up out of his chair.
Wager?
“Personally, I don’t give a fig about the money,” Fortescue declared, slurring with drink. “I just want to give her a good rogerin’. So whichever of you ends up marryin’ the chit, I hereby warn you in advance that I intend to cuckold you…eventually.”
“You wish!” Lord Alec scoffed, and gave his mate an easy punch in the arm.
Pulse pounding, Jason somehow checked his outrage as he strolled over to the miscreants clustered around the betting book.
“Ho, Netherford,” Lord Alec greeted him. “Now here’s a duke I can stand, unlike that stiff-necked, top-lofty prig, my dear brother. Care to join our wager concerning this lovely little morsel, Miss Carvel?”
“You got to dance with her tonight, didn’t you?” Draxinger pursued, then waved a finger at him. “Yes, I saw you with her…lookin’ quite cozy, at that.”
Jason didn’t answer.
Fortescue squinted at him, then turned to Rushford. “What’s wrong with ’im?”
“Aw, you’re not going to take our little game wrong on account of her brother, are you?” Rushford goaded him, then told his comrades, “Those two are friends.”
“Ah, not Netherford! His Grace has never lacked a sense of humor,” Draxinger defended him. “He’s one of us, my lads! A rake of the first order, remember? Besides, Major Carvel’s on the other side of the world from what I hear. What he don’t know won’t hurt ’im, what-hey, Netherford?”
Jason glanced at the intoxicated dandy with daggers in his eyes, but still said not a word. Instead, he leaned down and studied the betting book. There, the open page revealed a list of entries from men who had laid wagers on which of them would succeed with Felicity.
The writing blurred as rage flooded into Jason’s veins.
Under normal circumstances, cynic that he was, this sort of idle game might’ve whetted his competitive streak. It was possible he’d have joined in the jolly foxhunt after some new belle who was currently all the rage.
But not this time.
Violence welled up in his breast. His club mates were oblivious, laughing about which of them would bed her first.
Deflower
his
Felicity.
And then Jason simply went berserk.
Without warning, he reached for the bastard to his right—Fortescue—who was in the middle of uttering another ill-advised boast. “Don’t worry, boys, I’ll tell you all about it once I get her on her bac—”
He didn’t get to finish the sentence, for suddenly, he was flying headfirst through the air, soaring toward the card game, arms flapping.
The drunken wastrel went crashing onto the table, knocking cards and ivory chips about in all directions. His flailing feet and arms knocked several men’s drinks onto them, and the whole club exploded into chaos.
Fortescue’s mates jumped to their feet, shouting at this crazed attack on their friend. Rushford’s fist flew at Jason. He blocked it, slamming his own into the blackguard’s face in a fury. Draxinger dove aside, so Jason lunged at Lord Alec—who might actually have a chance with her, given his irritating good looks.
But too bad. None of them could have her. None of them had better even think about it. Jason unleashed his wrath on them all for discussing their fantasies of doing things to Felicity that no one else on earth was allowed to do but him.
Ever.
Surely you know by now I don’t get jealous, darling.
He could have laughed with barbarity as he recalled his own futile claim to her earlier this evening. Why, he hadn’t even realized himself that he felt quite so strongly about these matters until he had already launched into battle.
Rushford came back and tried to grab him from behind, and Jason dropped him with an elbow to the face. All the suffering and frustration of the past two weeks came bursting out in an unpremeditated explosion.
He did not care how many bastards he had to fight. He was outraged and needed to hit someone.
The lads piled on him. Four, five, six of his fellow club mates joined the fray, many of them peers. On this, at least, Whigs and Tories united, working as one to bring the “monster” down and put an end to his sudden, baffling rampage.
Jason was heedless of the blows raining on him from all directions, though he could hear Sidney yelling in the background at the others to get the hell off him. Despite at least four men who had barreled him onto the floor, variously sitting on him and pummeling him, one with a forearm locked around his neck—Jason believed it belonged to Lord Alec—he nevertheless crawled his way over to the betting book, grabbed it, and then struggled on hands and knees over to the fireplace, tearing out pages as he went.
“Nooooo!”
several clubmen yelled when they realized his intention—his mate Sidney included.
But they were too late. He pitched the sacred thing into the flames with a savage roar.
Seeing this, even the chaps who had found the brawl amusing up to that point grew enraged, for the club’s betting book was an object of reverence among the members, not to mention a source of income for many.
His Grace of Netherford did not give one iota of a damn.
Rivenwood arrived just then, saw what was afoot, and jumped into the fray, pulling the bleeders off him.
His fellow duke yanked Jason to his feet. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.