of many scruples, as you indeed know, but even I will not throw my mistress into the face of my fiancée.”
“Fiancée!”
Thalia audibly drew in her breath, then released it as two red spots tainted her cheeks. She was not one of the fortunate females to whom a flush was becoming. And looking at her stained, angry face, Colin wondered why he had ever been drawn to her at all.
“So it is the country mouse!” she sneered.
“It is,” he confirmed in a flat voice.
Again, she sucked in a sharp breath. Then she charged shrilly, “You don’t love her. You’re not capable of love.”
“Understand this, Thalia—what I feel is immaterial. I’ll not have Miss Lawrence suffer any hurt. Should anything you do or say cause her the least embarrassment . . .” He let the unspoken threat hang in the air between them.
Collecting her clothes from the blue satin chair, Thalia went slowly to the door. There, she turned to taunt him with a smile. “I’m willing to wager,” she said with confidence, “that however much you feel for your country nobody, my lord, you’ll soon come back to me. You’re as incapable of fidelity as you are of love and when you tire of her, you’ll look to me for your pleasure.”
She left him scowling at the slammed door. He was scowling still when Maret appeared later that evening. Jacques stood staring speculatively at the viscount’s obvious ill humor before venturing to ask, “And who is it you are calling out this time?”
“Oh, the devil! It’s not that,” Stratford said, downing the contents of a wineglass at a toss.
Jacques raised his quizzing glass and inspected his friend for quite some time, noting the unnatural glitter in the black eyes. Deciding his lordship was not yet castaway, however, he let the glass fall and inquired, “Dare I ask? Just what is it that has put you into such . . . shall we say, spirits?”
Colin flashed him a look that bespoke understanding, but answered moodily, “Thalia paid me a call today, one of her usual melodramatic scenes. She said we’re branches of the same tree, she and I, and I’m damned if she’s not right!” When his friend made no response, he said more calmly, “At least Helen does not look as if she will enact me any Cheltenham tragedies.”
With an inscrutable expression, Maret remarked, “Speaking of whom, you’ve only two days more to make good on your wager. You know, dear boy, when you let the first week pass by without even attempting to claim my thousand guineas, I quite feared you’d lost your touch.”
As usual, Maret’s dry observation made Stratford forget his petulance. He threw back his head and laughed, then stood. “Your five hundred guineas are as good as in my pocket, Jacques. Miss Helen will be saying yes with time to spare. In fact, I’m engaged to escort her to the Reeves’ this evening. Will you come?”
Though Maret was reluctant, Colin pressed him into accepting and a few hours later the two stood watching the ravishing Miss Helen step gracefully through the boulanger with a young coxcomb newly on the town. She looked, as always, breathtakingly beautiful. Her dark tresses were pulled to one side by a velvet ribbon that precisely matched the jonquil gown she wore. The curls cascaded down her shoulders enhancing the creaminess of her skin as well as the fine structure of her cheekbones. Though some of the less gracious, or less lovely, females dismissed the simple style as too countrified, every male in the ballroom greatly admired its effect.
“It’s as well her beauty sparkles so,” Stratford commented as his gaze followed Helen’s progress about the floor, “for her wit does not shine at all.”
“If she so displeases you,” returned Maret on an unusually sharp note, then choose another for your bride.”
“What, and lose my five hundred guineas?” the viscount asked on a laugh. “Not on your life! Besides, I’ve heard that for a wife to have more hair than wit is no bad thing.
“Fiancée!”
Thalia audibly drew in her breath, then released it as two red spots tainted her cheeks. She was not one of the fortunate females to whom a flush was becoming. And looking at her stained, angry face, Colin wondered why he had ever been drawn to her at all.
“So it is the country mouse!” she sneered.
“It is,” he confirmed in a flat voice.
Again, she sucked in a sharp breath. Then she charged shrilly, “You don’t love her. You’re not capable of love.”
“Understand this, Thalia—what I feel is immaterial. I’ll not have Miss Lawrence suffer any hurt. Should anything you do or say cause her the least embarrassment . . .” He let the unspoken threat hang in the air between them.
Collecting her clothes from the blue satin chair, Thalia went slowly to the door. There, she turned to taunt him with a smile. “I’m willing to wager,” she said with confidence, “that however much you feel for your country nobody, my lord, you’ll soon come back to me. You’re as incapable of fidelity as you are of love and when you tire of her, you’ll look to me for your pleasure.”
She left him scowling at the slammed door. He was scowling still when Maret appeared later that evening. Jacques stood staring speculatively at the viscount’s obvious ill humor before venturing to ask, “And who is it you are calling out this time?”
“Oh, the devil! It’s not that,” Stratford said, downing the contents of a wineglass at a toss.
Jacques raised his quizzing glass and inspected his friend for quite some time, noting the unnatural glitter in the black eyes. Deciding his lordship was not yet castaway, however, he let the glass fall and inquired, “Dare I ask? Just what is it that has put you into such . . . shall we say, spirits?”
Colin flashed him a look that bespoke understanding, but answered moodily, “Thalia paid me a call today, one of her usual melodramatic scenes. She said we’re branches of the same tree, she and I, and I’m damned if she’s not right!” When his friend made no response, he said more calmly, “At least Helen does not look as if she will enact me any Cheltenham tragedies.”
With an inscrutable expression, Maret remarked, “Speaking of whom, you’ve only two days more to make good on your wager. You know, dear boy, when you let the first week pass by without even attempting to claim my thousand guineas, I quite feared you’d lost your touch.”
As usual, Maret’s dry observation made Stratford forget his petulance. He threw back his head and laughed, then stood. “Your five hundred guineas are as good as in my pocket, Jacques. Miss Helen will be saying yes with time to spare. In fact, I’m engaged to escort her to the Reeves’ this evening. Will you come?”
Though Maret was reluctant, Colin pressed him into accepting and a few hours later the two stood watching the ravishing Miss Helen step gracefully through the boulanger with a young coxcomb newly on the town. She looked, as always, breathtakingly beautiful. Her dark tresses were pulled to one side by a velvet ribbon that precisely matched the jonquil gown she wore. The curls cascaded down her shoulders enhancing the creaminess of her skin as well as the fine structure of her cheekbones. Though some of the less gracious, or less lovely, females dismissed the simple style as too countrified, every male in the ballroom greatly admired its effect.
“It’s as well her beauty sparkles so,” Stratford commented as his gaze followed Helen’s progress about the floor, “for her wit does not shine at all.”
“If she so displeases you,” returned Maret on an unusually sharp note, then choose another for your bride.”
“What, and lose my five hundred guineas?” the viscount asked on a laugh. “Not on your life! Besides, I’ve heard that for a wife to have more hair than wit is no bad thing.
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