It was too late. The company had already dissolved into raucous laughter, bandying about improper title after improper title until references to lust and book bacchanalia seemed pious in comparison.
Chloe’s cheeks hurt from grinning at the antics of all her…friends? Perhaps next time she wouldn’t have to try so hard to avoid seats facing looking glasses. She suspected all she would see was joy reflecting back at her.
She leaned forward and leapt into the competition for who could invent the most scandalous group name.
32
Lawrence could not calm his nerves. His pacing would have worn holes in his carpets if he still had any.
Spending an entire night with Chloe had been more than he’d dreamed it would be. Perfect. Magical. A terrible idea.
No matter how much he yearned to, he couldn’t keep her. His duty was to his title, not his heart. He should not let himself forget it again.
Even if she was everything he wanted.
To clear his head, he raced Elderberry down Rotten Row. On the way home, he passed Gunter’s Tea Shop.
A row of carriages lined Berkeley Square. Some of the passengers still perched in their open conveyances. Smart waiters dashed back and forth between the shop and their customers, taking and delivering orders. On a fine, sunny day like today, Gunter’s was second only to Almack’s in amassing the greatest number of fashionable people. If he hoped to find an heiress with a dowry capable of saving his ancestral estate, he ought to start there.
Lawrence tied Elderberry to a post.
Leaves crunched just behind him.
“Faircliffe,” said the Marquess of Rosbotham with far more joviality than their superficial acquaintance warranted. “I hear your courtship with that York chit spoiled like month-old cream.”
So the word was out.
Lawrence clenched his fingers. Until he settled his finances, he could not afford to alienate any member of the ton and risk his standing.
“No promises were made, nor hearts broken,” he replied evenly. “Her business is her own, as is mine.”
“Oh, come now,” Rosbotham chuckled. “Her mother claims the girl was the one to walk away, but we both know that family would have toppled a king for a chance at a dukedom. What’s wrong with the chit? You can tell me the truth.”
“The truth,” said Lawrence, each clipped syllable frosty with unconcealed disdain, “is that Miss York is an exceptional young woman of intelligence and good breeding who would make any discerning gentleman a lucky groom indeed.”
“‘Intelligent.’” Rosbotham made a moue and gave an exaggerated shiver. “Say no more.”
With a wink, he sauntered off to the next clump of fashionable customers awaiting their ices.
Lawrence ground his teeth in frustration. There was nothing wrong with Philippa York. Not only had Lawrence meant every word, it had been a compliment. “Intelligent females” were no plague to be avoided at all costs. Cleverness and resourcefulness were traits Lawrence particularly admired.
It was why he loved Chloe. His chest ached.
He adored being able to talk with her about anything and everything. Chloe didn’t just incite his passions; she made himthink. Nothing could be more attractive.
One of the waiters jogged up to Lawrence to take his order, then sprinted off to the next customer.
It was the Earl of Southerby, who had not hidden his interest in Chloe.
Lawrence clenched his jaw.
The earl grinned at him. “Couldn’t help but notice your fascination with artwork at that soirée the other night. What is it the Yorks have? A Van Eyes?”
“Van Eyck,” Lawrence corrected. “And no. It was a van der Weyden.”
Southerby gave a snort of jovial self-deprecation. “It could have been a van der Prinny Himself and I wouldn’t have known any better. How do you keep it straight?”
“I visit exhibitions,” Lawrence said. “They have helpful little plaques next to each work of art.”
