Clearly both members of the Rothwell lineage could not be seen to abandon the ballroom but Casper refused to return until he’d found something tolerable to drink.
He’d poked a head into all the unlocked rooms, but so far had only found liquorless trinket-filled parlours. Without doubt, this abode off Berkeley Square had more useless ornaments than the House of Lords.
His brother thrust a hand through his Brutus mane – not quite dishevelled enough with the time Casper had allowed him. “Mrs P has found out about Lady F so I’m keeping my head below the parapet till my waltz with the Duchess of Rakecombe. And isn’t that a prime example of a marriage not built upon land and duty. Did you see them on the staircase?”
Indeed, he had. Another betrayal.
The Duke of Rakecombe was a comrade who could once have been relied upon for a grumble in the corner. A joint stare from them both could dissuade even the most avid debutante from pursuit.
To be truthful, Rakecombe could manage that alone, but he’d married last year, and earlier Casper had endured the offensive sight of him…nibbling his duchess’s neck.
The world was crumbling, and lust, it seemed, made fools of even the most ruthless of dukes.
For some reason, a vision of Mrs Swift troubled his mind, teasing and dallying, her fingers trailing the mahogany, and he would have lingered with the vision but for a giggling couple who wended their way past with linked hands and devoted stares.
Hell, ballrooms recently had come to resemble the honied clouds of Olympus – Eros and his cherubs batting him across the face with soft pillows of mawkish sentimentality.
This phenomenon never arose in his ancestors’ day. Marriage was a meeting of estates and land, principles and bloodlines not…affection. “Disgraceful display,” was all he could think to say.
“And don’t forget the Marquess of Winterbourne,” prompted Ernest.
Even a rogue couldn’t be trusted to be a rogue nowadays as Lord Winterbourne had performed a most unseemly public declaration last year – without proper addresses to the lady or indeed any scheduling whatsoever. Complete spontaneity.
Confound it, what was London coming to?
Desolately he continued to stalk the corridor until a lady in stunning deep sapphire turned the corner. As she drew near, they both swept to one side with low bows.
“Your Grace,” she purred.
“Mrs Locke. Delighted.” A sharp punch to his spine. “And may I present my brother, Lord Ernest Brook.”
They did the pretty, Ernest flattering with rakish charm but Casper rolled his eyes; his brother would receive no lascivious invite to the shrubbery from the widowed Mrs Locke as her fair blond looks hid a soul of ice.
“I do hope you might grant me a waltz later?” Ernest cajoled, fingers still enclosing hers. “Such beauty should not be lurking in shadowed hallways but dancing in the light.”
A worthy opening salvo.
Mrs Locke’s expression remained impassive, pale-blue eyes unblinking. “I fear you are right, Lord Ernest. One meets the most revolting creatures in the shadows.” And she yanked her hand away, wiping it upon her silk skirts.
Casper winced but his brother was never one to be deterred.
With hardly a twitch, Ernest enacted his “peering over the top of his spectacles” look which had once, according to gossip, caused a debutante to swoon in her trifle. “Cupid,” he drawled, “must have blinded me to previously miss such exquisite perfection, whether in shadow or light. Where have you been hiding, Mrs Locke, as I have not heard your name mentioned?”
She cocked her head. “And yet I have heard all about you, Lord Ernest Brook.”
Somewhat inconvenient. How would his brother mitigate that damage?
Ernest grinned. “But hearsay is not comparable to viewing with one’s own eyes, Mrs Locke. Do I live up to your expectations?”
Casper peered at his fobwatch. There was no point to this really – his brother might as well flirt with the stone Juno they’d just passed.
Blond curls bounced as she nodded, perusing his form with scathing eye. “Indeed you do. A gambling, licentious, profligate rake.”
Cut to the quick, but nevertheless, Ernest brought a hand to somewhere near his heart. Or perhaps liver?
“You wound me, Mrs Locke, and gossip can be so cruelly embellished, although ’tis true, as in the words of Caliph Vathek, ‘I am not over-fond of resisting temptation’.”
Those Gothic novels were rotting Ernest’s brain.
