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Margaret glanced back with a flashing smile, and then she was absorbed into the crowd.
Stupid to feel a sudden chill.
Godric shook off the feeling of loss and started making his way to the refreshments room. It was slow progress with the crowd, but Godric didn’t mind. He kept an eye out for the earl. He’d met the man before and remembered him as genial and hearty. Hardly the description of a man running a slave workshop in St. Giles, but then Seymour hadn’t been especially sinister either. Fifteen minutes later, he was before an enormous bowl of punch and wondering how he was supposed to carry three glasses.
“St. John,” a deep voice rumbled at his elbow.
Godric turned to look into the pale eyes of his great friend Lazarus Huntington, Baron Caire.
He inclined his head. “Caire.”
“Hadn’t thought to see you here,” Caire said, indicating to the footman that he wanted a glass of punch.
“Nor I, you.”
Caire raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Strange how marriage can reform even the darkest reputation in the eyes of society.”
“No doubt,” Godric replied drily. “Here. Hold this for me.”
Caire looked bemusedly down at the proffered cup of punch but accepted it docilely enough. “I take it you’ve come with your wife?”
“And my sister and my wife’s aunt,” Godric muttered, juggling glasses.
“A full house, then,” Caire drawled.
Godric glanced at him, brows raised.
Caire’s habitually bored expression had softened just a trifle. “I’m glad.”
Godric looked away again. “Yes, well …”
“Come,” the other man said. “You can introduce me to your wife properly. Temperance was all agog with the news of her arrival at the Ladies’ Syndicate the other day.”
Godric nodded and turned into the crowd, making his way without another word to Caire, but he felt the other man at his back just the same.
They’d made it halfway across the ballroom when Caire grunted behind him. “There’s Temperance with a gaggle of ladies. Is that your wife there?”
And Godric looked up to see Margaret leaning close to laugh up at the dark face of Adam Rutledge, Viscount d’Arque—one of the most notorious rakes in London.
VISCOUNT D’ARQUE WAS really quite handsome, Megs thought, and he knew it too. His light gray eyes seemed to sparkle with sly, unspoken words: Am I not the most beautiful man you’ve ever set eyes upon? Come, admire me!
And Megs did—from his lean cheeks to the wickedly curving mouth with its pronounced Cupid’s bow—although that wasn’t the main reason she stood too close to him and laughed at his worldly witticisms. No, Lord d’Arque had been a close friend of Roger’s. While Roger had been alive, Megs had always been a bit daunted by the viscount and his extravagant beauty. Too, he was considered a dangerous rake by society, and as an unmarried lady, it was in her reputation’s best interest to stay well away from his path.
For a matron, though, it was an entirely different matter.
Marriage did have some advantages, Megs thought rather bitterly. She could flirt discreetly with rakes—when all she really wanted to do was continue her argument with Godric.
As if the thought had conjured her husband, Godric suddenly appeared in the crowd, making his way toward them, his face grim. Megs lifted her chin and deliberately turned to Lord d’Arque. “It’s been an age since I’ve seen you, my lord.”
“Any time away from such a lovely lady is an eternity,” Lord d’Arque said gallantly, lowering his eyelashes and then glancing back up into her eyes.
Had he been looking down her bodice? The man really was deliciously terrible. She smiled. “I believe we have a mutual friend—or had one.”
The cynical smile didn’t leave his face, but his eyes seemed to grow wary. “Indeed?”
“Yes.” Roger and she had kept their love affair secret. At the time it had seemed to make everything more magical. They’d just been on the point of announcing their engagement when Roger had … She inhaled, unable to keep her lips from drooping. “Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”
Lord d’Arque’s beautiful gray eyes sharpened.
