Page 61 of How to Best a Marquess

Chapter Seventeen

She was dancing with Lord Osbourne.

Hugh had spotted Ellie as soon as he stepped foot on the ballroom floor. Her red hair was like a beacon, drawing him in like a drowning man. She looked stunning in a green gown of hugging silk. Her hair had been styled in an elegant chiffon with curls framing her face. A green emerald was nestled between her breasts in her low-cut bodice. He recalled her soft flesh, her strawberry-tipped nipples that had him salivating to lick and lave, her soft cries as she reached her peak.

He’d been starving for a glimpse of her. For two days, she’d isolated herself in the office of the Raven Club and had rarely ventured out.

Hugh had tried to focus on his work, tried to push her from his overheated mind. The additional boxing matches had started, and he’d extended invitations for champions Tom Crib, Bill Richmond, and Gentleman Jackson to attend. Everything was going according to plan. If only he could focus on his goal to win the club.

Christ. She’d gotten under his skin. Again.

And here she was dancing with the most disreputable rake in all of London. Hugh’s own reputation paled in comparison to Osbourne’s.

“Lord Deveril?”

Hugh reluctantly tore his gaze away from Ellie toward the feminine voice to see Lady Fabry standing before him. She curtsied, showing a good amount of cleavage, then slowly rose to meet his gaze.

“We did not have ample time to converse at Lady Emberly’s garden party, my lord. I was happy to hear of your safe return from your service in the army,” she said.

They hadn’t had time to speak because Hugh had been quick to dismiss her. “Yes, thank you.” He looked over her shoulder and tried to keep his eyes on Ellie and Osbourne.

Isabelle cocked her head and studied him like he were an interesting piece in a curiosity cabinet. “You haven’t changed in appearance, my lord.”

“It has only been five years.”

“Much can change in that time, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, you are married. Lord Fabry, correct?”

An expression flashed in her eyes then was gone. “Lord Fabry just celebrated his seventieth birthday.”

The difference in their ages was as clear as the gleam of interest in her eyes as she looked at him.

“Birthday wishes to your husband,” Hugh said.

He glanced at the dance floor. Ellie laughed at something Osbourne said as they met and parted with the quadrille. He couldn’t hear the tinkle of laughter, but he could feel it deep in his bones. Damn.

The dance ended, and the orchestra played a different tune.

The waltz.

Of all the rotten luck. Hugh watched helplessly as Osbourne took Ellie in his arms and whirled her across the dance floor. She smiled up at him, and jealousy reared like a hungry beast inside him.

Hugh’s fingers clenched at his sides. He wanted to stride up to the couple, wrench Osbourne away, and punch the man square in the nose.

Just then, the couple spun and Ellie looked up, making eye contact with him. Her gaze darted to Lady Fabry standing close to him, her hand on his arm.

A flicker of emotion passed over Ellie’s face—pain, resentment—but she turned away as the dance continued.

No. This is not as it seems.

“I’ve thought of you over the years.”

“What?” Hugh turned to Lady Fabry, his brow drawn.

“I’ve thought of you,” she said, smiling coyly. “Of what occurred in the gardens between us. Our kiss.”

Lady Fabry’s words fell on deaf ears. All he heard were the strains of the orchestra as they slowed, then ceased. Hugh watched, helpless, as Osbourne escorted Ellie out the open French doors onto the terrace.