Page 11 of Lady Petra and the Wolf

And why should I care?

Chapter Four

“My lord, how lovely to see you this evening,” a seductive voice purred in Wolf’s ear as the cloying scent of roses curdled his senses. The noxious smell forced him to admit to himself that he much preferred lilacs these days.

Wolf’s time with Lady Wyestone the year prior had been, by the standards of the ton’s rakes, a desirable liaison. As the beautiful young wife of an aged earl, she was much sought after. Yet, while it had pleased him at the time, Wolf eventually found the affair left him strangely empty. Perhaps this feeling of ennui began with that affair.

“I wonder if I shall see you later this evening, my lord?” The lady withdrew a dark fan from her reticule, quite en vogue of late, hiding her face so that her invitation was not seen or overheard by those in the crush.

There was nothing ostensibly wrong with Lady Wyestone. She was beautiful in an English rose sort of way, with her honey blonde hair and her aquiline nose. His previous relations with the lady had always possessed a distinctly transactional nature, a cold exchange entirely devoid of genuine warmth. For the first time in their acquaintance, Wolf felt himself seized by an unbidden and uncharacteristic pity. She was, after all, so very young to be encumbered by such an aged husband. Yet, the prospect of alleviating her desires held not the slightest flicker of interest for him at that moment. While he wished her no ill, he would not renew their liaison that evening. Or ever.

“And how is Lord Wyestone, my lady? Does he fare well?” he asked deliberately. Behind her fan, the lady’s blue eyes narrowed and he felt a bit of a cad. But truly, why should he feel a cad for dissuading a lady from breaking her marriage vows?

“He is quite well, my lord. I believe he has set off for the card room.”

Lady Wyestone could have announced her husband’s departure for Svalbard, and Wolf would have been equally unconcerned. His attention was completely diverted by the announcement of the arrival of Lord Kemberley, accompanied by Petra and a taller woman who strongly resembled her. He cursed himself for getting caught up with Lady Wyestone, and not seeking out John before their arrival as he took in both ladies. The taller woman must be Petra’s cousin, Jillian Eden, daughter of the late Baron Beckforth. Wolf could see a likeness and an easy companionship between the two women as they graced the receiving line. At their arrival, heads began turning to follow Petra’s cousin, so far a mystery to Polite Society with both the scandal over her head and her relation to Lord Kemberley. And yet, Wolf’s eyes were inexplicably drawn to the petite lady on her right.

Beside her cousin, Lady Petra wore a demure cream gown with royal blue bows on the sleeves. Her attire, the garb of any respectable young lady, should have been the greatest reminder that she was an innocent, not to be trifled with. And yet, the Lucifer in him marveled at the prospect of untying those bows, unwrapping the mystery of the lady before him. As Wolf attempted to reel his thoughts in, an intake of breath came from his side. Lady Wyestone stood directly beside him, obviously curious about what or who had captured his attention so thoroughly.

Following his gaze, she gave a small shake of her head, then whispered, “She is not for you.” As she turned dramatically and left him with that reminder, Wolf was forced to agree.

Petra was not for him. But she was not for John either…

* * *

The journey by carriage to the Bromley Ball proved to be amongst the most constrained minutes of her existence. Petra’s father had been decidedly displeased by her afternoon excursion with Lord Wolfridge, even upon Petra’s explanation that the viscount was merely endeavoring to hasten Lord John toward the altar. His already piqued temper was further exacerbated by Jillian, who had failed to provide a suitable account of her own afternoon spent in the company of an old friend.

“I do not appreciate you taking my charity lightly, Jillian,” Petra bit her lip as her father returned to the topic once the carriage door had shut. “I do not care what you did in Madrid, but I cannot have you flouncing about town without a thought to propriety. It is not only your reputation at stake.”

“My apologies, uncle.” Jillian replied evenly. “I merely went to follow up on some information regarding my brother.”

“You know my solicitor will do that, Mrs. Eden.” Petra’s eyes widened as her father used her cousin’s married name instead of her Christian name to address her.

Jillian did not flinch, absorbing the slight with grace. Unlike Petra, she had never feared Lord Kemberley. Petra was not certain if this was due to her simply not knowing the extent of her uncle’s capabilities, or if it was because her own father had been such a monster. Either way, Jillian refused to cower. And Petra could not have loved her more.

“It was my understanding that any news about Stephen was good news, my lord.” Jillian’s eyes flicked briefly to Petra and then back to Kemberley. Petra had told Jillian of her belief that her father wished Stephen to be found and cleared because he wanted another peer in his pocket.

Kemberley’s face softened slightly, though Petra knew this was not in any sort of victory for her or Jillian, his interest in reprimanding his niece just ebbing away.

“And you, Pet,” he said, his eyes shifting back to her. “I will only allow this mild flirtation with Wolfridge to go so far. You will only engage with the viscount to hasten your betrothal.”

Jillian squeezed Petra’s hand where it lay on the velvet squab of the carriage. Petra had told Jillian that she was almost engaged to a good man, and she was looking forward to introducing the two of them that evening. Glancing down at their joined hands, she realized Jillian and Lord John’s family estates must be close together, as they were both not far from each other in Kent. Perhaps they had met before.

The only time Petra had been allowed to see her cousins was when they were in London.

Petra had never been to Beckforth Hall, as her own father had looked down so thoroughly on his brother-in-law, Baron Beckforth. The Bad Baron, as he had been known, was not only infamous for his drinking and gaming but for his inability to pay back his bets, which Petra once overheard her father complaining about years earlier. Kemberley himself frequented card tables to assess his political opponents and allies, always watching and waiting. It was known to very few that occasionally being free with his IOUs was his one minor vice. A habit that was considerably more of a weakness for the late Baron Beckforth.

“Are we clear, Mrs. Eden? Pet?” Her father asked softly, but the power and malice in his voice was palpable in spite of his relaxed repose in the carriage.

“Yes, Papa,” Petra answered, hiding her wince at the diminutive, while Jillian gave a clipped nod. Keeping her gaze down, Jillian caught Petra’s eye and gave an almost imperceptible wink. Making sure her father was looking away, Petra turned her gloved hand over and squeezed her cousin’s in return. Despite both of their fathers, Jillian never bowed down. Petra wished with all her might that she could be more like Jillian in that regard. Perhaps being around her now would give her the strength and courage to fight her own father.

Years of being a pawn in his schemes had taken their toll. As they pulled up to Bromley House, Petra’s spine tingled with apprehension. Kemberley had a larger plan afoot. If only she could decipher what it was.

Exiting the carriage, Petra was struck by the sight of the elegant townhouse, its entrance illuminated by the newly lit lamps. A rush of excitement overcame her nerves, not just for attending a ball, but for accompanying Jillian to her very first one. Having married at a young age, Jillian had missed a Season, and her presence alone promised to inject life into the often-monotonous events of the ton.

Petra gripped Jillian’s gloved hand as they were announced, directing her initially to the receiving line. As she thanked Lord and Lady Bromley for their gracious invitation, Petra had the oddest sensation of someone’s gaze upon her. The air in the ballroom, thick with so many bodies and such voluminous gowns, seemed to press in on Petra as she scanned the crush for the source of that sensation. Her gaze swept the room as she left the receiving line and her father excused himself to the card room. She took in the clusters of chattering guests until her eyes snagged on a figure near one of the two curving, marble staircases.

There stood Lord Wolfridge.