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Curses smashed through his head. If only he hadn’t believed the viscount when St. Trevelyon assured him that his late father had met Fulvia.

In his rush to finish with an unpleasant task—marry the noblewoman’s daughter his father had supposedly identified—Fiennes had made a dreadful mistake.

One from which there was no going back.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

HEARTBREAK AND ITS AFTERMATH.

Ella waited until guests began drifting back to the ballroom or followed the Prince of Wales into the game room before she rose, making apologies to her supper companion, Lord Devin, and accepting a few more compliments on her cousin’s extraordinary beauty, talent, and upcoming marriage to Lord Peregrine.

She had wrestled her emotions under control. She probably looked strained, but not tearful. Tired, but not brokenhearted.

What right had she to be brokenhearted, anyway?

In the last hour, she’d come to the chilling realization that she had been lucky not to have lost her virtue right there in the attic.

Everyone knew what happened to a maid when a gentleman entered her bedroom. Jarvis even gave new housemaids explicit instructions about screaming for help, emphasizing that inebriated male houseguests could be dangerous.

But Ella wondered about her uncle.

Men like him spoke with impunity and took what they wanted. Or at least, what they wanted at that moment. They would promise marriage within sight of a bed and change their minds afterwards.

Lord Peregrine being an example, obviously. He had proposed to her, leading her to believe that he’d break off his betrothal. More the fool she, because in the end, Fulvia’s beauty and charm convinced him otherwise.

She left the supper room, nodding pleasantly to everyone she recognized, planning to head straight for her attic. No one would miss her. The ball was a success; the Regent’s presence alone had guaranteed that. Moreover, she’d heard murmurs on all sides about the excellence of the food and the fragrant lemon trees. Her uncle could take over hosting duties for the rest of the night.

When she reached the entry, a large hand suddenly clamped onto her forearm from behind and squeezed it, jerking her about. “Where are you going?” the viscount hissed.

Ella pulled her arm away, rubbing the bruise that would surely appear by the morning. “I must check the ladies’ retiring room,” she improvised. “Mrs. Beverly told me that the toweling had run out.”

“I’m unsurprised, given your wretched housekeeping,” the viscount said. He was clearly in a high temper: he had the expression he wore only after being shamed. It was rare, but Ella had seen it.

One such occasion was when her father’s best friend cut the viscount dead after her parents’ funeral. His lordship’s eulogy for his brother had extolled the fact that Providence had bestowed upon him the title that he deserved.

Could it be that the Prince Regent had shamed him? Her uncle cared for the opinion of no one below his own rank of viscount. So, it might have been a duke.

The Duke of Lennox looked like a righteous man, and Ella had heard him called a war hero.

It hardly needed to be said that her uncle would never consider putting himself in harm’s way for the sake of his country.

Or anything, or anyone else.

“I’ll be speaking to you after the ball,” the viscount snarled, after checking to make sure that no one could overhear him. “You’ve eaten your last meal under my roof.”

Ella blinked at him. “Who will be your housekeeper, Uncle? Who will pay your bills when there’s money to pay them? Who will care for your wife?”

He reached out, quick as a viper, and pinched her arm, twisting his powerful fingers. “My wife can run the country estate herself. She doesn’t deserve a London establishment like this one. She’s a puling, miserable excuse for a lady. She’s already in bed, did you know that?”

Ella pulled away again and crossed her arms. The mark he made stood out lividly on her upper arm.

“Aye, you’ll have to use those great udders of yours to make a living now,” the viscount said, his eyes resting unpleasantly on her breasts. “I saw you talking to Quinseley’s by-blow, Bianca White. Trolling for customers, no doubt. Perhaps the two of you can walk the streets together.”

Ella had forgotten the combined effect of her low bodice and short stays. She dropped her arms. “You are a terrible person!” she flashed at him.

He snorted. “Speak for yourself. You allowed your cousin to be ruined. How will you sleep at night, knowing that? Your innocent sixteen-year-old cousin up there on stage like a west-end comet, or so they tell me. It’s all your fault!”

Ella gasped. “Fulvia is not ruined!” Her heart started hammering in her throat. “Everyone is complimenting Lord Peregrine on his future wife.”