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The circle leaned toward her, demanding to know, their voices raised in what she considered the most ridiculous speculation. When someone suggested she was secretly enamored of Hughes, the man who delivered the school’s fish twice a week, she gave in to them.
“Oh, very well! There is someone I met . . . well, I didn’t even meet him, not properly. It was all very brief! But he did rather strike me as someone I could dream about at night, in private, you understand, without anyone knowing.”
Laughter at that, but they quickly hushed themselves. Waiting.
Averil wondered why on earth this name had jumped into her head. It was true that she hadn’t been introduced and did not expect to be—the man was a social outcast—but when she saw him her heart had begun to beat in a rackety manner that wasn’t like her at all. It was during a visit to the opera with a reluctant Gareth Simmons and her chaperone, Beth. Gareth hadn’t wanted to spend time on fripperies but Averil had persuaded him he might meet some rich donors for his Home for Distressed Women, and besides, Beth loved opera, which was the real reason Averil had wanted to go.
Her chaperone and the doctor were of a similar age, rapidly approaching forty, both unwed, and Averil had hoped that they might fall in love and that might lead to marriage. So far, however, although they were polite to each other there had been nothing to suggest they were the slightest bit in love.
Between Acts Two and Three, they’d made their way to the foyer for refreshments. And that was where she’d seen him. And the strange thing was, he was looking at her, too.
For a moment she’d felt as if his gaze were a javelin that had pierced her right through the heart.
It was a dreadful metaphor and Averil wasn’t at all gushy or girly, but that was exactly how she imagined the sensation at the time. She’d thought he was about to come across the room and speak to her, but then Beth was clasping her arm, worrying they would miss the rest of the opera, and when Averil turned her head again he was talking to the Honorable Kenneth McLaren. Much later, weeks later, the Honorable Kenneth met her somewhere or other, and happened to mention that someone at the opera had asked for her name.
“I didn’t introduce you,” he added, “didn’t think it was quite the thing, Lady Averil. His reputation,” he added, with a grimace and a shrug, as if she should know all about it.
“Averil!”
Four pairs of eyes were fixed impatiently on her. Waiting.
“Oh, very well. His name is Rufus, Earl of Southbrook.”
Their collective gasp was very satisfactory.
She spoke hurriedly. “It is ridiculous, I know. The man is a stranger to me—I know he has a bad reputation. I’ve never spoken to him. But there is something about him that appeals to the more frivolous side of my nature. An impossible fantasy.”
“That scar on his face,” Marissa whispered. “Is it from a duel? A scuffle in some dark alley with ruffians? And yet he is very handsome despite it.”
“And that air of danger that seems to cling to him.” Olivia shivered pleasurably. “Is he a man who would protect a maiden in distress? Or seduce her?”
“I’m certain he has some deep, dark secret that needs fetching out into the light and healing,” said Tina, practical as always.
“By the kiss of a woman, and that woman is Averil!” Eugenie had them laughing again.
“There, now, are you happy?” Averil asked, smoothing her skirts and tucking her heavy wheat-colored hair behind her ears—the carefully arranged curls were already falling out, as they always did. Her cheeks were pink and she felt warm and shaky at the very thought of kissing Lord Southbrook. It wasn’t going to happen, she reminded herself. It was all in jest. Rufus, Earl of Southbrook, was nothing more than a piece of theater to amuse her friends—and the man she dreamed of at night in her bed where her thoughts were nobody’s business but her own.
They filled their glasses with more champagne and lifted them in a toast. “Let us drink to Averil and her earl!”
“To Averil and the earl!”
Averil drank, too, laughing.
Tempting fate.
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
Mayfair, London
Some months later
Rufus Blainey, Earl of Southbrook, was angry.
No, he was furious.
His uncle, the Honorable James Blainey, had returned to London from taking the waters in Bath, and instead of staying put in the Mayfair town house, as instructed, had gone off seeking the pleasures to be found in the capital. Rufus knew only too well what that meant. Gaming houses, cards, dice, money changing hands—and not in James’s favor. Luck had deserted James twenty years ago and yet still he believed that one day he’d find her again.
