“And Edgemont has been banished from our circles for years. He is a drunk,” the redhead added. “I cannot believe Lady Harrington has allowed them through the front door.”
The two women walked away, their faces close together. He heard them murmuring about Miss Bolton being jilted at the altar and how she’d undoubtedly deserved it. He sighed. The bitches were gathering for a kill. He truly hated society at times, never mind that he stood at its peak. And he always despised gossip, especially when it was based on malice or ignorance. He suspected that, in this case, the gossips knew next to nothing about Miss Bolton—but they certainly wished her ill.
He felt a welling of compassion for her. Too well, he recalled and would never forget being a small boy and overhearing the servants or guests discussing him. Not that he cared any longer about being called a bastard, but as a child, those whispers had been confusing and hurtful.
He glanced back at Alexandra Bolton. She remained seated, but suddenly she looked up, as if on cue. His heart raced again. He did not mind, but he was now somewhat amused by his own reaction to an older, albeit attractive, and impoverished gentlewoman in a rather distasteful dress. It had been a long time since the mere sight of a woman could arouse him.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Charlotte Witte murmured.
He turned and bowed. He’d been enjoying Charlotte’s favors for several months now. She was blond, petite, spectacularly beautiful—and very determined to keep his attention.Too determined, in fact, and her desire to become his wife had become more and more transparent. That was crossing the line. “Good evening, Lady Witte. You are in fine form tonight.”
She smiled and curtsied, dutifully pleased, then glanced past him at Miss Bolton. “Such high drama, Your Grace. And I know how you like to avoid drama and theatrics.”
He gazed impassively down at her. He did thoroughly dislike spectacles of any kind. “So you accuse Miss Bolton of deliberately attracting my attention? How unfair, when she is not here to defend herself.”
“If she did not intend to make a spectacle of herself, then she is fortunate, is she not? For she did attract your attention.” Charlotte was smiling, but her blue eyes were hard.
He managed not to sigh. She was jealous, as he supposed she should be. Except that she was only a lover, and he never made promises he did not intend to keep. He’d certainly made none to Charlotte. “I am hardly so cold-hearted that I would allow a damsel in distress to faint at my feet.”
“I would never imply such a thing,” she said, as if taken aback. Then she smiled, glanced around, and stepped closer. “Did you receive my note?”
“I did,” he said. She wished to know if he intended a rendezvous later that night. He’d meant to make the appointment, but now he glanced toward Miss Bolton, who was on her feet and sipping from a flute of champagne, while smiling at one of the older gentlemen. His gaze sharpened. The older man was besotted. “Do you know Miss Bolton?”
Charlotte managed to keep smiling. “I know of her, Your Grace, but no, I do not know her. How could I? She is a seamstress. Her father is a drunk. We do not run in the same circles.”
He stared at her. “Pettiness is hardly becoming.”
She flushed. “I do beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
And in that moment, he knew he was done with Charlotte Witte.
She murmured, “Will I see you later tonight?”
He somehow smiled. “Not tonight.” He had no intention of offering up any explanation for his decision.
She pouted so prettily that most men would have changed their minds. “I will console myself with my dreams.”
He nodded at her, and she finally drifted away. But before he could find the new object of his interest, Alexi approached. “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with me. I am a paragon, remember?” Stephen said, and Alexi laughed.
“So why run off such a beautiful woman?” Alexi asked, but more seriously. “Oh, wait, I know the answer. You are bored.”
Although they had shared quite a bit of his finest Irish whiskey the night before, the subject of his marital status had not arisen a second time. “Please do not lecture me on the impossible delights of matrimony.”
Alexi’s grin turned wicked. “The delights are only impossible if you are lucky in love.”
“My God, she’s turned you into a cow-eyed poet.”
“Ah, an insult you will have to pay for. Drinks at the Stag?”
“Will she let you out of her sight?”
“I have my methods of persuasion.” Alexi grinned.
An image of Alexandra Bolton passed through Stephen’s mind. “At midnight, then.”
“I’ll round up Ned, if I can,” Alexi said, referring to their cousin, the present earl’s son and heir.
“And what about me,” a woman said, “or is this evening meant to be strictly and exclusively one of male camaraderie?”
Stephen turned to greet Alexi’s sister, Ariella, now Lady St. Xavier. He’d grown up with Ariella, as well. These days she was besotted with her husband and had somehow blossomed into a very beautiful woman, but she remained the highly educated and intellectually insatiable woman he had known since he was a child.
Brother and sister embraced. “This is indeed a moment of inherent male chauvinism. You are not invited to the Stag, but St. Xavier is.”
“I’ll think about allowing him out,” she teased, “although I have much better plans for him tonight.”
Stephen thought he blushed. “That is beyond polite conversation,” he said mildly.
“I abhor polite conversation.” She shrugged, smiling at him. “In fact, I have just come from a meeting of the People’s Advocacy for Textile Workers.” Then she pinched his cheek as if he were a small child. “I know you will donate to the cause of a labor union. By the way, I have been hearing odd rumors about you, Your Grace. Are you on the verge of a betrothal?”
He started, amused. “Don’t you know better than to listen to idle gossip?”
“I thought the gossip unlikely, but one never knows.” However, Ariella looked at him closely. “Is someone on your mind, Stephen?”
“If there was, he would tell me,” Alexi said. “His best and possibly only friend.”
Stephen couldn’t help thinking about Alexandra Bolton, who was very dignified, even while about to swoon. “The gossips have been claiming that I am on the verge for years,” he said coolly. “It is wishful thinking.”
Alexi laughed, rather wickedly. “You are staring at that brunette.”
Stephen gave him a languid look. “I am simply concerned that she might not be feeling well.”
“Really?”
