Page 3 of Sinfully Daring

“A pity,” Rosamund said, quirking an eyebrow. “When so many of us ladies were languishing for partners of less than six decades. If you will attend a ball, you might remember why you are there now and then.”

“I do qualify for that list, I might remind you,” Hargreaves told her sternly.

Rosamund bit back a smile, endeavouring to reply with equal gravity. “Ah, yes, though you did not ask me either, but I am remembering now that you are not quite ancient, my lord, only almost.”

“Almost thirty, my lady, and not until next year,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “And I was too terrified to ask for a dance from such a dazzling vision for fear of rejection. A fellow’s confidence is easily wounded, especially when the lady makes no demur about telling him he is an old nincompoop.”

“I never said you were a nincompoop,” Rosamund pointed out, her expression grave.

Lord Hargreaves spluttered with feigned indignation. “Pip, this creature is dreadfully cruel to me. Take her away, will you?”

Pip frowned at them both. “He’s only nine and twenty, Ozzie. Hardly in his dotage. Why didn’t you dance with him if you were lacking for partners? Thorn would have danced with you, too. Why didn’t you ask?”

“I wasn’t …. He never—” she began, exasperated, before giving up. “Oh, never mind.”

She bade Montagu and Thomas a good day and cantered down the row until she was by herself, then slowed to a walk. A moment later, Hargreaves appeared beside her.

“You see how it is,” she said, shaking her head and laughing, for what else was there to do? “He’s oblivious.”

“I do see… Ozzie?” he added, grinning.

Rosamund blushed. “My family calls me that, and close friends.”

He chuckled, clearly enjoying her embarrassment, the wretch. “Well, your father is there with St Clair. You catch up with him and I’ll go back and work on young Pip.”

“Work on him how?” she asked, a little suspicious of what he might say.

“Leave it with me,” he said airily, before tipping his hat to her and riding off again.

5th June 1842, Mrs Digby-Jones’ Ball, London.

Sebastian walked up the steps and into the lavish foyer of yet another grand house. He greeted his hostess politely, his wife’s hand resting lightly upon his arm. In a moment they would go their separate ways, her to spend the evening bathing in the attention of whatever hapless fool she could enslave with her beautiful face and figure, and him to the far end of whatever godforsaken ballroom he was doomed to inhabit for the evening. Anywhere he didn’t have to look at her. Once upon a time, a single glance at Adelia’s face would have made him tremble with longing too, but that was the effect she had in the first weeks and months of knowing her. It took far longer to discover that what lay beneath the lovely exterior was cold and hard. It was still difficult to believe she’d had an affair with another man, for she found the physical aspects of love distasteful. Most of the ton thought she cuckolded him regularly, but the truth was rather different.

Adelia thrived on adoration. She wanted to be loved unconditionally, beyond reason and sanity, until that love became too real, too human and messy. Then it was unpleasant and tedious, and she could not get free of you quickly enough. She had been all too happy to give up on her lover, the poor devil. A romantically inclined artist of some repute, he’d been heartbroken, and Adelia only too relieved when Sebastian took her to France until the scandal died down.

It suited her to be married, for it placed a barrier around her that meant she could flirt and behave outrageously and then back off, apparently for fear of her husband’s wrath. To begin with, there might have been truth in that. In the early years of their marriage, she had driven him close to madness, causing him heartache and jealousy and inspiring fights and scenes enough to fill a hundred scandal sheets, but no longer. He was weary of her games and could only pity the unfortunate men who got entangled with her. She had broken too many hearts for him to count, and his interference only ended with more scandalous headlines that he could well do without.

He sometimes wondered if things might have been different if fate had blessed them with children, but he could not force his attentions on a woman who made no secret that she found his touch repellent. Sebastian had been patient and as kind as he knew how to be, but she would not allow him near her. He’d considered an annulment, but the humiliation and the scandal would be appalling, and then the realisation of what would become of Adelia if he carried such an act through stayed his hand. Their relationship deteriorated as Adelia’s behaviour became increasingly scandalous and Sebastian resigned himself to the fact he had made a mesalliance. So, there was no heir. The title would go to his foolish cousin when Sebastian died. Though the title itself didn’t bother him so much, the fact he would never have sons or daughters of his own was a source of private sorrow Sebastian tried to assuage with social activity and friends. That strategy would work a deal better if propriety and society’s wagging tongues didn’t force him to escort his wife occasionally for the sake of appearances.

So, he did his best to ignore her, to live his life and to find as much pleasure in it as he could. He enjoyed convivial company and whatever amusements were on offer and, whilst many people might believe him a fool, he had friends who understood his predicament and hid their pity well enough to salve what remained of his pride. When loneliness became too much to bear, he retreated to the lavish Orchid House for an evening, to spend the night in the embrace of some lovely courtesan, but whilst the encounters might help to ease his physical longing for female company, they left him empty and unsatisfied, and lonelier than ever.

Even if Adelia had welcomed his touch, which she certainly did not, he could not have borne the thought of bedding her. He’d discovered to his chagrin that he had a romantic soul, and the physical act of lovemaking was hollow when there was no emotion involved. The Orchid House was one thing, and only an act of desperation when he could no longer be easy in his own skin, but to bed a woman he positively disliked and resented, and who could not abide his hands on her, was utterly beyond him.

Once free of Adelia, he strolled around the ballroom, nodding greetings and snagging a glass of champagne from a passing servant. His mood immediately lifted upon seeing the Duke of Bedwin’s lovely daughter, Lady Rosamund, standing speaking with her mother, the duchess. Another young lady stood with them: a Miss Morcombe, if he wasn’t mistaken. Miss Morcombe was a pretty young woman, but with no dowry to speak of and no connections. That Rosamund had taken her under her wing made him smile. It was very like her. From what he had heard, she always troubled herself to include those unmarried ladies who might otherwise be overlooked.

“Ladies, good evening, I hope you are all in good spirits and ready to dance?”

“Are you inviting us all, Lord Hargreaves?” the duchess asked with amusement, giving him her hand.

Sebastian bowed over it and looked up at her with a smile. “I am. I have been raked over the coals for not doing so at the last ball and would not dare be so remiss again.”

The duchess sent an enquiring look towards her daughter, who huffed.

“I did no such thing,” she protested. “Mama! He’s only teasing, I swear. As if I would complain that he hadn’t asked me to dance.”

“Hmm,” her mother replied, giving Sebastian her haughtiest ‘duchess’ look.

Not that he was intimidated. Her grace was notoriously tender-hearted and had a lively sense of humour, which he appreciated. She was only playing with him. It was clear her daughter had inherited the same qualities, for she was hiding her mouth behind her fan and Sebastian was certain she was laughing.