The Rogue’s Prize (32 page)

offenses, just as he’d successfully done

before.

“Come with me, my gel,” Stanton

crooned, insinuating he would not take

“no” for an answer. He directed her to a

garden bench and urged her to sit.

“Lord Stanton, I cannot thank you

enough for lavishing so much attention

upon me. However, you mustn’t dote.

Surely you have other prospects — ” she

gulped, “ — friends to lavish your

attention upon. I do not dare monopolize

your time.”

“Nonsense. You’re my breath of

fresh air,” he teased. “In the meantime,

perhaps we shall both get what we

want.”

“You are sure I am not an

inconvenience?”

“Inconvenience? That I will not

allow,” he answered. He cleared his

throat rather awkwardly. “But should

you need protection, no one could stand

in my way. Do you need protection?”

Why was the idea of gaining the

Marques’s protection appealing? Surely

her reaction to Burton was the cause.

She did need protection from him. But

she could not ask Stanton for it. It would

be unconscionable to expect anything

more than kindness from this man who

had only so recently risen to her defense.

“I can take care of myself,” she

declared. “Honestly, there’s no need to

hover.”

“Perhaps there are more reasons

than you know. For instance,” he said,

inclining his head toward the center of

the room, “why is that ghastly man so

fixated upon you?”

“Who?” She glanced into the

ballroom, exasperated that she could not

evade this very topic.

“Burton, of course,” he continued.

“Does he have a claim upon you?”

“No,” she answered hastily. Taking

a deep breath, she took more care with

her response. “I rarely see the man and

hardly know him otherwise.” There.

That wasn’t a lie.

“Then it appears, dear lady, you

need a champion. Never you fear!” he

exclaimed. “I gladly apply.”

If only he could.
She suppressed a

giggle. The idea of the dandy before her

taking on Burton seemed almost comical.

“How do you fare now? Better?”

he asked, fanning her face.

“Much.” She smiled. His attempts

to protect her warmed her heart. The

concern in his eyes put her at ease.

Against her will, her eyes focused on his

full lips, lips which promised tantalizing

delights. Constance wanted to capture

the moment between them and, though

she was cynical of Stanton’s intentions,

she wished the contentment she felt in

his presence would never come to an

end.

Moonlight reflected from above.

The veranda was made even more

appealing as a breeze ruffled through her

hair. His gaze traveled over her head

and she felt his imagined touch as if it

had been real. He exuded masculinity

which conflicted with his appearance.

Having dealt with Thomas aboard the

Striker
, she recognized the heat building

in his two penetrable dark brown eyes.

He stepped forward and clasped her

hands in his. Though his touch startled

her, she wasn’t frightened.

Music pulsed around them. He

opened his mouth to speak —

“That will be all, sir.”

She turned toward the voice.

“Father, I — ”

“Constance, you’ll be missed.

Come along.”

Her father’s stern rebuke broke the

spell Stanton’s passionate eyes created.

Thoroughly

admonished,

and

embarrassed to have the Marques

quickly dismissed in such a way, she

stood at once, reacting as if slapped.

“Forgive me,” she pleaded.

Fire ignited his eyes, a fire that

confused and threatened to engulf her at

once. While her father looked on, he

took her hand and placed a kiss upon her

gloved knuckles. “It’s been a pleasure,

my Lady,” he said.

“I must go,” she quickly implored,

snatching her hand away, hoping not to

cause her father any more displeasure. “I

shall never forget your chivalrous

rescue,” she promised.

Stanton raised his quizzing glass.

“Remember I am but a cravat away if

you ever have need of my services.”

“I assure you, Marques, my

daughter is in good hands.”

• • •

Five and selected pianoforte and soloist

performances lilted in the night air.

Impressed by the extravagances indulged

upon the patrons, Percy ambled his way

through

the

crowd

toward

his

destination, the woman who posed more

of a threat to him than death itself.

Flattering those he passed, he examined

Constance from afar as she entertained a

circle of guests. She was a vision. Her

hair pinned high upon her head with seed

pearls secured throughout cast her in

regal

silhouette.

Ringlets

dangled

temptingly about her face, reminding him

of the wild passionate creature in his

bed and he wanted to tear down her hair

and see her once again in dishevel. She

moved with grace, smiled with gentle

melancholy and her ample bosom

swelled with each gesture. Tamping

down an instinctive groan, his eyes

scanned her circling suitors. Each one

ogled her cache.

Percy wanted to charge through the

assembly like a raging bull and throw

each man out on his arse. And as if

sensing his hostility, Constance glanced

over her shoulder. Their eyes locked.

She smiled and for one brief moment,

Percy felt blissfully happy. But then he

broke eye-contact and glanced away. As

providence would have it, Simon stood

near the entrance to the ballroom.

Making his excuses to the Baroness

Chauncey,

who’d

admonished

his

disappearance, Percy answered his cue.

He sauntered toward the punch bowl,

poured himself a healthy libation, and

then scoured the jovial mob for his prey.

Now more than ever, he knew he would

do what had to be done. Constance

needed him. His child needed a father.

Spying Burton discussing politics with

members of the House of Lords, Percy

clicked his heels, straightened his

shoulders and strode into the enemy’s

realm.

“Ah, there’s the man we discuss,

Burton. Stanton!”

Percy joined the circle and posed

amidst the postulant, educated men,

positioned to entertain and jockey power

with the greatest aplomb. William

Higgins smiled and grew more animated.

“I was just recounting your father’s

lasting influence, Stanton.”

Percy commended the adoration.

“My father’s work in Parliament is

exemplary. I aspire to follow in his

footsteps someday,” he said, gesturing a

bow.

“You’re a magnificent credit to

him, no doubt,” Higgins admitted. “He’s

done our nation unforgettable service.

But tell me,” he said, inclining his head,

“how does he fair?”

“Regrettably … unwell, sir.” Percy

swallowed the lump in his throat.

“No change?” Higgins sobered.

“None,” he said, preferring to

corroborate on social issues.

Placing a hand on Percy’s shoulder,

Higgins condoled, “His accident was

most unfortunate and he is ever in our

thoughts. I know you are acting on his

behalf when you step into our ranks.

Though the thought of it conjures images

I dare not encourage. When the time

comes, we will welcome you to take

your seat among us.”

Burton’s eyes narrowed. Percy took

great care in examining the man’s

reaction, something between envy and

skepticism.

Higgins motioned to Burton. “You

should

know,

Stanton,

Burton

is

lobbying the House of Lords. He

informed me that the two of you have

only just met.”

Percy spun around with a flourish,

his quizzing glass poised over a

judgmental brow. Pretending to forget

his drink, he turned his attention away

from Higgins and emptied his libational

cup all over Burton’s cravat.

“How

clumsy

of

me!”

he

apologized. “Do forgive me for ruining

your pitiful cravat,” he implored,

dabbing at the offensive object with his

handkerchief.

Burton fumed, turning as crimson as

the punch stain. “How dare you!”

Higgins stifled a laugh, but

recovered quickly and rose to Percy’s

defense. “Do forgive the man, Burton.

He’s a genius, I can attest, but lacks

certain — shall we say — dexterity?”

“There’s the end to it,” Percy

confessed. “I have spent many a night

contemplating this flaw. But I do have a

knack with fashion, Higgins, do I not?”

“Formidably

so!

Percy

has

impeccable taste in tailors. I’ve been

trying to explain so much attention is

given to style these days, Burton.

Without a good tailor, one flounders in

society.”

Burton seethed with rage. But,

under the circumstances, he was not at

liberty to cause a scene, which is exactly

what Percy had counted on.

“Shall we ask Throckmorton if he

has another cravat at the ready?” Higgins

suggested.

“No,” Percy interjected. “Let’s not

disturb our host.” Throckmorton was the

one man he didn’t want alerted to his

ruse. He’d already had one altercation

with the duke. “Surely the duke’s

servants can repair the damage. The

night is young and Burton has plenty of

time to look afresh.”

“Commendable as always, Stanton.

Come, Burton, I’ll guide you to the

kitchen,” Higgins offered. “I’ve had the

freedom of using Throckmorton’s maids

on more than one occasion.”

Burton’s lips curled repugnantly,

making Percy question the avenue of his

thoughts. Could the man possibly be any

more transparent?

“This is not the last you’ll hear of

this,” Burton threatened, his finger

jabbing him in the chest.

It took every ounce of his strength

not to rip the man’s finger off. Instead,

Percy made a concerted effort to

straighten his cravat. “I agree. I’m quite

positive we’ll be discussing your

shoddy cravat for months to come.”

Burton was no simpleton. He

quickly caught his barb and shot him a

murderous glare, then begrudgingly

followed Higgins to the kitchen.

His plan enacted, Percy moved

toward the entrance of the ballroom with

one goal in mind, to search out

Throckmorton.

Simon,

no

longer

welcome in his brother’s home, was to

have directed Throckmorton to the

library on the pretense of trying to

prevent a scene in front of Constance’s

guests. Familiar with the layout of

Throckmorton Hall, thanks to Simon,

Percy approached the library with a

sense of rightness he could no longer

deny.

“You’re

not

welcome

here,

Simon.” Throckmorton’s voice leached

through the cracked library door.

“I’ve found a solution to our

problems, Byron,” he overheard Simon

say. “You do not have to wed Constance

to Burton. There is another willing to

offer for her hand.”

“Impossible! Only one man has

made an offer to me. It’s too late for

anyone else to stake a claim upon her

now.”

“You are wrong, Your Grace.”

Percy’s words cracked the bitter tension

already splintering the room as he

opened the door and then closed it

soundlessly behind him.

“Stanton?”

Byron

questioned.

“What is the meaning of this?” The Duke

leered at Simon, confused, irritated.

“Are you suggesting that I would give

my daughter to
him
?” he said, pointing

his finger. “He’s a popinjay!”

“I am,” Simon suggested.