The London Season was most certainly the eighth circle of hell. Seducers, flatterers, hypocrites. And those were just the fellows Greg was familiar with. Not for the first time that night, he wondered why he was standing in the front corner of Lady Astwick’s ballroom, holding a cup of tepid punch and watching young chits swirl about the dance floor on the arms of such men.

The question was a rhetorical one, however. He knew exactly why he was there. His sister-in-law Phoebe had made it her mission to drag him to the most exclusive events in Town ever since his arrival a fortnight earlier. No matter how much he adored his sister-in-law – and he truly did – he was in no mood to have her thrust any more of her un-wed friends in his direction.

After all, he hadn’t come to Town to socialize. And he certainly hadn’t come to Town to find a wife. He’d come to be of support to his sister. His sister, who was not even in attendance this evening, damn it all. So he shouldn’t have been dragged to this dratted ballroom, not really.

“I could have sworn Lissy was here when we arrived,” Phoebe complained under her breath. Then she raised herself up on her toes as though to get a better view of the ballroom. Searching for yet another one of her friends she wanted to foist upon Greg, most certainly.

He could go one evening without enduring such a thing. Damn it all, he could go a lifetime.

“Carraway dragged her away while you were in the retiring room, my love,” Tristan replied smoothly, placing his hand on his wife’s back until she dropped back down to her heels. “And do watch your balance. I’ll be carrying you out of here with a twisted ankle if you’re not careful.”

Phoebe, who wasn’t known for her surefootedness, turned around, her auburn curls bouncing about her shoulders. Her blue eyes twinkled with mischief as she gazed up at her husband. “Lord Carraway?”

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.” Tristan shook his head. “The fellow looked to be well beyond angry, Phoeb.”

“Whenever he encounters her, she puts him in a mood,” Phoebe agreed. Then she shrugged nonchalantly and smiled at her husband. “Don’t you remember how you were always so prickly in my presence? Before you realized you loved me, I mean?”

“I hardly think I was prickly.” Tristan narrowed his eyes on his wife. “Besides, I doubt this is the same thing.”

“But it could be,” Phoebe replied dreamily. “I think they might make a splendid match, don’t you?”

If that meant Phoebe wasn’t inspired to toss whoever the chit was in Greg’s path, he was all for it. “Oh, I do,” he added as he handed his glass to a passing footman. Though he had no idea who she was talking about…well other than Lord Carraway, a bloody politician, naturally. And with that thought, Greg was right back to imaging Lady Astwick’s ballroom as the eighth circle of hell.

“You might like her.” Phoebe turned her full attention on Greg. “Lady Felicity is always in the brightest of dispositions.”

So much for the chit making a splendid match for Carraway. Greg heaved a sigh. He didn’t know Lady Felicity, but he knew the name. He knew it quite well. “The lady who’s forever putting Russell in his place?”

Phoebe grinned. “She does rather excel at that.” Then his sister-in-law’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh! And speaking of the devil.” She rose up on her tiptoes again and called toward the entranceway, “There you are!”

Greg, Tristan and several others turned their attention to a pretty blonde girl, who looked at once panicked. She lifted her skirts, turned on her heel and quickly bolted down the corridor, away from the ballroom.

“Lissy!” Phoebe called after the girl, but the chit didn’t so much as slow her gait.

“That skittish mouse is the same girl who makes Russell shake in his Hessians?” Whatever he’d expected of Lady Felicity, she didn’t appear to be the reputed dragon his middle brother had been known to hide from on occasion. Though she certainly had the right idea about escaping the ballroom, Greg had to give her that.

Tristan smirked. “You should see her in action.”

But Phoebe wasn’t smiling, a concerned look settled across her brow. “Do you think she’s all right?”

Once again, Tristan placed a hand on his wife’s back until she dropped back down to her heels. “She looked fine to me, my love. But I’ll go after her, if you want.”

Phoebe slid from Tristan’s grasp. “I think I’ll do so myself. If something is wrong, she’ll be more inclined to confide in me than in you.” Then she started for the exit, stumbling slightly only once, leaving Tristan and Greg to themselves.

Greg looked out once more across the sea of people filling the Astwicks’ ballroom and frowned. “Do have a talk with your wife, Tris. I don’t want to be dragged from event to event like this for the next few months. How you can endure such torture is beyond me.”

“Phoebe enjoys it, and I love making her happy.”

“Well, I don’t enjoy it,” Greg grumbled, not that anyone cared about making him happy.

Tristan shrugged as though silently confirming that information meant very little to him. “You promised one season, Greg. She’s bound and determined not to waste any time where you’re concerned.”

At that, Greg scoffed. Loudly. “To what end? In finding me a bride?” He shook his head. “I’m resigned to the fact that Russell will inherit someday. There’s no need for me to marry and fill my nursery.” And there wasn’t. Russell and his heirs would take Rufford Hall at some point, and that was that. Though Tristan would make a better steward, there was nothing to be done about birth order.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Tristan said softly, his concerned green eyes level on Greg.

“I came to London for Cordie, not to find a wife. So do call off yours, my dear little brother.”

A bemused smile lit Tristan’s lips. “Humor her. It makes her happy.”

God forbid Phoebe Avery be unhappy. Greg scowled in response. If he wasn’t so fond of his sister-in-law, he’d tell her to go hang. Tristan too, for that matter.

A hiccup sounded from the threshold, and Greg looked toward the sound. A very pretty girl with dark-as-night ringlets framing her face stared up at the man beside her, a look of mortification across her countenance. Greg couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Hmm,” Tristan muttered. “Haven’t seen him a million years.”

Greg had never seen the fellow, not that he knew of anyway. “The dolt is foxed.” Because he very clearly was, with glassy eyes and a flushed face, and he appeared even more uneasy on his feet than Phoebe generally was. Perhaps the Astwicks’ would be more enjoyable if Greg were foxed. It was something to consider for next time.

“That does not surprise me,” his brother replied. “Drank all the way through Eton as though brandy was water.”

“Who is he?”

“Gillingham.” Tristan scratched his chin. “Keeps worse company than Russell. Can’t imagine why he would show up here. Hardly his usual haunt.”

Well, that was simple to understand. He was obviously there for the raven-haired beauty on his arm. Greg glanced back toward the pair. She was stunning. Her dark hair, her silvery eyes, and he couldn’t help but wonder who she was….which was completely foolish. What the devil was wrong with Greg? As he shook that thought from his mind, Gillingham teetered just so as though he was about to lose a bout with gravity.

Oh, good God.

Just as the fellow started to tumble forward, Greg pushed past Tristan and caught the drunken lord about the waist before he fell flat on his face.

“Elliott!” The beautiful girl gasped. Then she turned her pretty grey eyes on Greg and smiled slightly, and he felt it somewhere in his soul. “Thank you, sir. I—”

“Not at all.” Greg shook his head. Up close she was even more beautiful. How the devil was that possible?

Gilligham made some sort of sound and Greg turned his attention back to the soused fellow. But he seemed to have his footing now, which was a good sign.

“You all right?” Greg asked as he took a step backward, making certain the man could stand on his own.

But the fellow wasn’t all right. His face suddenly took on a greenish pallor right before he cast up his accounts all over Greg’s Hessians.

* * *

Goodness! Bella wished she could disappear, evaporate into the ether or have the ground swallow her whole. It didn’t matter, she’d take either option. How could Elliott have done such a thing? How could he have retched across some stranger’s boots in the middle of Lady Astwick’s ballroom? She had fourteen days to find a husband, but after tonight she wouldn’t be able to show her face in Town.

“Oh, sir!” Her hand fluttered to her lips. “I am so terribly sorry.” She didn’t know what else she could possibly say.

The gentleman’s green gaze lifted from his stained boots to stare directly at Bella. The fury on his face sent her heart racing. Oh goodness! What was she to do?

“Come with me, my lord,” Lady Astwick said a half-second later, her Scottish brogue lilting in the air. “We’ll get ye all cleaned up.”

The gentleman cast one more scathing glance in Elliott’s direction before allowing Lady Astwick to lead him from the ballroom.

“All right.” An army lieutenant heaved a sigh. “This way, Gillingham. Time to head home.” He grasped Elliott by the shoulder, careful not to get directly in front of Bella’s foxed brother.

“Avery?” Elliott asked, not a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “Where did you come from?”

“Been here all night.” He nodded to Bella. “Excuse us, Miss. I’d better pour the baron back into his coach and send him on his way before anything else unfortunate happens.”

“Thank you, sir.” Bella couldn’t agree more. “But he’s my brother,” she admitted softly. “I’ll get him to our coach.”

A sympathetic expression settled on the lieutenant’s face, but Bella didn’t have time to ponder the meaning of the look. People were already gaping at them. “I doubt very much you can carry him on your own.” He gestured toward the corridor with a tilt of his head. “I’ll help you.”

Thank heavens for the kind lieutenant. Bella wasn’t certain how she would have moved Elliott without the man’s aid. And she wasn’t certain how she was going to manage the next fortnight on her own either. Clearly, her brother was not the ally she’d hoped for.

The lieutenant, however, didn’t seem to need Bella’s assistance in the least. He draped Elliott’s arm around his shoulder and practically dragged her brother from the ballroom with ease. Bella trailed after the duo, down a corridor.

Suddenly, a door to a parlor opened, and Lady Felicity Pierce’s blonde head poked out from around the corner. Goodness! What was Lissy up to now? If Bella wasn’t so preoccupied with her own troubles, she would have asked her friend that very question; but as it was, Lissy was just who Bella needed to talk to. If anyone could help her find a husband within the next fortnight, it was Lissy Pierce. Possibly. Hopefully.

Relieved, Bella heaved a sigh and smiled at her friend. “I’m so glad to see you!”

Lissy returned her smile, though it seemed slightly feigned. “Well, I’m glad to see you too.”

“I’m just leaving,” Bella admitted, glancing after her brother and the lieutenant’s departing forms. “Gillingham has made a scene, unfortunately. Would you be able to go for a walk in the park tomorrow? I desperately need your council.”

“Of course,” Lissy replied, though her eyes strayed back toward the ballroom as though she was looking for someone or afraid she might see someone, rather.

Bella didn’t want to distract her and she needed to follow after her brother anyway. “I’ll send you a note then, in the morning,”

“Perfect.” Lissy nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”