Chapter Forty-Seven
AS DOMINIC WALKED ACROSS the ballroom, he realized it might not have been a good idea to leave Brooke with another Whitworth, especially her mother. Brooke’s parents had had specific plans for their daughter, a Season in London and probably a handpicked husband. He wouldn’t be surprised if Harriet was the one who had pushed Robert into goading him the other day. The whole family would have wanted him to reject Brooke, but when he didn’t, mother and son might still be plotting to that end.
Although his own mother was trying to make the best of a bad situation, he knew she still grieved deeply for Ella and would be reminded of her loss whenever she saw Brooke. These misgivings continued to plague him.
“Your bride-to-be doesn’t look very happy talking to that woman,” Archer remarked casually as he fell into step beside Dominic.
Dominic stopped to glance back at Brooke. “That’s her mother. She said she didn’t like her family, but then she’s said a lot of things and I haven’t a clue what’s true or not.”
“Now that’s a nasty statement, old chap. You won’t make progress if you’re going to doubt everything she says.”
What progress? Dominic wondered. “She baldly admitted she’s used to hiding her feelings. At least she was on the up-and-up about that.”
“Or perhaps that was a lie?” But Archer suddenly laughed. “And here I thought I envied you when I clapped eyes on her tonight. You said she was pretty. That simply doesn’t describe your fiancée. Introduce us. I wouldn’t give a bloody damn if she’s hiding things.”
“No.”
Still staring transfixed at Brooke, Archer offered, “I’d be happy to whisk her away for you, out of the country. You can say she was kidnapped. It would be true. No blame on you, then, eh?”
“Just the loss of everything I own.”
“So I could wait until after the nuptials before I rid you of this thorn.”
“She’s not a thorn,” Dominic mumbled. “But you’re becoming a nuisance. Do go away.”
Dominic walked away first, knowing his friend wouldn’t. Since Dominic had met Brooke, she’d filled his mind in every way. He’d even come close a few times to thinking he could do more than tolerate her. That night they’d spent together, she’d ignited his passions and satisfied him so completely. It would be so easy to love her if . . . If! There were far too many of those. Yet here he was approaching another woman with Brooke’s blessing to be unfaithful to her because of that silly bargain of hers that he didn’t understand.
He’d had every intention of embracing her bargain if it was what she wanted, but he was just realizing belatedly that he didn’t want to. Just then his path was blocked, and everything he’d felt the day Brooke arrived at his home returned to him.
The Prince Regent with three of his sycophants just behind him stood in Dominic’s way. And looking quite the dandy as usual in his chartreuse satin tailcoat with extrawide lapels and fashionable white trousers. The long length of the pants had apparently been invented by the Regent’s good friend Beau Brummell, so of course he would wear them. Most of London already copied Brummell’s unique style. Even the Regent’s lacy cravat was likely Brummell’s doing, fluffed up exceedingly high, probably to conceal the Prince’s double chins. But the man was nearing fifty. No fancy clothes could hide the dissipation of his life.
Dominic had known the royal might put in an appearance tonight; he’d just hoped he wouldn’t. And Prinny, as his friends called him, had obviously already been in the ballroom before Dominic and Brooke got there; the commotion his arrival always caused would have alerted Dominic otherwise. Which was too bad. Prior warning would have given him time to mask what he was currently feeling.
“I wasn’t told she was a beauty,” the Prince remarked, looking beyond Dominic at Brooke, before smiling at Dominic. “You must be pleased.”
“You would not care to know what I am, Highness.”
Dominic said it so coldly, the Regent looked a little nervous.
“Yes, well, at least you are complying. Carry on.”
The small group continued on their way along the edges of the dance floor. Dominic didn’t move a muscle, fighting off emotions that could get him hung. To think his life could be changed utterly just because that man couldn’t live on the fortune Parliament already granted him; he had to spend that and mount up debts that would have long since landed any other man in debtors’ prison.
Dominic glanced back to make sure the Regent wasn’t heading toward Brooke. He wasn’t. One look at her helped to rid Dominic of his rage. Ironic. She usually caused it, but not tonight.
He continued on toward Charlotte Ward. He’d heard that she’d remarried not long after their brief one-week affair; he just couldn’t remember what her new husband’s name was. Blond with light blue eyes, she was exceptionally pretty, yet she hadn’t held his interest for long. Too mercurial in her moods, too clinging. Or had that been Melissa? Too many mistresses; he supposed he might be getting a little jaded.
“Charlotte.” He took her hand to kiss the back of her fingers politely before he waved a hand at the dance floor. “Shall we?”
She gave him a brilliant smile and accepted his arm. But they’d only twirled twice before she looked at him with her brow raised to say sulkily, “It took you long enough to come back to me after Priscilla. I can’t imagine what you saw in her. By the by, she’s here.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” He didn’t try to spot Priscilla Highley in the crowd when it was all he could do to not glance toward Brooke again to see if she was watching this performance.
Charlotte huffed. “Don’t pretend you have eyes only for me with a fiancée that looks like yours does.”
It was true, no one there could hold a candle to Brooke Whitworth. If he was going to plow through old mistresses and find new ones, it was going to be hard to explain why he might prefer anyone to his own wife.
For the moment he evaded with “It’s complicated, arranged, you might say.”
That made her laugh. “So you’re getting your final oats sowed before the wedding?”
Charlotte would apparently be willing to start up their affair again even though she had remarried. But he found himself choosing a different course. “Actually, I need a favor if you wouldn’t mind—and remember we parted amicably.”
She gave a good semblance of a pout. “I pretended. I was crushed.”
He managed not to laugh. “Is that why you married again so quickly?”
She grinned even as she waved a dismissive hand. “He’s incredibly rich. How could I not?”
“That you’re no longer a widow makes you off-limits, I’m afraid.”
“Must you have scruples?” She sighed. “Fine, what favor can I do for you, darling?”
“Slap me and look angry when you do it.” She laughed instead, forcing him to add, “Please.”
“You’re serious? But whatever for?”
“As I said, complicated. But consider, if you really were crushed when we parted, then it’s long overdue, isn’t it?”
“When you put it that way . . .” She cracked her palm across his cheek.