Joseph Fawcitt, Marquess of Attingsborough, was a cousin, nephew of the Dowager Countess of Kilbourne. He had been one of the spectators of the fight, Lauren realized, but had seen them and had come to hurry them away. She took his arm gratefully. Actually, she thought, hearing the echo of his words, it was probable that there was no other gentleman on Rotten Row. Surely they were all clustered about the brawling men.

“How provoking it is sometimes to be a lady, Joseph,” Elizabeth said, taking his other arm. “I suppose if I were to ask you who that gentleman is who is fighting and why he is doing so, you would not answer me?”

He grinned down at her. “ What fight?” he asked.

Elizabeth sighed. “As I thought,” she said.

“For my part,” Lauren assured him fervently, “I have no wish to know.” She was still flushed at the memory of the gentleman fighter, naked from the waist up. And of his words— come on, you buggers.

Joseph turned his head to look down at her, a twinkle in his eyes. “Mother intends to call at Grosvenor Square this afternoon,” he said. “She has plans for you, Lauren. Be warned.”

Some rout or concert or ball, doubtless. It was proving extremely difficult to convince Aunt Sadie, the Duchess of Anburey, Joseph’s mother, that she simply did not wish to join in any of the activities of the Season. Having seen her daughter, Lady Wilma Fawcitt, eligibly betrothed to the Earl of Sutton before the Season even began in earnest, Aunt Sadie had turned her well-meaning matchmaking eye upon Lauren.

Joseph turned to address a remark to Elizabeth, and Lauren, despite herself, looked back over her shoulder. She had heard a loud cheer a moment before. The fight was over. The crowd had parted along her line of vision, and she could see that the gentleman with the naked torso was still on his feet. But if she had been shocked before, she was doubly horrified now. He had a woman in his arms—his were right about her waist and hers were wrapped about his neck—and he was kissing her. In full view of a few dozen spectators.

He lifted his head just as Lauren looked, and in the fraction of a second before she could whip her head about to face front again, his laughing eyes met hers.

Her cheeks were on fire again.


“You are looking thoroughly blue-deviled, Ravensberg,” Lord Farrington commented late the following night, crossing the room to the sideboard and replenishing the contents of his glass before resuming his seat. “Foxed, are you? Or is it the eye? It has turned marvelous shades of black, purple, and yellow. Not to mention the bright scarlet slit through which you are peering out at the world.”

“I tell you, Ravensberg,” Lord Arthur added, “I could scarce swallow the kidneys on my plate this morning for looking at that eye—or do I mean yesterday morning?”

“If I could just be sure,” Charles Rush said, “that this mantel would stay upright when I push away from it, I would pour myself another drink. What the devil time is it?”

“Half past four.” Lord Farrington glanced at the clock six inches from his friend’s head.

“The devil!” Mr. Rush exclaimed. “Where has the night gone?”

“Where all nights go.” Lord Arthur yawned. “Let’s see—I believe I started the evening at m’aunt’s rout—a deuced flat affair, but family duty and all that. I did not stay long. She looked over m’shoulder to see if Ravensberg was with me and then, even though he wasn’t there, read me a lecture on the company I keep and the nasty tendency rakish reputations have of rubbing off on a fellow’s companions. It seems I ought to stay away from you, Ravensberg, if I know what is good for me.”

His friends shared the joke by roaring with hearty mirth. All except Kit, that was, who was sprawled with casual elegance in a deep chair beside the fireplace in his bachelor rooms on St. James’s, gazing vacantly with his one healthy eye into the unlit coals.

“You won’t have to put up with my wicked influence for much longer,” he said. “I’ve been summoned to Alvesley.”

Lord Farrington sipped his drink. “By your father? Redfield himself?” he asked. “A summons, Ravensberg?”

“A summons.” Kit nodded slowly. “There is to be a grand house party this summer in honor of the seventy-fifth birthday of the dowager, my grandmother.”

“An old dragon, is she, Ravensberg?” Mr. Rush asked sympathetically. “ Do you suppose the mantel would collapse if I stopped holding it up?”

“You are three sheets to the wind, old chap,” Lord Arthur informed him. “It’s your legs, not the mantel.”

“I have always had a soft spot for the old girl, you see,” Kit said, “and my father knows it. Oh, for God’s sake, Rush, just look down into your glass, will you? It is still half full.”

Mr. Rush looked with pleased astonishment at the glass in his hand and drained off its contents. “What I really need,” he said, “is my bed. If my legs would just carry me there.”

“Egad,” Kit said, his gloomy stare back on the unlit fire. “What I really need is a bride.”

“Go to bed,” Lord Arthur advised him hastily, “and sleep it off. The feeling will go away by morning—guaranteed.”

“My father’s birthday gift to my grandmother is to be the betrothal of his heir,” Kit said.

“Oh, I say! You are the heir.”

“Jolly rotten luck, old chap.”

Lord Arthur and Mr. Rush spoke simultaneously.

“A pox on all fathers!” Lord Farrington exclaimed indignantly. “Does he have someone picked out for you, Ravensberg?”

Kit laughed and draped his hands over the arms of his chair. “Oh, yes, indeed,” he said. “Along with everything else, I am to inherit my late elder brother’s betrothed.”

“Who the devil is she?” Mr. Rush forgot his inebriated state sufficiently to straighten up and stand unassisted.

“Bewcastle’s sister,” Kit said.

“Bewcastle? The Duke of?” Lord Arthur asked.

“I have obliged my father by withdrawing from the Peninsula and selling my commission,” Kit said. “I’ll oblige him further by going back to Alvesley after almost three years even though I was banished for life the last time I was there. I’ll even oblige him on the matter of the birthday gift. But I’ll do it all on my terms, by Jove. I’ll take with me a bride of my own choosing, and I’ll be married to her before I go so that there will be nothing Redfield can do about it. I have been sorely tempted to pick some vulgar creature, but that would not do. It is just the sort of thing Redfield would expect of me. I’ll choose someone above reproach instead. That will gall him more than anything else because he won’t be able to complain about her. She is going to be dull, respectable, prim, and perfect.” He spoke with grim satisfaction.

For a moment his friends regarded him in fascinated silence. Then Lord Farrington threw back his head and laughed. “ You are going to marry a dull, respectable woman, Ravensberg?” he asked. “Just to spite your father?”

“Not wise, old chap,” Mr. Rush said, treading a determinedly straight path toward the sideboard. “You would be the one married to the woman for life, not your father. You would find such a wife insupportable, take my word on it. The vulgar wench might afford you more amusement.”

“But the thing is that one has to marry sometime,” Kit explained, cupping one hand over his aching eye for a moment. “Especially when the death of one’s elder brother has made one the reluctant heir to an earldom and vast estates and a fortune to boot. One has to do one’s duty and set up one’s nursery and all that. Who better to do it with than a quiet, dull, worthy woman who will run one’s home competently and without fuss and will dutifully present one with an heir and a few spares?”

“But there is a very real obstacle to such a scheme, Ravensberg.” Lord Farrington was frowning when he spoke the words, but he grinned and then chuckled outright before continuing. “What respectable woman would have you? You are a handsome enough devil, it is true, or so I understand from the way females look at you. And of course you have your present title and your future prospects. But you have established an impressively notorious reputation as a rakehell since you sold out.”

“And that would be stating it mildly,” Lord Arthur muttered into his glass.

“As bad as that, is it? What a devilish stuffy world we live in,” Kit commented. “But egad, I am serious about this. And I am Redfield’s heir. That fact alone will outweigh all else when it is perceived that I am shopping in earnest for a wife.”

“True enough,” Mr. Rush admitted, seating himself on an upright chair after refilling his glass. “But not necessarily the sort of wife you are looking for, old chap. Parents with lofty principles and daughters to match steer clear of gentlemen who mill with foul-smelling laborers within sight of Rotten Row and then kiss milkmaids without their shirts on for all the world to witness. And men who on a wager drive along St. James’s in their curricles past all the gentlemen’s clubs, a painted doxy squeezed onto the seat on either side of them. And men whose names appear in all the betting books in connection with every disreputable and outrageous dare anyone cares to wager on.”

“Who are the possibilities?” Kit asked, ignoring this dire prediction and returning his attention to the coals in the fireplace. “There must be hordes of new arrivals in town now that the Season has begun in earnest. Hordes of hopeful misses come shopping for husbands. Who is the dullest, most prudish, most straitlaced, most respectable of them all? You fellows will know better than I. You all attend tonnish events.”