Page 7 of Too Wylde To Tame
His expression was quite serious when he replied, “Why does any man do such things? Was it not Miss Austen who declared it a universal truth that any unmarried man in possession of a good fortune must also be in want of a wife?”
Charity wasn’t quite certain how she was supposed to digest that bit of information. Was she a prospect for him? Or was he simply being polite and dancing with her to appease her brother-in-law who had likely roped the man into it? “I see. There are any number of eligible young ladies in attendance tonight.”
“Are there? I hadn’t noticed.” His gaze locked with hers with that statement, and there was no denying that it was indeed quite loaded.
He was very definitely flirting with her. While she had only a passing acquaintance with what that was like and it had been years since she had experienced it, the man was not subtle about his meaning or his intentions. “Why did Phinneas introduce us?”
“Because I asked him to,” he replied, spinning her about the floor. “Because from the moment I saw you enter this room, I wanted to know more about you.”
“And does your brother have anything to do with that? Lord Jameson Dartwell?”
His lips thinned and firmed. “My brother and I have very little to do with one another, Miss Wylde. He lives a very fast life and I am, much to his dismay, not inclined to gamble and carouse my way throughthe Ton, burning bridges as I go. It has been a point of contention between us for many years. But I can assure you that nothing about my desire to meet you, to dance with you—and I hope—to call upon you at your earliest convenience, is in any way related to my sibling.”
“Tomorrow.” The word came out breathlessly, her voice sounding completely unfamiliar to her own ears.
He blinked in surprise. “Pardon?”
“Tomorrow, my lord. That would be my earliest convenience,” she said. There was something about Lord Frederick Dartwell, Viscount Welbey. A connection between them that she had never experienced before. Initially, she had thought that spark of attraction would be only one sided. But knowing that it was not had given her a spark of hope that they might explore that connection more fully, that he might well be, as her sister referred to Phinneas,the one.
“Then tomorrow it is, Miss Wylde. I will be counting the hours,” he said.
“As will I,” she admitted.
And just like that, his beaming smile and those irresistible dimples made another appearance.
* * *
Across the ballroom,watching from a distance, Lord Jameson Dartwell observed his brother waltzing with his own quarry. Of course, he thought. Even portly spinsters would deem him unworthy in the face of his titled brother. Resentment bubbled inside him, like a cauldron ready to spill over. Why was it always Frederick?
It wasn’t just that he’d been born first. It wasn’t even that he had the title and all of the family’s money. Frederick had also been the favorite. How many times had their father looked at Frederick with awe and opined that he would be the salvation of the family? Somehow, his elder brother had been spared whatever fever lit the blood of every other man in the family for adventure, for risk, for the thrill of illicit pleasures. He might as well have been a monk with how virtuously he lived.
Jameson couldn’t stop the sneer from twisting his lips as he watched them, twirling about the floor, smiling at one another as if they were the only two people in the world. The rage he felt belied just how little he cared for Miss Wylde. It could have been any woman who had snubbed him and favored his brother. That she was so singularly ineligible only added insult to the injury.
Oliver Kent placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. “You can concede the wager now. It’s quite obvious that she has made her preferences very clear. No bad seeds like us for the virtuous Miss Wylde. Only a paragon like your brother will meet her exacting standards. No wonder she’s become a spinster.”
There was something in Ollie’s tone that alerted him. The man had some grudge against her. Suddenly, the wager made more sense. “She rejected you too.”
“Her missishness has made things complicated for me We were only teasing her, having a bit of fun. But, of course, Randford showed up and now—well, I’m surprised I was even granted admittance tonight. The man has the power to ruin me. Ruining someone so closely connected to him will even the odds a bit.”
It wasn’t nearly so cut and dried as that, Jameson thought. Ollie’s pride was as wounded as his own. He didn’t want Charity Wylde anymore than Jameson himself did. But she was supposed to want them, wasn’t she? She was supposed to be grateful for their attentions. “It doesn’t matter. I’d do it without the wager now. Without the payment of any kind. Just to watch my sainted brother fall into woebegone mourning when the woman he clearly fancies turns out to fancy someone else. She’ll be ruined, Ollie. One way or another.”
Ollie smiled. “You’re a man after my own heart, Dartwell… or you would be if I had one.”
“That fellow you use to do your dirty work… Stanton, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Jameson smiled. “If I know my brother, he will mean to call on her tomorrow. He’s not one to drag his feet. If Stanton can ride, I’ve got an errand for him. Something that will see Frederick well occupied.”
“I’ll put it on your account,” Ollie replied. “He’ll come by the Albany tonight.”
FOUR
The infernal knocking was not in his head. The dream of constantly hammering against a rock that gave no indication of budging or cracking was in fact his mind’s attempt to incorporate that banging on his door into his slumber. Cursing softly, Frederick rolled over in bed before sitting up. Despite his love of country life, he wasn’t truly a morning person. He was even less so when keeping town hours that meant staying up until nearly dawn.
A glance at the sun streaming in through the eastern facing window told him that it was not yet noon. Whoever was disturbing him would have to be possessed of a very sound reason to do so or they’d get the tongue lashing of a lifetime.
Getting to his feet, he tugged on his breeches and slipped his discarded shirt over his head before padding to the door in his barefoot. The person on the other side of that door was his man of affairs, Joseph Fincastle. The short, squat little man had a perpetually florid face and the temperament of a nervous Pomeranian. But he was steadfastly loyal and capable beyond measure. He also wouldn’t be there without a damned good reason.
