Page 1 of Enticing Odds
Prologue
Rowbotham House, London, 1870
She’d been standing herefor ages.
How easily the unwanted thought slipped into Cressida’s mind. She ignored it, lest it take hold and cause her to do something utterly stupid, like yawn. To do such a thing would be to concede that she, the Lady Caplin—viscountess and arbiter of good taste, good sense, and impeccable dress—was capable of stooping to something so low aswhinging. It simply would not do.
Not in the presence of so many envious onlookers who would have relished the spectacle. Cutthroats, the lot of them.
So Cressida remained steadfastly in place. Standing at the top of this blasted marble staircase, her head high and her face serene. It felt as though she’d been receiving her guests for an age as the heat gradually built in the room. She’d done her duty, nodding slowly with a cool smile as every guest invited by her own pen had been announced. She’d even extended the same grace toward the inevitable uninvited interlopers.
All eighty-four partygoers, save one. One whom she could scarcely afford to abandon to his own devices.
She would rather not spend any amount of time with Sir Frederick Catton, but she dared not leave her post before he arrived, lest he flit off to make another ill-advised decision and be relieved of yet another outrageous sum.
Hands held loosely before her, Cressida glanced over her shoulder. The ball was carrying on as it usually did. The young ladies, bursting with hope and excitement, darted about the room like minnows, while the gentlemen—empty-minded carp, slack-jawed and slow-moving—found themselves unable to defend against the crafty mamas who cast their nets wide in search of the best match. More dangerous were the pikes, lurking in the weeds, ready to ambush some unsuspecting bit of muslin swimming about the shallows.
Cressida supposed she’d been lucky, to a certain extent, for in her day she had managed, without the loving and guiding hand of a mother, to hook herself a viscount. Granted, Lord Caplin had been a fat, senseless bullfrog of a man; there were few other ways to describe him. A half-witted, hateful creature with beady eyes whose only charitable act had been to expire while Cressida was still young and handsome.
For that, he had her eternal gratitude.
With a small smile in the direction of the current season’s catches, Cressida congratulated herself once more. Where would she be without her canniness?
Certainly not here—widowed, wealthy, and well-respected.And, she mused, tapping her fingers against her skirts as her gaze skittered about, angling for a certain type of gentleman,well-satisfied. Her most recent lover, a young diplomat blessed with several pleasing attributes—not least his distaste for permanent attachments—was currently abroad. It had been months now, though, she realized.
Too long, is it not?She smiled to herself, watching over her guests with even deeper interest.
“Daydreaming, are we?”
Cressida tilted her head slowly, keeping her eyes carefully averted, not wishing to give Frederick the satisfaction of knowing he’d startled her.
“My darling brother,” she said coolly, “I was beginning to think you’d quite forgotten about me and my silly little ball.”
He sniffed and strode past her to the balustrade, his squinty eyes uncharacteristically intent on the proceedings.
She waited, but when he did not speak, she moved to retrieve her fan from the footman who’d been standing sentinel alongside her and Wardle, her butler. Both servants made themselves scarce as Cressida sidled up to her brother, forcing a wry smile. She could never let him know how much his general insouciance irritated her.
How nice it must be, to have never stuck your neck out for anyone. How wonderful it must be to have not, at the tender age of seventeen and at the behest of your elder brother, wedded a foolish and sweaty viscount twenty years your senior. And of course, how liberating it must have been to reap all the financial benefit of her hard work, of her labor—laid out on her back, screaming as if she were being rent in two as she birthed Caplin’s heir. Frederick must have been well pleased to no longer be on the hook to provide for her, to be free to dine with earls and dukes and squander away their father’s wealth at dice and all the other games of chance the upper crust amused themselves with.
She waited.
Still he did not speak, instead watching the crush of people below. Cressida studied him as his eyes eventually settled upon one young lady in particular. Miss Ada Doussot—a tall, willowy beauty with a pale face and light, hesitant eyes. Weak eyes. Weak eyes that were currently gazing upon the ghastly Mr. William Brenchley as if he were something far greater than the ill-tempered younger son of an earl.
It was her first season. She’d make a docile bride, and if Cressida surmised correctly, she would not be wanting for offers.
For some blasted reason it rankled.
“Why, has someone caught your interest?” Cressida teased. “I confess, I never thought you very marriage-minded. But then, the years do march on, do they not?”
Frederick turned a cold eye on her, but she did not quail.
“You’ve a mind to set up your nursery?” she continued. “Shall I pick up my needles? Booties and a bonnet from auntie, I should think.” She smacked him playfully in the arm with her fan.
Frederick wrinkled his nose, as if he smelled something foul.
“I assure you, I am quite serious. I intend to be a most generous aunt.” Never mind everything else she’d already sacrificed for her family.
“I didn’t know you knit,” he said blandly, his eyes still drinking in the graceful form of Miss Doussot. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d the mind for it. Don’t see how any woman manages it, truly.”
