The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,66

be here, I’m at least going to eat some dessert.”

Tommy perked up. “Dessert?”

As they inched their way through the teeming masses, the music grew louder. Every window in the bustling ballroom was open to allow in fresh air, although the crowd was too dense for much circulation.

Tommy stopped in her tracks, her face gray. “There’s Philippa.”

“Is Faircliffe with her?”

“Not yet.”

“How does she look?” Chloe closed her eyes so as not to see. “Like someone who’s about to marry England’s most eligible duke, like it or not?”

That Philippa didn’t even want to marry Lawrence twisted the knife all the worse—not just for Chloe but for Lawrence and Philippa. What kind of marriage would that be? It sounded even worse than being alone.

“She looks beautiful,” Tommy whispered back, her voice strained. “She’s wearing a purple and azure gown with Antwerp lace. I’ve never seen her look prettier. Anyone would want to marry her.”

“Wonderful,” Chloe groaned. “Exactly the report I was hoping for.”

Tommy glanced at her sharply. “Do you wish her to be unwell?”

“No,” Chloe admitted. “I like Philippa, and I suspect she’s in misery. She may be the only person who wants this union less than we do. Oh, why must aristocrats be so complicated? I’ve known fishwives who married for love.”

“Note to my future self,” Tommy murmured. “Fall in love with a fishwife next time.”

“Fish spinster,” Chloe corrected. “If she’s a fishwife, you’re already too late. I’ve come to believe timing is the biggest predictor of success in matters of the heart.”

“Fish spinster,” Tommy echoed with a sharp nod. “Don’t act surprised when it happens. I’ll tell everyone it was your idea.”

“Then your first mistake was taking my advice,” Chloe said weakly. “Everything my heart tells me to do is a bad idea. For example”—her breath caught—“there’s Faircliffe.”

Tommy froze in place. “Is he heading toward Philippa?”

“He is not.” Chloe frowned. “He’s dancing with Lady Eunice.”

“But this is a waltz.” Tommy’s brow creased. “There’s rarely more than two in a night. What could it mean?”

“That he’s delaying the inevitable,” Chloe said. “Or…that the gossips are wrong. Lawrence is still on the marriage mart.”

She tried to burst the joy that bubbled inside her at the thought. What if it was true? What if, even after this party, Lawrence remained the most eligible, extremely not-betrothed, very bachelor duke in all of England a little while longer?

For a fleeting moment she let herself pretend she was the one he wanted most.

Her bosom filled with wistfulness. Lawrence was the Duke of Faircliffe. He was visible and powerful, and his duchess would be, too. What would it be like to be remembered and respected amongst the beau monde?

You’ll never find out, she reminded herself sharply. He would never choose a Wynchester, and she would reject the suit of anyone who did not accept her family, fully and publicly.

Faircliffe was not that man.

She was glad he had chosen Philippa. Glad, glad, glad. She would keep telling herself so until it came true.

Tommy grabbed her arm in excitement. “I think I found lemon cakes.”

“Wait. The music stopped.” Chloe took a deep, shuddering breath. “Now he’ll go straight to Philippa.”

Tommy glanced up over Chloe’s shoulder and shook her head. “He’s not looking at Philippa. I’d better get those cakes.”

“But—”

Tommy vanished, leaving Faircliffe standing in her place as though the crowd had played the most cunning sleight of hand.

Lawrence gazed at her as though she were the most fascinating painting in his entire fine collection.

Had there ever been a man so handsome or so dangerous? He was freshly combed and pressed, a paper doll come to life—sharp edges and all.

She preferred his cravat crushed between them and his hair tousled by her fingers.

That would not happen ever again.

“I wish…” His eyes searched hers. “I cannot put off my duty to my estate and my title any longer.”

Her stomach sank. She didn’t ask what he meant.

He told her anyway. “Mr. and Mrs. York are hoping tonight’s ball will feature a special announcement.”

“I know.” Her fingers curled into fists. “Everyone knows. Just do it.”

“I’m working on it,” he muttered. “I’m reminding myself of all the reasons I must do this.”

“You told me yourself that she’s what you want,” Chloe said, her words sour. “A perfect highborn family to carry on the Faircliffe legacy, scandal-free.”

None of which was anything Chloe could offer.

“I know.” A muscle flexed at his jaw. His gaze was hot on hers. “I know.”

“Then go,” she said quietly, before he could make things worse by hinting at the possibility of Chloe