A Rogue to Ruin (The Pretenders #3) - Darcy Burke Page 0,25

Mrs. Gentry came, and she said so too.”

Rafe lightly squeezed Selina’s shoulder, then released her. “Yes, let us go downstairs. The ballroom, you say? It’s in the corner, I’m not sure which one, and it has doors on two walls that open outside. There’s a reflection pool.”

Mrs. Gentry grinned. “Yes. That’s right.”

Rafe stood, his legs finally feeling steady and his heart beating at a slightly slower pace. Sheffield rose and offered Selina assistance. She took his hand and pressed herself tight against his side. Rafe was glad she had him. This was more than a shock; this was unbelievable. An unending barrage of questions assaulted him.

“Follow me, my lord,” Mrs. Gentry said. “Unless you remember the way.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Rafe admitted.

The housekeeper nodded before turning and walking from the gallery.

Sheffield looked at Rafe, his eyes glazed with disbelief. “You’re the Earl of Stone?”

Rafe took the most substantial breath he had since walking into the house. “Apparently so.”

After completing a circuit of the ballroom, Anne had to accept that Rafe wasn’t there. Had he left? The day suddenly became far less interesting.

“Ho there, Miss Pemberton. Terrible storm, what?” Sir Alergnon asked as he intercepted her next circuit.

Only a few inches taller than her, with thick brown hair and kind eyes, Sir Algernon Betts-Hinsworth was unabashedly on the Marriage Mart. He’d expressed his interest in Anne before she’d accepted Gilbert’s proposal. In hindsight, Anne had chosen very poorly—all because Gilbert had kissed moderately well. After kissing Rafe—and thoroughly enjoying it—that had seemed an important attribute. And since it had seemed Rafe was lost to her, she’d searched for a replacement.

He was not, however, lost to her any longer.

She summoned a smile for Sir Algernon. He was a pleasant sort, even if Anne had no interest in kissing him.

“Yes, it was rather sudden and the rain fierce,” she said, remarking on the squall that had sent them all to the folly.

“An indoor picnic is exciting, though, isn’t it?”

Exciting wasn’t the word Anne would use. “It’s better than no picnic.”

“Just so, just so.”

The footmen had laid blankets around the ballroom and were beginning to set up the food. Outside, the sky had darkened further, and the second storm that had threatened when they’d come inside now unleashed itself upon the earth. Water sluiced down the ballroom windows, and wind shook the trees.

“I’m quite delighted to be inside,” Sir Algernon remarked. “I daresay the trip back to London will take twice as long as the journey here.”

While he spoke, Anne scanned the ballroom, then stared at the main entrance. The arrival of two people made her breath catch until she recognized them—her godfather’s daughter, Deborah, and her husband, Lord Burnhope.

Anne seized on the opportunity to excuse herself. “Pardon me, Sir Algernon. I wish to welcome Lady Burnhope.” She gave him a warm smile before hastening across the ballroom.

By the time Anne arrived at Deborah’s side, her husband had already gone. “I thought perhaps you weren’t coming,” Anne said.

“Just late.” Deborah patted a slender hand against the back of her elegantly styled brown hair. She always looked as though she’d stepped from the pages of La Belle Assemblée. “We were caught in that horrendous storm, and that delayed us further.”

Lord Stone came toward them, his brows drawn as he surveyed his daughter. “Deborah, you are quite tardy. As usual.” His lips pressed together in disapproval.

“My apologies, Papa. Burnhope had business that held us up, and the weather was uncooperative.”

“Writing another treatise on beetles, was he?” the earl asked with a touch of sarcasm. “Well, you are here at last. We’ve moved the picnic indoors. It would have been nice to have your help when the arrangements needed to be adjusted.”

Anne shifted uncomfortably. She’d been present for too many occasions when her godfather had needled his daughter, and Deborah typically pricked his ire in return. It was a contentious relationship. Once, Lord Stone had told Anne he wished she’d been his daughter instead. He’d promptly apologized, but Anne had never forgotten.

Deborah’s eyes hardened, but her mouth curved into a smile. “How can I help now that I’m here?”

“I believe it’s all been handled. Just supervise Anne, if you will. You’re good at that.” Stone winked at Anne before going to speak with some of his guests.

“You’re good at that,” Deborah mocked. She dashed the back of her hand over her brow. “My apologies. Do you actually require supervision?”

The irony was that Deborah wasn’t good at that. She’d been a terrible chaperone back when she’d allowed