The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,95

Chloe had lost her usefulness.

She held her ground. She was visible; that was step one. Mrs. York might sneer down her nose at the Wynchester family, but she remembered Chloe’s name and face.

“Thank you,” Chloe said, and meant it. “That means more to me than you could know.”

Mrs. York blinked. “Er…what?”

Philippa floated into the corridor in a cloud of delicate lace. “Mother, what are you… Oh, Chloe, there you are. Come on in. We’re waiting for a few more guests before we get started.”

Visible. Remembered. Recognized.

Wanted.

“I’d be happy to.” Chloe started forward.

Mrs. York’s arm flashed out to block her.

“Mother, desist at once.” Philippa’s voice was cold. “If you want me to consider reentering the marriage mart, you will unhand my friend.”

Friend. The word made Chloe dizzy. Or perhaps that was due to being defended rather than dismissed.

“If your acquaintance in any way harms my daughter’s chances…” Mrs. York hissed beneath her breath. “Mind yourself. Or I will pay you back in kind.”

But she lowered her arm and allowed Chloe to hurry past.

Upon reaching the noisy parlor, she paused inside the doorway to catch her breath. Her tense muscles began to relax.

She liked the reading circle. No, she adored the reading circle.

During the previous weeks, they’d all been the heroines they read about. They’d fought invading armies or escaped crumbling abbeys or won the handsome prince. They argued over the parts they liked best and least. Wouldn’t it have been better if this? Or more logical if that? If I were Emily St. Aubert, how I would have felt and what I would have done was…

Those were Chloe’s favorite moments. It made Chloe think that if young ladies with family titles could imagine themselves as ordinary people in popular novels, surely some of them could imagine life from her perspective. It made her think that instead of pretending this was her group of friends, perhaps she could really belong.

“Next month,” Philippa was saying, “we’ll need a new book. Who’s next on the list to choose?”

Immediate chaos broke out as ladies vied against each other, complaining that it had been months since they last chose, and they were positively brimming with suggestions on what everyone else should read.

A voice cut through the din. “Miss Wynchester hasn’t had a turn.”

All eyes swung toward Chloe in unison. Seen. Remembered. Recognized. Her cheeks flamed with heat.

Lady Eunice was the one who had spoken. She was the daughter of a marquess.

“All right,” Philippa agreed. “Chloe, your turn. Bring your selection next week so we can all note the title. Where on earth is Gracie?”

“Her tardiness gets worse with every passing week,” groused another young woman. “If she hadn’t been waltzing with rakish scoundrels all night…”

“Inconsiderate hen,” said another. “Some of us want to talk about books.”

“Let’s start without her,” someone else suggested. “The rest of us are here.”

The rest of us. Chloe was part of an “us.” Her limbs lightened with joy.

“Did you hear the Duke of Faircliffe is on the market again?” whispered one young lady to another.

Chloe froze and pretended every iota of her being wasn’t trying desperately to overhear.

“Now that he’s available,” said the young lady’s friend, “I, for one, will send as many sultry looks over my fan at Almack’s as it takes for him to notice me.”

“Do that,” said another. “I’m going to sneak into his theatre box at the next performance. I needn’t even swoon into his arms. My presence will be enough to stake my claim.”

“Diabolical,” murmured her friend, impressed.

At the moment the only woman who held his attention was Chloe. Her chest fluttered. She still couldn’t believe she’d spent the night in his arms. And that he’d invited her to do it again tonight.

Gracie rushed through the open door out of breath, her cheeks chapped from the wind. “I’m here, I’m here!”

“Finally,” called one of her friends. “The book bacchanalia can begin.”

“All right, ladies.” Philippa clapped her hands together. “Please take your chairs. It’s time for Evelina.”

Everyone scrambled for the best seats—where there was more light, or next to a bosom friend. Chloe hurried to the one in the corner, the one Lawrence had found for her because it was out of the range of the Yorks’ many decorative mirrors.

Gracie reached the chair when Chloe was still two yards away.

She paused, indecisive. Tossing a magistrate’s daughter out of an armchair would not help her to be accepted by the group.

“Gracie,” Philippa said. “Not there. That’s Chloe’s chair. If you’d arrive on time once in a while, you could