The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,96

claim a different one for yourself. Go sit by Lady Eunice so we can begin.”

That’s Chloe’s chair.

Her head swam.

Chloe’s chair.

“Apologies,” Gracie giggled, and rushed off to join Lady Eunice.

Chloe sank into her chair with weak knees. Never had the mahogany seemed so sturdy, the velvet so soft and welcoming, the view so perfect. This was her chair. Her place. Her personal slice of “us.”

Her head swam at the new sensations.

“Who’s going to Mrs. Ipsley’s tonight?” Gracie asked, as if she had not heard Philippa call the reading circle to order.

Everyone began speaking at once. It seemed Mrs. Ipsley was hosting “just a small gathering” to which everyone who was anyone had apparently been invited.

“We’re all going,” Florentia crowed in delight. “I should have known.”

Chloe hugged herself as if she didn’t care.

“I’m not.” It was a small voice, but she had found one. “I wasn’t invited.”

“What?” Lady Eunice pressed a hand to her bosom as if in genuine shock that Mrs. Ipsley could make such an omission. “Your invitation must have been lost.”

“It wasn’t lost,” Chloe mumbled. “It was never coming. I’m a Wynchester.”

“Bah,” Gracie said. “The older generation might care about such things—”

“Patronesses…” Philippa agreed. “My mother…”

“—but we obviously do not,” Gracie finished. “It’s 1817, for heaven’s sake. We’re modern women.”

Lady Eunice nodded. “I’ll call on Mrs. Ipsley as soon as I leave here. Your invitation will be on your mantel by the time you arrive home.”

Florentia smiled wickedly. “A party isn’t a party without the entire Ladies of Lusty Literature Book Coven.”

“We haven’t a name,” Philippa protested in mock horror.

It was too late. The company had already dissolved into raucous laughter, bandying about improper title after improper title until references to lust and book bacchanalia seemed pious in comparison.

Chloe’s cheeks hurt from grinning at the antics of all her…friends? Perhaps next time she wouldn’t have to try so hard to avoid seats facing looking glasses. She suspected all she would see was joy reflecting back at her.

She leaned forward and leapt into the competition for who could invent the most scandalous group name.

32

Lawrence could not calm his nerves. His pacing would have worn holes in his carpets if he still had any.

Spending an entire night with Chloe had been more than he’d dreamed it would be. Perfect. Magical. A terrible idea.

No matter how much he yearned to, he couldn’t keep her. His duty was to his title, not his heart. He should not let himself forget it again.

Even if she was everything he wanted.

To clear his head, he raced Elderberry down Rotten Row. On the way home, he passed Gunter’s Tea Shop.

A row of carriages lined Berkeley Square. Some of the passengers still perched in their open conveyances. Smart waiters dashed back and forth between the shop and their customers, taking and delivering orders. On a fine, sunny day like today, Gunter’s was second only to Almack’s in amassing the greatest number of fashionable people. If he hoped to find an heiress with a dowry capable of saving his ancestral estate, he ought to start there.

Lawrence tied Elderberry to a post.

Leaves crunched just behind him.

“Faircliffe,” said the Marquess of Rosbotham with far more joviality than their superficial acquaintance warranted. “I hear your courtship with that York chit spoiled like month-old cream.”

So the word was out.

Lawrence clenched his fingers. Until he settled his finances, he could not afford to alienate any member of the ton and risk his standing.

“No promises were made, nor hearts broken,” he replied evenly. “Her business is her own, as is mine.”

“Oh, come now,” Rosbotham chuckled. “Her mother claims the girl was the one to walk away, but we both know that family would have toppled a king for a chance at a dukedom. What’s wrong with the chit? You can tell me the truth.”

“The truth,” said Lawrence, each clipped syllable frosty with unconcealed disdain, “is that Miss York is an exceptional young woman of intelligence and good breeding who would make any discerning gentleman a lucky groom indeed.”

“‘Intelligent.’” Rosbotham made a moue and gave an exaggerated shiver. “Say no more.”

With a wink, he sauntered off to the next clump of fashionable customers awaiting their ices.

Lawrence ground his teeth in frustration. There was nothing wrong with Philippa York. Not only had Lawrence meant every word, it had been a compliment. “Intelligent females” were no plague to be avoided at all costs. Cleverness and resourcefulness were traits Lawrence particularly admired.

It was why he loved Chloe. His chest ached.

He adored being able to talk with her about anything