“The hard part,” he explained. “Helping you pick one of these gentlemen to be your husband.”
“Oh,” she said.Thathard part.
“Don’t worry. Just pay attention tonight, and let me know if you think you could love any one of them.”
And then before she could say anything—before she could burst into tears—he began to make introductions.
Fifteen
Women gamble with hearts. Men gamble with money, for they have no hearts with which to wager.
“And this is Lord…”Tiny Prick.“…Tullock. We were in school together.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Smithson.”
“And beside him is another old friend, Lord…”SmellslikeFish.“…Lowes. He was a genius at Latin.”
“Quampulchraes!That means—”
Thatyoutrytobuggereveryfemaleyoumeet.
“That I am beautiful. I am well versed in Latin, Lord Lowes,” Mellie said with a smile. “Blandirisme.”
“Not flattery at all, Miss Smithson.”
Trevor held his tongue while Lord Randy Bastard scrawled his name. Probably in Latin. And then he introduced the next pair of idiots.
“Do say that we can have the honor of a dance. Do you have any left?”
Doyoumeantotuphertogether? Or just make her watch the two of you?
Trevor did his best to remain congenial, but as each man stepped forward to ogle his fiancée, his thoughts became cruder and crueler until he was appalled at himself. It was not like him to think such black thoughts, and yet the parade of men bowing over Mellie made him murderous. It wasn’t logical. He knew that. Damnation, he was supposed to be pondering them as potential husbands for Mellie. But the very thought of someone else touching her turned him vile.
“So sorry. Her card’s all filled. Try your luck with the dowagers.”
“At last, we finally meet!” cried a too high, too sweet voice.
Bloody hell. Gargantuanly bloody hellfire cocked damn. “Oh look,” he ground out. “It’s my mother.”
Mellie turned, her expression sweet and open. And all he could think was: lamb to the slaughter.
“Darling,” he said in desperation. “I think this is my dance.” He grabbed her hand and started pulling, but she remained steadfastly where she was.
“I’m not dancing this set so I can meet your friends.”
“You’ve met them. They’re all terrible people. Come along—”
“But it’s in the middle of the dance.”
“We’ll join late.”
“What…”
“Trevor!” cried his mother. Bloody hell. She said his name in that tone that shot ice down his spine. Part warning, part syrupy sweet. It was like the taste of spoiled fruit that was a little too strong before it made you gag. Or worse.
All his friends—the bloody traitors—backed away. His mother was well known in theton, and no man young or old stayed around if they could avoid it. She was apt to force them to dance with a buck-toothed lackwit or do the pretty at her latest afternoon tea. Orpayfor her next afternoon tea, which had been her recent campaign until his grandfather cut off all his money.
“Well hello, Mother,” he said dryly. “Fancy meeting you here.” It was a stupid thing to say. Of course she would be here. But some madness had made him block the idea from his brain until confronted with her face to face.