Phillipa winced. Oh, how she despised London society. Any actions by her, however innocent, could excite comment and malicious speculation. She had endured that once—had devastated her family, and had friends she loved turn from her—when all she’d wanted was to be free of society’s ridiculous rules.
She ignored the sympathy in her aunt’s eyes and quelled the heat that burned in her veins. She desperately wanted to be alone. To think and to feel something other than the disgrace they insisted she must feel. For months all they had spoken about was the unfortunate incident. Yet, to her, it had been one grand adventure.
But now she was impure, and not fit to marry anyone of quality. Lord Orwell had told her so, boldly, and in no uncertain terms. And it was no doubt true, for it was impossible to reclaim one’s virginity.
Not that Phillipa cared. She had other plans. And she would follow through, even if Brandon had deserted her.
“Are you not feeling well, my dear? Your cheeks have taken the most remarkable shade of red.”
“I…” She straightened her spine and cleared her throat several times before responding. “Just a slight touch of headache. I think I will rest for the remainder of the day.”
She gently removed her aunt’s hands, gracing her with a wan smile. Lady Merryweather’s lips curved in return, but worry glowed from her eyes.
“We only want your happiness, my dear,” her mother burst out anxiously.
“Yes, Mama.” Phillipa demurred, knowing her mother and aunt would not stop their campaign until they married her off. Not to just anyone, but to a nobleman. She grimaced. She had no desire to marry a priggish fop who believed himself more elevated than she.
The traitorous image of an audacious green-eyed lord danced mockingly through her mind, and she banished it with a huff.
“Please remember Lady Graham’s ball tonight. Oh, and Lord Orwell left his card earlier. He will call this afternoon,” her mother said expectantly.
Phillipa scowled, her stomach curdling in distaste as she excused herself. She loathed her father’s business partner. Since being in England, she had attended several balls, soirees, and musicales. Orwell was always present, watching her like a predator. A devious, disgusting, unprincipled predator she’d been stupid enough to trust, misguided by what it meant to be a lord and a gentleman.
She would never make the mistake of trusting a gentleman again.
Not even ones with tempting green eyes.
Her chest squeezed as she heard the crinkle of stationery and was reminded of the letter she’d stuffed in her pocket. All men must be untrustworthy, she realized, thinking of its contents. She had hoped and trusted Brandon would fulfill his promise to her. Never had she expected him to send word, instead, that he had gotten married.
Oh, the fickleness of love, and the perfidy of promises.
Let this be a lesson to her.
Chapter Five
Anthony rested his elbows on the balcony railing, a cynical smile twisting his lips. He watched Lord Hoyt twirling Miss Phillipa Peppiwell with vigor around the ballroom floor. Hoyt’s massive frame moved with unusual grace, and his face had a look of a man in love. His dance partner looked resplendent, sheathed in a voluminous yellow satin gown that enhanced her frame exquisitely. Her expression bore the same cool look of indifference he recalled from their meeting at Lady Calvert’s ball.
Anthony forced his gaze from her and scanned the crowd, watching Constance with discreet protectiveness. She was dancing with Earl Fullerton, whose mother kept a more obvious watch on the couple. Anthony’s own mother, Lady Radcliffe, was lounging idly by the refreshment table. She was a powerful matriarch in her own right, more from being the dowager duchess of Calydon than from the title she currently held as Viscountess Radcliffe.
Bitterness shuttered Anthony’s gaze as his mother laughed, glowing in her social power. A power she had no notion might crumble instantly. The familiar feeling of rage tightened his gut, and he knew he needed an outlet in the warm, willing body of a woman to drive back the darkness that edged him.
His gaze swung to Lady Wilkinson, knowing her statuesque, voluptuous figure was his for the taking. His lips quirked in a jaded smile as he met her gaze across the room. The smile she returned was of pure, heated invitation, despite her husband’s presence as he conversed behind her.
Distaste filled Anthony. The swell of her bosom did not entice and the sly way in which she wetted her lips left him cold. He doubted he could ever again lie with a married woman, their fickleness now abhorrent in a whole new way. Adulterous liaisons were the norm among the haute monde, but he found himself weary of it all.
And yet, he fleetingly wondered if he did the right thing in dismissing Georgina. He could be ensconced in her arms within the hour, driving deep into her, finding the release that would give him brief respite.