She had expected a libertine’s lewd advances.
She had hoped to feel disgusted, not moved and utterly intrigued.
“Now I know why you bear the King of Hearts moniker,” she said. Beneath his formidable exterior lay a beautiful fusion of gentleness and strength. “Once a lady has kissed you, no other suitor would suffice.”
Before he could reply, Viscount Wrotham interrupted their intimate interlude. “Why in blazes are you lingering outside my box, Chance?” Despite his attempt at annoyance, a note of unease tinged the viscount’s tone.
Mr Chance ignored him and continued gazing at Eleanor’s lips. “You’re not without skill yourself, Miss Darrow. Despite your obvious inexperience, a fiery passion simmers within.”
Lord Wrotham cleared his throat. “I say, this isn’t a bordello. Take your fornicating to the alleys of Covent Garden.”
“I’m glad you approve, sir.” Eleanor leaned into Mr Chance’s hard chest and whispered, “Once we’re rid of our audience, you will keep your word and give me back my sewing box.”
“I confess, I find your presence here quite disturbing, Miss Darrow,” Lady Lucille stated, her cheeks flushed with a fiery rage reminiscent of the rubies dangling from her earlobes. “Tell me, how does a woman of your occupation find time for frivolity?”
“A woman can always find time for love, my lady.”
The comment earned Eleanor a wink from Theodore Chance.
“Some ladies prefer the chill of jewels around their necks to the fervent caress of a passionate man’s lips,” Theo said.
The viscount nudged his maternal aunt, Mrs Dunwoody, a matron of some import. “We know what sort of woman prefers the latter.”
Mr Chance turned so quickly the weasel-faced lord stumbled back. “Insult my betrothed again, Wrotham, and you’ll face me at dawn.”
Eleanor fought to stifle a gasp.
His betrothed?
What was the man thinking?
“Your betrothed?” Mrs Dunwoody fluttered her fan as if warding off a dreadful stench. “I suppose a modiste is a step up from those who sleep in the gutter. Your poor grandfather must be turning in his grave.”
“One can live in hope,” Mr Chance countered. “I pray he’s fodder for the worms. A man who disowns his kin deserves to rot in hell.”
“Your father was the devil incarnate,” the snooty woman snapped. “He deserved to lose everything. There is always one scoundrel in a litter. You’ve proven you’re no different.”
Unable to hold her tongue, Eleanor said, “The Lord holds everyone to account, Mrs Dunwoody. When the day of reckoning comes, the Earl of Berridge will need to atone for leaving his young nephews on the street.”
How could anyone sit idly while four boys were thrown out of their dead father’s house and left to fend for themselves in the rookeries?
Mr Chance snorted. “I could not have worded it better myself, Miss Darrow.”
He did not question how she knew his family history. A modiste was party to all manner of gossip. She knew many of the ton’s secrets. Why else would she be in this terrible predicament?
Mr Chance offered Eleanor his arm. “Now, if you will excuse us, we must return to our box.” Before the lord could protest, Mr Chance parted the curtains and gestured for her to sit in the plush velvet chair.
Being a coward of the highest order, the viscount dithered while Mrs Dunwoody stormed into the box. Her beady gaze fell on Aramis Chance and she faltered. “This is a p-private box belonging to the Earl of Berridge. You will vacate it immediately.”
Aramis Chance ignored the woman.
Theodore Chance remained standing. “Berridge is our uncle. We are permitted to occupy the family box.”
Mrs Dunwoody pressed her case. “What poppycock. Your father relinquished the right to call himself family thirty years ago when he stole the silver and shot a man in Hyde Park.”
“Two men in Hyde Park,” Theodore corrected. “Though I believe it was self-defence.”
“I shall fetch the manager and have you forcibly removed.”
“Before you do, I suggest you read the contract. As a blood relative, I have a right to sit in this box.”
Viscount Wrotham found the courage to take up the reins. “King George himself decreed your father should be disowned. You’re no longer family. You’ve no claim here.”
Members of the audience shifted their attention to the box. Midway through her soliloquy, an actress glanced their way, too.
Theodore Chance grinned. “George is no longer king. One could argue he was not of sound mind sixteen years ago. For reasons I cannot discuss, our family has King William’s favour. Let us take the matter up with him. I believe he will agree there was a conspiracy to oust us. By rights, my eldest brother is in line to inherit an earldom when your father meets his maker.”
Mrs Dunwoody blanched.
Viscount Wrotham struggled to muster a reply.
“You’re playing into our hands, Wrotham. Aramis will call your father out for slandering our name and inciting men to murder us. I shall call you out for insulting my betrothed. While you’re rotting in a shallow grave, our brother Aaron will be the next Earl of Berridge.”
A tense silence ensued.
“Is this how you mean to seek vengeance?” Lady Lucille said, jumping to the same conclusion most conceited women would. “If you’re doing this to hurt me, it won’t change anything between us.”
Mr Chance chuckled as if the notion were ridiculous. “The fact you think this is about you tells me everything I need to know. Go home, my lady, and take your weak-chinned affianced with you.” His expression darkened. “Go now, else there’ll be hell to pay.”
