Deb Marlowe - How To Marry a Rake

Matthew gave a startled chuckle. After a moment it turned into a genuinely rueful laugh. ‘No, this is the perfect excuse to give up dancing.’ He eyed Stephen’s blond hair, cut far shorter now than when he’d been living a fashionable life in London. ‘But I still have my wits about me and a damned good head of hair above them. Surely there’s a young lady or two who won’t mind sitting out a set.’ He sighed. ‘Or there’s always the card room.’

‘You forget where we are. It’s Newmarket, man! And you’re as good a judge of horseflesh as any man I’ve ever met. You could talk of nothing else for the entire week and still be thought a sparkling conversationalist.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Now, let’s introduce you around.’

* * *

For the next hour Stephen stayed at Matthew’s side, presenting him to all and sundry. It was no easy task. Never in all of his life had he had to work so hard to maintain an air of complacent good humour. For while a few grasped his friend’s scarred hand in easy welcome, it was clear that many others were uncomfortable with, even scornful of, his deformities.

Stephen wanted to berate every fool who allowed his revulsion to show on his face and he wanted to shake the idiot woman who flatly refused to offer her hand, but fortunately Matthew was in a jovial temper—and he wasn’t above a self-deprecating joke or two. Together with Stephen’s hearty laughter and calm acceptance, they managed to quickly soothe most of the discomfort they encountered.

But Stephen was beginning to feel stretched too thin. He felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air. He was happy to work to secure Matthew’s acceptance, of course, but at the same time he was watching for an opportunity to re-engage Ryeton. The earl had been about to include him in his party tomorrow. He wanted to give the man the chance to finish the invitation and he wanted to accept it with alacrity.

And he wanted to forget Mae Halford’s presence. She certainly appeared to have forgotten his. It was almost unnerving, in fact. He could scarcely recall a time when he’d been in the same room as Mae and had not been the centre of her formidable attention. He told himself firmly that he was glad of it.

Yet suddenly she was looking up, as if the weight of his regard had been a tap on her shoulder. Their gazes met. The ghost of a smile crossed her face.

Stephen pivoted away. Matthew was engaged in conversation with a wide-eyed young miss. To hide his confusion he looked about for Ryeton.

There. The earl and Toswick stood talking just a few feet away. Ryeton met his eye, but quickly averted his gaze, as Stephen had just done to Mae.

Something scuttled down Stephen’s spine. A warning, perhaps. But he was determined and a little desperate. ‘Come,’ he interrupted Matthew. He smiled an apology at the girl. ‘I must introduce you to the man who is set to fleece us all. I believe the lucky devil’s got a favourite in every damned race. We’ll all end up indebted to him by the end of the week.’ He took a step towards the two men.

And then it happened—one of those moments that can occur naturally in any crowd. The orchestra wound to a finish. Conversations paused as guests lightly applauded, and the Earl of Ryeton’s words rang out unusually loud over the quiet moment.

‘What is he thinking? This is a ball, for God’s sake. It’s the height of poor taste for that man to expose the rest of us to his disgusting abnormalities. And has Manning run mad? To squire the cripple about in good company?’

Toswick whispered urgently, trying to shush the earl, but Ryeton paid him no mind and suddenly that donkey’s laugh hung in the air. ‘The man’s lucky he wasn’t born a horse. Were he one of my nags I’d have him shot.’

Time stopped. All around them men stilled and ladies gasped. Stephen halted in midstep, caught up in a torrent of icy-cold shock and heated fury. For the fraction of a second, he reached for his usual control, scoured his brain for a jaunty bit of humour that might salvage this horrifying moment. But then he saw the flush of anger and embarrassment spread across Matthew’s face. He thought of the incredible courage it had taken for his friend to show up and act as if his life and his body had not been shattered—and he saw the moment Ryeton realised what had happened, right before his nose tilted up and his expression settled into a belligerent scowl.

This was it, then, one of those moments by which a man defined himself and shaped the course of his life. Stephen allowed himself the briefest sliver of a moment in which to mourn his lost opportunities, to prepare himself for an added burn of guilt, before he embraced the wrath surging through his veins and entered the fray.

‘I dare say you would, Ryeton,’ he ground out. ‘But what if the case were reversed? Surely it would be better to be shot for a heroic warhorse than a dim-witted, braying ass.’

‘Excuse me?’ Ryeton turned his reddened face to their host. ‘What did he say to me?’

Toswick only sputtered helplessly.

‘You heard me, my lord. Feeling better about yourself, are you, for having judged a man by the bits he is missing?’ Stephen’s fury raged through him, opening wounds he’d thought long buried. Suddenly every mocking slur cast against his unorthodox family, every whispered taunt about his sad and lonely mother stung him again, releasing their venom into his veins. ‘It’s obvious, though, that he’s not the only one here missing a few vital pieces. And were I forced to choose between your affliction and his, I’d gladly give up my leg and the use of my hand if it meant I could keep my honour and integrity.’

Another round of gasps went up from the crowd. Ryeton, nearly purple with fury, thrust his glass at Toswick. ‘I shall find a great deal of pleasure in making you regret those words.’ Ryeton’s voice took an unexpected turn to a higher octave at the end of his threat.

Stephen might have laughed if he hadn’t understood just how many ways it could come true. He took a menacing step towards the man. ‘You are welcome to consider whom you would like as your second. I believe we were in the process of arranging to meet in any case, it would be just as well to make it a dawn appointment.’

‘No.’ Matthew’s voice rang out this time, the authority inherent in his tone a direct contrast to Ryeton’s bleating. ‘It’s my infirmities he mocks, and did I think him worth it, it would be me meeting him at dawn.’ He gave Ryeton a hard stare. ‘And though I may have only one good hand left, my lord, I’ve killed more than a few Frenchmen with it. I doubt I’d have any trouble dispatching you.’

He paused and swept a steely look across the gawking guests. ‘But I don’t find him worth the trouble. He’s entitled to his opinion. Whatever he thinks of my “abnormalities”, I know I obtained them on a field of honour, defending my fellows and my country, and my king.’

Matthew might have said more, but he was interrupted by a softly uttered, ‘Oh, bravo!’ from the chit he’d been talking with. He coloured once more and looked to Stephen.

‘Let’s go,’ Stephen said shortly. He gave Ryeton a last glare before gesturing to the crowd knotted around them. A path opened up, and he waited for his friend to set out before him.

But the evening held one last shock. Stephen stared as several footmen burst into the ballroom. Two pulled up just inside the door, but one had his head down and a dogged expression on his face. Guests shrieked, scattering before him. Drawing closer, Stephen saw the reason behind it all. Fleet as a frisky colt, a boy dodged and darted just ahead of the man—a grime-spattered boy who, cap in hand, caught sight of the cleared aisle and pelted down the centre of it. He skidded to a stop at the sight of the earl.