Margaret McPhee - The Regency Season - Gentleman Rogues - The Gentleman Rogue / The Lost Gentleman

‘Indeed.’ Lady Lamerton adjusted her walking stick. ‘But who I am surprised to see here are Devlin and his friends.’

‘Not their usual scene at all,’ said Mrs Hilton.

‘Would have thought it rather too tame for those dissolute young bucks,’ said Lady Routledge. ‘I hope they are not here to cause trouble.’

‘They are here for something,’ said Lady Lamerton. ‘Take my word upon it.’

‘Perhaps one of them has their eye on a respectable lady. Perhaps they have decided to give up their rakish ways and settle down. Perhaps Devlin’s papa has finally had a word in his ear.’ Mrs Quigley glanced across at Lady Lamerton.

‘Stanborough has mentioned nothing to me.’

‘That does not mean it is not true,’ pointed out Mrs Morley.

The dowager drew her a look that would have felled a lesser woman.

The music started up, the rhythm of the notes thudding through Emma’s head, through her blood. The first dance was announced.

Emma glanced across at Ned again and met the full force of his gaze. It made the butterflies flock in her stomach and her heart strike a tattoo just the same as it had done in the Red Lion; maybe even more so given the mess of their entanglement.

In that look was that same strength of character, that same tight rein of self-control. Calm, watchful confidence with the hint of something so resonant that it sent a shiver through her whole body.

Emma glanced away. This was not the Red Lion. He was not the same man. And even if he were, it was too late. She was here with a purpose. She could not forget her brother or the vow she had sworn to her mother. She turned away to the dowager just as Mrs Quigley exclaimed in breathy shock, ‘Oh, my! I do believe he is coming to ask Miss Northcote to dance. How...unexpected.’

For a tiny moment she thought Mrs Quigley meant Ned. Emma’s heart banged hard enough to escape her ribcage but when she followed the woman’s wide-eyed stare it was not Ned that stood there, but Devlin.

Her stomach dropped to meet her shoes. Her palms were suddenly clammy. As those arrogant eyes met hers she felt a flit of panic at the prospect of having to dance with him.

He turned his attention to Lady Lamerton. ‘Ma’am, would you permit your companion to stand up with me for this dance?’

Asking the dowager rather than Emma. Playing by the rules of society. Yet it irked Emma, making her feel every inch the paid servant that she was, rather than a woman who had a right to answer for herself.

She looked around the small circle of ladies. Every one of them was staring at Lady Lamerton, eyes goggling, waiting with bated breath. Lady Lamerton was in her element, holding them all in the palm of her hand.

‘I will, sir. But only if Miss Northcote is in agreement.’

All eyes swivelled to Emma, awaiting her reaction.

There was a calculated gleam in Devlin’s eyes. He knew full well the stir it would create if she dealt him the direct insult of a refusal. He smiled his usual lazy, arrogant smile, that of a man who was used to getting what he wanted.

It was almost enough to tempt her to refuse him, just to see it wiped from his face. And had there not been Lady Lamerton to consider, and all that depended on Emma’s position with her, she would have done it. But there was Lady Lamerton. And there was Kit.

So Emma met those arrogant dark eyes and gave a cool polite smile. ‘Thank you, Lord Devlin, how could I refuse?’

He held out his hand to her.

She took a breath and, placing her hand in his, let him lead her out on to the dance floor.

* * *

Ned and Rob were with Misbourne, chief amongst the Hospital’s governors. Rob stood back, watching the dance floor while Ned discussed financial matters with Misbourne. Even though Ned was listening to Misbourne he was aware of what it was his friend watched so intently.

His eyes cut a glance through the crowd upon the dance floor to one couple alone. Devlin’s hand upon Emma’s. A light touch here. A lingering touch there. They did not speak, only danced with smooth flowing steps. Polite, formal, nothing but respectable. Emma’s expression was a mask that revealed nothing.

‘You really think you can drum up the investment?’ Misbourne asked.

‘It’s already done.’

‘Then what do you need me for?’

‘To represent the project amongst the great and good.’ They would listen to Misbourne. He was an earl. He was part of the establishment. Misbourne’s sharp dark eyes narrowed as they fixed upon Ned. He stroked his beard and studied Ned as if trying to glean his measure. The earl was not devoid of prejudices and might have his own dark agendas, but Ned knew the man would do better for the Hospital than any other. And so it was to Misbourne that he made the proposition.

Misbourne gave a nod. ‘Come round tomorrow at seven. We will discuss it over dinner.’

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