“Yet you expect her to accept your infidelity with genteel grace.” Very much like how Oliver’s mother had lifted her chin at her husband’s numerous indiscretions. “I could hear my sister’s sobs last night as she cried into her pillow. I’m mildly surprised I’ve not put a bullet in you,” he murmured, low and hard.
Beresford paled. “She cried?”
“For hours.”
The fool dropped his forehead into his hands. “I’ve…I’ve not slept with Mrs. Williams. I visited her last evening, but I spent the time talking about Charlotte. Dear God, I’ve been a fool.”
“That you have.”
“I’ll head down with you to Hampshire.”
Oliver stood, and the viscount lurched to his feet. Oliver grabbed the lapels of his jacket in a tight, merciless grip and dragged him close. “If my sister is not of a mind to forgive you, you’ll be leaving without her. And I’ll not compromise my stance. It is because she loves you that I haven’t ripped your cock from your body.”
His eyes widened in ill-concealed alarm. “I’m obliged to you, Ambrose.”
With a soft grunt, he released him. “My sister has more strength than you credit her for. She is sweet and gentle, but she is also fierce and courageous. She is not a wilting ninny. Reserve all your passions for her. Speak with her about your fears, and she may very well surprise you.”
And perhaps any woman Oliver should take to be his wife he could do the same, communicate about everything. His heart hammered at the notion. Maybe he was the damn fool searching for his midnight lover. What if he found her and she lacked the connections and reputation to be his marchioness? Worse, what if she lacked the character that would recommend her to be his partner. He hungered for more than just a lusty woman to wet his cock whenever or however he wanted. An eventual friendship in his marriage was quite important to him.
“Ensure that you tell your viscountess all you wish to explore with her. And then you will be mindful of her sensibilities, but do not hesitate to invite her with you on any adventures. And if Charlotte should not want to explore with you, by God, you will respect her decision and cherish the promises you made to her.”
Beresford nodded stiffly, and Oliver walked around him. “I’ll see myself out.”
He collected his hat and coat, departed the townhouse, and strolled toward his waiting carriage. He vaulted inside and ordered the carriage to St. James Square. He would stay the night in town, perhaps even visit White’s or Lady Pennant’s masquerade ball, which promised to be an event of delightful debauchery.
It was at Lady Pennant’s masquerade last year he and Radbourne had been snared in Lady Wimbledon’s erotic wiles. Oliver frowned. No anticipation rushed through him. He felt no temptation to participate.
Large brown eyes framed by long delicate lashes floated through his thoughts. Mrs. Lily Layton. And at once, he decided to head back to Belgrave Manor first thing in the morning. He was faintly shocked it was not thoughts of finding his mysterious lover that drew him.
How
I want you…
Clenching his teeth until they ached, he vowed then to resist, lest he destroy his honor, her reputation, and her modest sensibilities. He would head back to his townhouse now and retire to his bed, where he suspected he would dream of the wicked debauching of his brown-eyed tormentor, and Oliver would do his damnedest to ensure they remained only that—lustful fantasies of ravishing Lily Layton—and nothing more.
Chapter Seven
The night of the auspicious ball arrived without much fanfare. Elegantly garbed couples waltzed under the light of dozens of candles in the crystal chandeliers overhead. Lily strolled the fringes of the crowded dance floor, keenly observing the variety of styles the ladies wore. The ballgowns were glorious, and she felt pleased with the alterations she had done to the dress the marchioness had given her. Lily knew she looked fetching, as evidenced by a few admiring glances aimed in her direction. Mr. Crauford made a concentrated effort to not look her way, and the marchioness had raised a brow at the obvious tension between them.
Over an hour had passed since the dancing started, and no one approached her. Lily wasn’t sure if she felt relieved or disappointed. She had to remind herself of her purpose in attending.
A ripple went through the small group of women reposing on chairs a few feet from her.
“How magnificent Lord Ambrose appears tonight.”
“The rumor he is hunting for a wife has set London on its ears. Lady Shelton sent me clippings of several newspapers that say a close source has revealed Ambrose desires for a wife and children,” a voice tittered. “Maryann is well suited to be a marchioness, and I believe my daughter, more than any other young lady here, stands a chance.”
A shiver of some unfathomable sensation moved through Lily, and she scanned the small gathering until she found him. Not that it had been hard; he seemed to be the only gentleman standing with at least four ladies, all beautiful and elegantly poised, around him. The marquess was impeccably dressed in dark trousers and jacket, a silver waistcoat, his cravat immaculately tied. The delight she felt at seeing him was disconcerting. She had missed his presence this past couple of days and had scolded herself quite fiercely for the desires welling inside her for this man. She could entertain no misconception of his interest in walking with her. That way would surely lead to disaster.
“I have it on the highest authority that the marquess commands at least three hundred thousand pounds a year, and that does not include his business investments, just the estates. He is indecently rich.”
Lily’s eyes widened. That was a fortune she could not comprehend. No wonder he thought so little of “paying” her one thousand pounds. She hadn’t seen him since, for he had vanished to Town. Bereft at the emptiness she’d felt, and eager to purge Lord Ambrose from her thoughts, she had made her way down to the stairs and hovered near the library several times. The desire to visit those hallways, and perhaps encounter her clandestine lover again, had been a lesson in denying temptation.
“He cuts quite a dashing and commanding figure, doesn’t he?” that same person said, her voice rich with admiration. “And it is quite evident he is truly ready to settle down. I’d thought it a rumor.”
Lily recognized Lady Falconbridge, the wealthy widow of a viscount who had died in a carriage accident three years past. The way she ogled Lord Ambrose signaled she would be a contender for his affections. She had also been on Lady Ambrose’s list for suitable ladies for her son, simply because she had given the viscount an heir and a spare before his death. Lady Falconbridge’s greatest value as a wife for a nobleman had been proven with the fruits of her womb.
Lily’s eyes smarted, and she strolled away, not caring to hear any more about the marquess. She did turn her attention to him, admiring his powerful and graceful form, as he swept one of the most ravishing ladies she had ever seen across the ballroom. How wonderful they looked together.