A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

When he’d moved to throw her sensual attractiveness into the teeth of the gossipmongers, he hadn’t considered that they had sons and nephews many of whom were perennially on the lookout for ladies of sensual promise.

Still, he didn’t regret that waltz, not for a moment; as for the rest, he would simply ensure he remained, always, by her side.

He succeeded in that endeavor, but the night had turned sultry; the ballroom grew increasingly stuffy. Despite her upright stance beside him, he sensed Clarice was wilting; she’d been the cynosure of attention for the entire evening, and still largely was.

“There’s a balcony beyond the glass doors.” He turned so she could see the doors he meant. “Let’s step out and get some air.”

She nodded. “An excellent idea.”

They moved steadily across the room. Eventually, they gained the doors. As he swung one open, Jack caught sight of a footman entering the room, balancing a tray of tall glasses. He glanced at Clarice. “Go out—I’ll get us some refreshment.”

She nodded and stepped through. He let the fine curtains fall over the open door, and headed for the footman.

Clarice walked out onto the balcony; the cooler night air wrapped about her and she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been born and reared within the ton, had untold experience at events such as this, yet while she could manage such appearances easily, almost without thought, they neither fascinated nor held her attention.

There was, she knew, more to life than balls and parties.

Despite being once again received into the ton, despite having reclaimed her position in its totality, she was finding it difficult even to pretend that such things truly mattered anymore, not to her.

Gripping the balustrade, she looked out into the velvet darkness of the night, and considered what had changed. Not the ton, that was certain.

“My darling Clarice.”

She blinked; it took her a moment to place the drawl. Slowly, she turned and studied the handsome man who’d slipped out of the ballroom to join her. His aristocratic features showed clear signs of dissipation, of the passage of the years.

“Good evening, Warwick.” Her tone, cold and emotionless, as disinterested as she felt, pleased her. “What are you doing here?”

He held her gaze, then boldly let his lower, tracing the curves of her body, tonight displayed in magenta moiré silk. Clarice gave thanks she hadn’t worn the plum silk.

“I wondered, my dear, if, having endured seven years of purgatory, you might perhaps consider the advantages of—”

He broke off at the sound of approaching footsteps. They both turned; Clarice smiled as Jack stepped through the curtains carrying two glasses of champagne. She took the glass he held out to her, with it indicated Warwick. “Lord Warnefleet, allow me to present the Honorable Jonathon War

wick.”

Jack’s lids flickered, yet his charming, easygoing smile remained in place. Clarice knew him well enough to distrust that smile utterly.

Warwick didn’t. He smiled back, an amiable wolf expecting to negotiate a share of the prey. “Warnefleet.” He held out his hand.

Jack’s gaze fell to it, then he turned to Clarice. “Hold this for me, will you?”

Puzzled, she took his glass, too.

Jack turned back to Warwick—and slammed his fist into Warwick’s jaw.

Clarice blinked. Warwick staggered back, then collapsed to the ground. Stunned, wits rattled, he stared up at Jack.

With a light shrug, Jack resettled his coat, straightened his sleeves, then lifted his glass from Clarice’s fingers. “Thank you.”

He raised the glass to Warwick. “Pleased to meet you.” He sipped.

Utterly befuddled, Warwick remained sprawled on the ground. “What was that for?”

Jack smiled, this time genuinely, all teeth. “That was for past misdemeanors. That, and worse, is what would have happened to you last time had I been about. That, and worse, is what will happen to you in future, should you be so unwise as to approach Lady Clarice again, in whatever fashion.” His smile grew intent. “Because I am here, now.”

Taking another sip of champagne, Jack considered Warwick, then quietly asked, “Do you have that clear?”

Belligerence had bloomed in Warwick’s eyes, but there was hint enough in Jack’s tone to make him look more closely. After a moment of studying Jack’s eyes, Warwick paled; all aggression leached from him.