One Night of Passion Page 2

  Triple points, she decided. That one had taken strength of will.

  At least he hadn’t taken her heart.

  Like most of the gentlemen in this ballroom, Mr. Thaddeus Middleton had a certain reputation.

  Unlike many of his peers, Mr. Middleton’s reputation was that of a warm, cheerful, fun, kindhearted, sweet, loyal, indefatigably nice man.

  A peril to avoid at all costs.

  She needed to concentrate on the goal. Two more seasons of wallflowerdom, and she’d inherit ten thousand pounds, free and clear. The money was already spoken for.

  Taking care to avoid meeting the gazes of unmarried gentlemen, Priscilla made her way around the outskirts of the ballroom to the side farthest from the orchestra. She needed to be present, but not too present. After five uneventful years, she’d thought she had mastered the game.

  This particular arena was an easy court to play in. Everyone came to Almack’s to see and be seen. Priscilla simply had a different reason than most.

  “Who is that?” came a low whisper from somewhere behind her.

  “Miss Weatherman?” guessed his friend. “Miss Winterbee?”

  “Name doesn’t matter,” said the first. “Does she have money?”

  Priscilla subtly slid to the opposite side of a pilaster. Shadows helped in a situation like this, but not enough. Props were often necessary.

  She busied herself not with her empty dance card—to avoid planting ideas in their heads—but with an untouched glass of lemonade. Its presence in her hands made her unlikely to dance, but more importantly, prevented well-meaning gentlemen from offering to refill her glass.

  Two points, Priscilla decided when the fortune-hunters walked away without approaching. It had taken no effort at all to avoid them, and besides, the gudgeons hadn’t done their homework. She had no riches.

  Yet.

  She swirled her lukewarm lemonade and gazed across the frenetic ballroom. A minuet had begun, and couples hurried into place. Pale pastels on the debutantes, brighter hues on the married women, the gentlemen all in tailcoats of black superfine.

  Personally, she much preferred a round of whist to the call of the dance floor. But entering the card room, even as a spectator, would make her too interesting. Much safer to stay out here, one more swash of pastel pink in a crowd big enough to get lost in. Besides, the card room didn’t contain the only winners and losers.

  Everyone said the Marriage Mart was a game. To amuse herself on long nights, Priscilla had decided to take that literally.

  Everyone walked in the door of Almack’s bearing a voucher… and fifty points in Priscilla’s secret game. Depending on individual goals, points were won and lost all night long.

  Rebuffed at the refreshment table? Minus five. Debutante dancing in the arms of a lord? Plus ten. Rake steals a kiss? Plus twenty for him. Minus twenty for the girl if she was a debutante hoping for a brilliant match. Plus thirty if the lady was a widow in search of fun. Plus fifty for both parties if the woman was an “ape-leader” doomed to a life of spinsterhood.

  Priscilla could not wait to be an independently wealthy spinster. She would kiss all the rakes she wished, and walk away without a backward glance. Or kiss none at all! Independently wealthy spinsters had far better things to do with their time than provide background decoration in ton ballrooms.

  “Excuse me,” came a nervous male voice.

  Priscilla sneezed into her lemonade and fished for a non-existent handkerchief.

  “Just a moment,” she bleated as nasally as possible. “It’s not catching. Don’t worry about your neckcloth. Did you want to see my dance card?”

  He did not. He fled as though the fires of Vesuvius were upon them.

  Definitely ten points for that one. She was getting much better at fake sneezes.

  In order to earn her inheritance, Priscilla needed to avoid all potential suitors whilst remaining unquestionably on the market. She could not lock herself in her chambers for the next eighteen months, and then claim to have been unlucky in love.

  The only way to win was to fail spectacularly.

  Never let it be said that Priscilla Weatherby hadn’t done her part to be in the thick of the Marriage Mart! She attended every Wednesday ball at Almack’s without fail.

  Since merely being present did not constitute actual participation, Priscilla was no stranger to the dance floor. She accepted dances solely from men who were clearly interested in other ladies, or not interested in them at all—and never more than two or three in a night.

  Trial and error had proven this ratio enough to make her Not A Wallflower without being so flashy as to cause her to be an Object of Attention.

  During every other night of her uneventful seasons, The Game had been more than enough to occupy her mind whilst awaiting the freedom of her twenty-fifth birthday.

  Tonight, however, no matter where she stood or how violently she swirled her lemonade, she could not keep her eyes from Thaddeus Middleton.

  He was currently dancing with his cousin, which was sweet enough without even factoring in that he’d taken her in as a ward when Diana had been orphaned five years ago, and under his watch the girl had managed to bring a duke up to scratch.

  All the stories about Thaddeus Middleton were like that. If someone was in trouble, he was the first to help. No doddering chaperone left behind, no dance card left empty.

  Lest he seem too perfect, Mr. Middleton was also known for his affiliation with the Wicked Duke tavern, a pub teetering on the brink of losing all respectability due to its flagrant admission of persons Not Good Enough for the beau monde.

  Plus two hundred points for Middleton and all the other wicked dukes. As soon as she gained her inheritance, Priscilla was going adventuring thousands of miles away from peerage and patronesses. She couldn’t wait to be too scandalous to deserve her Almack’s voucher.

  Which meant Thaddeus Middleton was exactly the sort of gentleman Priscilla would have loved to converse with. If it weren’t for unusual circumstances, she would agree to a lot more than a mere stroll about the ballroom on his elbow. Mr. Middleton seemed the sort who would make a marvelous friend.

  Her gaze slid to him for the dozenth time since this minuet began. Minus five points for each glance, she scolded herself. And minus fifty for letting thoughts of him fill her mind.

  “I saved a spot on my dance card for Lord Raymore,” came a nervous voice beside her. “Am I being foolish?”

  “Miss Corning,” Priscilla exhaled in relief. “Thank heavens.”

  Finally, something to occupy her besides Thaddeus Middleton’s broad shoulders and seductive smile.

  Although she did everything in her power to avoid eligible gentlemen, the opposite was true of ineligible gentlemen and women of all kinds. Priscilla was sociable by nature, and had become something of a fortune-teller to the debutantes.

  All that time spent memorizing Debrett’s Peerage in order to know who to avoid had made Priscilla an expert in who was related to whom and set to inherit what. If a young lady wished to dance with a certain gentleman but had not yet been formally presented, it would take Priscilla no time at all to work out how to make it happen.

  “You don’t know the marquess,” she reminded Miss Corning, “but your brother is friends with the brother of the marquess’s cousin, and all four are present tonight. Did you get the dances in the order I told you?”

  Miss Corning nodded and held up her card.

  Priscilla scanned the names and smiled. “Perfect. When you dance with the marquess’s cousin, mention your love of fox hunting. He has a large entailed estate in Norfolk and is passionate about the sport.”

  Miss Corning stared up at her doubtfully. “I don’t know anything about fox hunting.”

  “Men never expect women to know things,” Priscilla assured her, “and you wouldn’t be invited along even if you did.”

  Miss Corning frowned. “Then how does it help?”

  “Your dance partner won’t be able to hear the wo
rds ‘fox hunt’ without mentioning his cousin, at which point you innocently remark that you’ve never met the man. He’ll be obligated to perform the introduction. Since there can be no greater recommendation than to be presented on the arm of a cousin who has favored you with a dance, the marquess will feel honor-bound to do the same.”

  Miss Corning wrung her hands. “And then what do I do? How do I bewitch him?”

  “No idea,” Priscilla replied cheerfully. “I don’t know what’s said during waltzes, I’ve just observed the steps people take to get there. I’ve no firsthand experience with flirtation.”

  Miss Corning’s cheeks flushed pink. “I do.”

  “Then you’ll be fine.” Priscilla swirled her lemonade. “All I can do is put you in the marquess’s arms. The rest is up to you.”

  Miss Corning marveled at her. “You’re the cleverest person I’ve ever met.”

  Priscilla wanted to say, I have to be clever. A henwitted adventuress won’t last a day in the wilds.

  But the confidentiality terms of her inheritance prevented her from acknowledging its existence.

  “Go on,” she said instead. “The minuet is ending. You’ve a marquess to bewitch.”

  “Fox hunting,” Miss Corning replied and strode into the thick of it.

  Priscilla couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have a romantical adventure rather than devise stratagems for others from the shadows.

  Soon, she reminded herself. In eighteen months, she’d be riding across the Serengeti on the back of a sturdy pony and she’d never step foot in a ballroom again. She’d cross paths with a fearless adventurer with the heart of a warrior and the soul of a poet, and together, they’d—

  Last until sunrise.

  Maybe.

  Priscilla’s shoulders slumped. If life had taught her anything, it was that all men eventually leave. Even those who loved her.

  That was why, from now on, she vowed to always do the leaving first.

  Her gaze flicked back to Thaddeus Middleton.

  “Minus five points,” she muttered under her breath, but didn’t look away. “Minus ten, you ninnyhammer.”

  “What did you say?” came a curious voice from behind her.

  Lady Felicity Sutton!

  Priscilla could have thrown her arms about her closest friend for distracting her when she most needed it.

  “I was talking to myself,” she informed her. “Eavesdropping is unladylike behavior.”

  “All my behavior is unladylike,” Felicity assured her. “You’ll never believe what I did to my brother’s racing curricle.”

  Priscilla frowned in surprise. “I assumed he was finished racing, now that he’s married.”

  “Bah.” Felicity gestured dismissively. “Cole likes winning, not driving. He can always hire someone to race a carriage for him.”

  Priscilla arched her brows. “I assume it’s unbeatable, no matter who holds the reins?”

  “A bowl of porridge could drive the carriage,” Felicity agreed with satisfaction. “It'll be the fastest curricle on Rotten Row.”

  “I’ll never enter a wager with a bowl of porridge,” Priscilla said solemnly, then grinned. “What would Colehaven do without you?”

  “I guess we’ll find out this season,” Felicity said grimly.

  Priscilla’s mouth fell open. “This is it?”

  Felicity lifted her chin and gave a sharp nod of determination. “I’ve had a good run of being a directionless hoyden. It’s time to take the Marriage Mart seriously.”

  Priscilla gazed at her friend in silence.

  Felicity was the sister of a duke, and had always been clear about her aspirations. One day, she would marry a rich, titled lord. Someday, she would be a proper matron, commanding a household or three. Someday, she’d become a patroness as respected as any at Almack’s.

  Priscilla just hadn’t expected “someday” to come while she was still around to watch her closest friend walk away.

  “I’ve no doubt you’ll find the perfect man,” she mumbled. “You’re the most splendid woman I know.”

  It was true. Felicity had already turned down half a dozen hopeful suitors. If she was finally ready to say yes, Priscilla was half-surprised the entire ballroom wasn’t throwing rings and roses at Felicity’s feet. Priscilla would miss her so much.

  “I’ve no doubt you’ll find the perfect man,” Felicity replied with a grin. “There’s no one more splendid than Miss Priscilla Weatherby.”

  Priscilla snorted. “You do realize you’re the only person who thinks so?”

  “Then other people are stupid,” Felicity replied without hesitation. “You’ll find the one who isn’t.”

  Priscilla wished she could tell her she wasn’t even playing the game. That she didn’t mind at all being three-and-twenty without ever having had a suitor, or even a kiss stolen by a rake with dishonorable intentions. That loneliness didn’t bother her because she’d been lonely her entire life. That she refused to let it bother her.

  Just like she didn’t care at all that this set was a waltz, and Thaddeus Middleton was dancing it with someone else. It could have been Priscilla’s set.

  And now it never would be.

  “What do you know about Thaddeus Middleton?” she blurted out.

  “Middleton?” Felicity lifted a shoulder. “No title, no fortune, no entailed properties. Or property at all. Otherwise, solvent. Good sport. Proper gentleman. Universally admired.”

  Handsome, Priscilla added in her head, but dared not say aloud.

  “Besides that,” she murmured instead.

  Felicity frowned. “That’s it. Some men are exactly what they seem. What makes you think there’s something you’re missing?”

  Priscilla did not reply because her answer would be, he’s exactly the sort of man I would wish for… if I wished for a man instead of adventure. Minus one hundred points. She needed to focus on the goal.

  “Middleton seems lovely,” Felicity said, “but ‘lovely’ isn’t part of my criteria.”

  Priscilla rolled her eyes. “You’d marry an ancient lecher if he had deep enough pockets.”

  “Do you see one?” Felicity pretended to scour the ballroom eagerly. “I’ll move in tonight. I carry a blank marriage license in my reticule.”

  Priscilla snorted. She couldn’t think of a worse fate than becoming mistress of a household where one lived like a bird in a gilded cage for the rest of one’s life.

  She intended to travel, just like her father, and his father before him.

  Could anyone blame her for being resentful she’d been left behind for being born female?

  Papa and Grandfather loved her, though. Priscilla was certain of that, at least. Why else would they have provided for her, in the event she failed to ensnare a husband?

  She suspected they hoped she would fail at this mission. One couldn’t whisk a girl fresh from the schoolroom off to Africa, but a spinster… A spinster could do as she pleased. And what Priscilla pleased was to join her father and grandfather.

  “Don’t worry,” Felicity told her. “It’ll be your turn one day.”

  It would be Priscilla’s turn one day, but not to stand up at the altar.

  She’d been devastated when she’d been left behind. First her grandfather, then her father. A young child, she’d thrown herself into her studies. She’d thought, perhaps when she exited the schoolroom, they would come for her.

  They came, but not to fetch her. After her come-out, Papa had told her about the trust established in her name, and the terms of the inheritance. Priscilla understood the message. She needed to grow up first. Once she was old enough to go adventuring, they wouldn’t stop her. They’d finally take her with them.

  And Priscilla would prove once and for all that women were every bit as capable and fearless and adventurous as men.

  Chapter 3

  “Please,” Priscilla begged as she climbed atop a stool with her arms outstretched. “I promise I’ll be back before supper.”


  “Promise I’ll be back! Promise I’ll be back!” squawked Koffi with an indignant flutter of feathers.

  He did not come down from his perch atop the tall curtains.

  In all their years together, Priscilla had taught her parrot countless words and phrases. Promise I’ll be back! was the first sentence Koffi had ever spoken. He hadn’t learned it from Priscilla.

  When her father and grandfather dropped off the golden cage, they repeated I promise I’ll be back time and again to Priscilla and her new pet to assure the frightened offspring that they wouldn’t be alone forever. They promised they’d be back.

  Priscilla and Koffi were still waiting.

  “I’m not Papa,” she reminded him now, reaching her hand toward the curtain rod. “I’m just going to the park, like I do every Friday. I always come back for you. But you have to wait in your cage.”

  “Golden cage!” Koffi squawked, inching his little gray feet further down the curtain rod. “Golden cage!”

  Priscilla shared his discontent wholeheartedly. She often felt their opulent townhouse with its stuffy little rooms and proliferation of antiquities was nothing more than a golden cage for her, as well.

  Unlike Koffi, Priscilla was allowed to fly the coop for short periods.

  Grandmother had been very clear: if she caught Koffi outside his cage again, she’d have the maids deliver him to the kitchen to be cooked in the next meal.

  “I’ll give you a cake,” Priscilla cajoled in a singsong voice. “Does Koffi want a cake?”

  He glared at her from one black eye for a long moment before resignedly inching back her way. “Tea and cake! Tea and cake!”

  Priscilla waited until the last possible second before snatching him from the rod and cradling him to her chest. Koffi was a gorgeous African Grey Parrot, and did not drink tea… or deserve to spend decade after decade behind bars, without ever spreading his wings.

  Here in the safety of her private quarters, she allowed him as much freedom as he pleased… as long as Priscilla was home to protect him.