Rake in the Regency Ballroom: The Viscount Claims His Bride / The Earl's Forbidden Ward. Bronwyn Scott
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He’d meant what he’d said at dinner about taking a wife and starting a family—as long as that wife was Philippa. He still desired her and she still responded to him, if that ill-conceived interlude here on the balcony was any indication. He only had to convince her of that. She’d had nine years to nurse her grudge and she’d always been far too stubborn. The sting of her slap suggested the job in front of him would not be an easy one. The passion of her body’s response to his said the task would not be without its rewards. She might have struck him, but he was not convinced she’d slapped him out of anger about his advances. Given her response to him, she’d struck him out of anger over her own behaviour. He was merely a convenient target.
However, he was willing to acknowledge that it had been the height of foolhardiness to seek her out alone, knowing that his emotions were ruling his better judgement. The thrill of seeing her again, of feeling her presence next to him at dinner, of watching her deal with Danforth, combined with the surge of jealously that coursed through him at seeing Canton lay claim to her, was too potent a mixture to swallow without consequence.
He’d meant to confess his feelings to her, to declare his devotion and even to explain away the events of their last evening together as the poor decisions of youth. He’d got nowhere with his agenda. Instead, he’d no doubt affirmed all the sordid rumours that had trickled back to London about him. Within moments they’d been sparring and then, his blood hot, he’d taken her in his arms and silenced her the only way he knew how. But his reckless kiss had been more consistent with the behaviour he wanted to refute than the man he wanted to convince Philippa he was, and had always been, in spite of actions to the very persuasive contrary.
The only thing more senseless than kissing Philippa was standing out here in the cold, allowing Canton to hold Philippa’s attention uncontested. Valerian pushed open the door and went inside. The battle was joined.
Lucien spied his return to the company as Philippa finished playing a pretty country piece. The small group clapped politely. ‘Let us play our duet for them,’ Lucien suggested to Philippa, sorting through the sheets of music until he found the one he was looking for. He gave Valerian a challenging look that could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was—a silent dare. Valerian returned the stare with a short nod of acknowledgement.
They executed the duet flawlessly. Valerian had known Philippa was a dab hand at the pianoforte, but Lucien was the stronger of the two players. He wondered if Canton knew he played as well. The piece flowed seamlessly, the four hands following each other to Lucien’s trademark perfection.
Amid the brief applause at the end, Canton tossed him a smug look of satisfaction. Philippa caught him at it and gave Canton a hard look. Valerian was hard pressed to smother a laugh. Lucien didn’t know Philippa well if he thought such masculine antics would go unpunished. She would make Canton pay and, he noted ruefully when her quick stare censured him as well, he would pay too.
‘Anyone else care to play?’ Lucien asked, once more the congenial host. Valerian doubted any of the other guests were aware of the currents flowing between the little triangle. It was tempting to play, but it was also petty. Valerian opted to refrain, but Philippa had different ideas. She caught his eye. ‘Viscount St Just is quite accomplished if I remember correctly. Do you still play, St Just?’
‘Yes, I do. It would be an honour to perform on such a fine instrument.’ Valerian took the bench and flexed his hands experimentally.
‘I have some music…’ Canton began.
‘I won’t need any music,’ Valerian said shortly and launched into a complicated scherzo that left the audience mesmerised.
‘Magnificent! You’ve been training,’ Beldon enthused afterwards. ‘I’d forgotten how good you were.’
‘Thank you,’Valerian said, rising from the bench. He tossed a covert glance towards Canton, making sure the man understood he’d picked up the gauntlet.
The tea tray arrived, but no one lingered overlong. There would be much to do on the morrow to be ready for the evening’s festivities. As everyone retired, Valerian stopped off at the library to select a book to read. A few minutes later there were muffled footsteps on the Axminster carpet. He didn’t need to turn around to know the newcomer was Lucien Canton. He’d expected as much. The problem with perfection was that it was often predictable.
‘I thought you and I should talk, St Just. Have a seat.’ Canton sat down and motioned to the chair across from him.
‘You have an extensive collection of books,’Valerian said glibly.
Canton waved away the attempt at small talk. ‘I am not here to trade banalities with you. I came to make sure you understood how things stand between myself and Lady Cambourne.’ His eyes glittered like hard gems.
Valerian steepled his hands. ‘I understand from Pendennys that she is acting as hostess in your sister’s stead,’ he said, deliberately misinterpreting the implications of Canton’s message. If the man wanted to stake his claim, he’d have to do it directly. He would not get away with subtlety.
‘She is more than my hostess. We have discussed the possibility of a more permanent arrangement between us. I mean to propose marriage to her and I have every reason to believe that my suit would be met favourably.’
‘Why are you telling me, a mere stranger, this?’
‘You know very well why—you didn’t take her into dinner for the sake of old friendships renewed and all that. I did not know the depth of your former relationship was quite so, ah, developed. It is clearly much more than a friendship. No one looks at an old friend the way you looked at her tonight.’
‘And how is that?’ He’d been more transparent than he thought, or perhaps Canton was simply more astute.
‘Like a starving man looks at a feast,’ Canton said acidly.
Valerian raised his eyebrows, ready to strike. ‘Is that cliché the best you can do?’ He liked Canton less and less by the moment and not all of it had to do with envy. All his instincts said Canton had ulterior motives regarding Philippa. A man in love and certain of his affections being returned would not feel a need to stake such a blatant claim. Canton’s next statement confirmed Valerian’s suspicions.
‘I know you didn’t go to the drawing room to study the Gainsborough when you left the dining room,’ Canton said, referring to the facile lie Valerian had used to excuse himself and to follow Philippa. ‘My footman reported the two of you were out on the balcony, intimately engaged.’
‘Spying on your guests? That’s quite an admirable trait,’ Valerian said drily. ‘I wonder how the Duchess would feel if she knew you had her followed. Do you do it regularly?’ He rose, book in hand. ‘I’ve had enough of this gentlemanly conversation. Goodnight, Canton.’
Lucien rose with him. ‘I mean to have her, St Just. She’s mine. I’m the one who has been here through the years when she was in mourning.You can’t waltz into my home after a nine-year absence and undo in the span of a few short hours what I’ve worked years to accomplish.’
Valerian stopped at the door, his hand forcefully gripping the knob as he reined in his temper. He’d faced down Mehemet Ali, the renowned Egyptian naval commander. By God, he would not suffer the threats of a viscount’s top-lofty heir whose only pretension to greatness was his father’s title. ‘You’re wrong, Canton. If a stolen kiss and a dinner among others are all it takes to “undo” your hard work, it was never “done” in the first place.’
He strode purposefully up the stairs to his chambers, fitting pieces together in his mind. He knew now what he didn’t like about Lucien Canton beyond the simple fact that he coveted Philippa: Lucien Canton was dangerous.
Behind his polished perfection was a lethal streak. He’d seen men like Canton during his years abroad in the highest levels of covert intelligence and diplomacy, catapulted into such positions because of their cunning and arch-shrewdness. To these men, attainment of their goal was everything. Nothing was too