Douglas would never involve your name in wagers.”
Douglas would risk anything for a wager that appealed to him, even though Mother was entirely correct that he would be in over his head with Lord Burke. Douglas was allotted a comfortable bachelor’s allowance by their father, but Lord Burke was reputed to have over twenty thousand pounds a year. He could buy and sell Douglas several times over, and had probably done so more than once. She left off mutilating her egg and poured herself more tea. “I can’t think of any other reason Lord Burke would ask me to dance, and Douglas gave me such a glare whilst dancing, I felt sure I had done him a harm somehow by saying yes. And you have to admit, Douglas has got himself into more than one scrape at Lord Burke’s instigation.”
Her mother’s lips thinned. “I shall speak to him about it.”
“I think you should,” Joan said somberly. “Lord Burke is staying in his house, you know. Who knows what mischief he might encourage Douglas to get up to?”
Her mother frowned. Joan decided she had said enough, and reached for another muffin.
A footman came in with a note on his tray. “Just delivered, my lady,” he said, presenting it to Mother.
Mother read the direction on the front before holding it out. “It’s for you.”
She tore it open. “It’s from Penelope Weston. She’s invited me to walk with her the day after tomorrow in the park.” It was a mild surprise Penelope could wait that long; she and Abigail must be desperate to know what had happened last night. Joan had half expected Penelope to break down the door at the first light of dawn.
For a moment her mother’s eyes closed. The Westons weren’t quite the society she preferred her only daughter to keep. Mr. Weston was an attorney’s son who had made a fortune in the canals, which wasn’t as bad as making it from trade but also wasn’t terribly refined. Still, a fortune was a fortune, and Mr. Weston had settled large dowries on both his daughters in the hopes of seeing them move up in the world. As a result, they were invited to all but the most elegant events; the hostesses of London hardly wanted to deprive their younger sons of any opportunity to catch an heiress.
And fortune or no, Joan had found kindred spirits in Abigail and Penelope. No matter how much Lady Bennet might wish they had better connections, she did acknowledge that Mrs. Weston was a woman of taste and sense, and her daughters were formed in the same mold. “I have no objection,” she said. “Joan . . . did Lord Burke tell you he was acting on a wager last night?”
She paused, half risen from her seat. “No,” she said carefully. “I am only supposing . . . I don’t think he truly wanted to dance with me. He certainly gave no appearance of pleasure.” She firmly blocked all memory of the last few minutes of their encounter from her mind. “He argued with me and then walked off without a word of farewell when the dance was done.”
Lady Bennet eyed her closely. Joan kept her face innocently blank. “It seems odd,” said her mother at last, suspiciously. “I hardly think you’re the sort of lady to interest a man such as he.” She hid another cough behind her handkerchief, and waved away Joan’s instinctive move toward the teapot. “Very well, you may go. But Joan dear, in the future, you must refuse, if he should ever ask you again. I don’t trust him.”
She let out her breath in relief and smiled. Never mind that her own mother didn’t think she was attractive to men—at least not to devilishly handsome men. She was going to escape serious repercussions, and that’s what mattered. “Of course I would refuse, Mother. Although I find it highly unlikely Lord Burke will ever seek me out again.”
Chapter 8
T ristan got up early the morning after the ball and went to the boxing saloon. He hadn’t been there in a while, but this time he stripped to the waist and spent almost three hours in the
Douglas would risk anything for a wager that appealed to him, even though Mother was entirely correct that he would be in over his head with Lord Burke. Douglas was allotted a comfortable bachelor’s allowance by their father, but Lord Burke was reputed to have over twenty thousand pounds a year. He could buy and sell Douglas several times over, and had probably done so more than once. She left off mutilating her egg and poured herself more tea. “I can’t think of any other reason Lord Burke would ask me to dance, and Douglas gave me such a glare whilst dancing, I felt sure I had done him a harm somehow by saying yes. And you have to admit, Douglas has got himself into more than one scrape at Lord Burke’s instigation.”
Her mother’s lips thinned. “I shall speak to him about it.”
“I think you should,” Joan said somberly. “Lord Burke is staying in his house, you know. Who knows what mischief he might encourage Douglas to get up to?”
Her mother frowned. Joan decided she had said enough, and reached for another muffin.
A footman came in with a note on his tray. “Just delivered, my lady,” he said, presenting it to Mother.
Mother read the direction on the front before holding it out. “It’s for you.”
She tore it open. “It’s from Penelope Weston. She’s invited me to walk with her the day after tomorrow in the park.” It was a mild surprise Penelope could wait that long; she and Abigail must be desperate to know what had happened last night. Joan had half expected Penelope to break down the door at the first light of dawn.
For a moment her mother’s eyes closed. The Westons weren’t quite the society she preferred her only daughter to keep. Mr. Weston was an attorney’s son who had made a fortune in the canals, which wasn’t as bad as making it from trade but also wasn’t terribly refined. Still, a fortune was a fortune, and Mr. Weston had settled large dowries on both his daughters in the hopes of seeing them move up in the world. As a result, they were invited to all but the most elegant events; the hostesses of London hardly wanted to deprive their younger sons of any opportunity to catch an heiress.
And fortune or no, Joan had found kindred spirits in Abigail and Penelope. No matter how much Lady Bennet might wish they had better connections, she did acknowledge that Mrs. Weston was a woman of taste and sense, and her daughters were formed in the same mold. “I have no objection,” she said. “Joan . . . did Lord Burke tell you he was acting on a wager last night?”
She paused, half risen from her seat. “No,” she said carefully. “I am only supposing . . . I don’t think he truly wanted to dance with me. He certainly gave no appearance of pleasure.” She firmly blocked all memory of the last few minutes of their encounter from her mind. “He argued with me and then walked off without a word of farewell when the dance was done.”
Lady Bennet eyed her closely. Joan kept her face innocently blank. “It seems odd,” said her mother at last, suspiciously. “I hardly think you’re the sort of lady to interest a man such as he.” She hid another cough behind her handkerchief, and waved away Joan’s instinctive move toward the teapot. “Very well, you may go. But Joan dear, in the future, you must refuse, if he should ever ask you again. I don’t trust him.”
She let out her breath in relief and smiled. Never mind that her own mother didn’t think she was attractive to men—at least not to devilishly handsome men. She was going to escape serious repercussions, and that’s what mattered. “Of course I would refuse, Mother. Although I find it highly unlikely Lord Burke will ever seek me out again.”
Chapter 8
T ristan got up early the morning after the ball and went to the boxing saloon. He hadn’t been there in a while, but this time he stripped to the waist and spent almost three hours in the
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