Warrick lifted hisglass and took a swallow of spiced wine, his gaze tracking the dancers swirling about the black and white tiled floor of the Ashworth ballroom. There were only five couples dancing in total, which spoke volumes of how the mess of the betting book had escalated. Who would have thought misplacing a list with a bunch of heiresses’ names would warrant this much trouble?
Very well... a list he’d had a hand in creating and transforming into the nightmare it was today. But still, he had a much more troubling and current nightmare to worry about. A nightmare that might cause more chaos than even that list.
What he wouldn’t give for a bottle of French brandy, no obligation to get out of bed the next day, and the capacity to forget about that damn list and wagers for a few hours.
And her.
Forget about her.
But he was on duty tonight, and duty had a name:Selena Savage.
A name that represented a particularly sharp thorn. Always sticking and poking into his side. Three days ago, that thorn had grown ten sizes.
Despite his best intentions, despite having tried to get out of this role of protector, he’d been roped into a search for a damn secret organization. Even knowing the disaster that would come of this, he hadn’t been able to say no. He’d sacrificed himself once again. And this time, he really questioned his choices in life. Unlike the times he merely flinched at them.
Selena was right—he was not responsible for her.
Yet he could not find the argument to wrench himself away from her. At first, guilt had driven him to agree to Saville’s request, but guilt had certainly not driven him three days ago. Something else had. Something burning deep within.
Christ, those trousers... Another thing he couldn’t wrench away from—the memory of the way they had clung to her legs as though they belonged on them. He had never seen Selena as anything but Saville’s sister. An outspoken little chit that loved to bicker with her brother. Now, he saw her as something else. A woman. An outspoken woman that loved to bicker with her brother, certainly, but also one that had developed a dangerous charm.
Damn trousers . . .
Why did that memory have to call everything into question? Why did it affect him so much? What the hell was next?
These women had become more perturbing than the fortune hunters prowling the fringes of the ballroom when the list was exposed. They were all dangling over the cliff edge of chaos at each soiree, tea party, and musical.
He took another sip of mulled wine, his gaze tracking Selena where she conversed with Lady Theodosia as though she hadn’t set a storm upon polite society. She was a vision in blue silk.
At least no Turkish trousers.A small mercy.
Her hair was piled atop her head tonight in a proper style.
I should have demanded she never again wear her hair down as well.
The entire mess was their own fault—him, Saville, Deerhurst, and Avondale. But mostly him. If he hadn’t lost the list, so much chaos could have been prevented. Things might be different now. He understood why he and his friends had to keep an eye on the women with the aim of protecting them from unsavory characters. Yet the sight of Selena Savage three days ago had him willing to, if he could go back in time, lose that list all over again. A troubling thought.
He took another sip of wine.
Not bad. But not good either.
Oh Brandy, Brandy, wherefore art thou Brandy?
He had found the manufacturers of the trousers. Now, only one question remained: Did he tell her or not? He could bury the information and the manufacturer with a snap of his fingers. But would that stop her from marching into the streets of London to hunt them down herself?
No, it would not.
However, before he could approach Selena, another lady stepped into his path.
“Warrick, dear,” Lady Ridgeland cooed. “You look like you’re in need of a bit of attention tonight.”
Warrick scowled. The chaos hadn’t only brought fortune hunters from the shadows, but also called forth a different breed of females. Not that they didn’t exist in the first place, they just moved from the shadows openly into the light.
This woman a perfect example. A huntress. Granted, the years had been kind to her, and she was still a beauty in her forties. But she was infamous for her affairs. She was also the Earl of Ridgeland’s wife.
“You are mistaken, madam.”
“Come on now.” She leaned close—too close—as if she wanted to attract him with her scent, like a black widow attempting attract a mate. “I will make it worth your while.”
