This Earl Is on Fire (11 page)

L
iam arrived late. Since a prompt arrival at any of the events he typically attended was considered bad form, this should not have mattered. Tonight, however, he was supposed to make a favorable impression on his hostess—a Sisyphean task, if ever there was one.

Lady Strandfellow did not like him. She'd been coerced into extending an invitation, and she did not bother to hide her displeasure at his tardiness, his appearance, and likely his reputation. Though, if Liam were to rate his own appearance, he'd say he looked acceptable under the circumstances.

It couldn't be helped that part of his face was a mottled blend of violet, green, and yellow. But at least he was clean-shaven, though with no help from Neville. After enduring three solid minutes of his squeamish valet's choking sounds and open-mouthed gagging, Liam had done the job himself. A fine effort, if he did say so himself. Not a single nick. And more than that, it had felt satisfying, slicing off the old and uncovering the fresh, unmarred flesh beneath.

He was beginning to understand Boswick's simpler practices. There was nothing he expected of his servants that he would not do himself. For too many years, Liam relied on his servants to see to everyday tasks without thought. Now he found that it was good to step away from what he'd always done and take a new approach.

Perhaps relying on his servants, as he had done since his father's death, had kept him from seeing things in a new light. His encounter with Vale earlier today had told him that he required a closer look at his familial relationships as well. But all in good time.

Tonight was for Adeline.

At the edge of the hall near the archway to the ballroom, Liam cast a cursory glance at his own reflection in the glass front of a curio cabinet. Since there was nothing he could do about his face, he paid closer attention to his attire. Thankfully, Neville had been able to hold his stomach long enough to tie a proper cravat and help Liam into his tailored black coat, or else he would have arrived even later.

Straightening his shoulders, he stepped into the ballroom. As luck would have it, a footman toting a tray of wine glasses passed by in the same moment. Liam snatched one for himself and immediately took a fortifying swallow. Then he cringed and glared down at the offensive vintage. It was wine-colored water, and nothing more. This would not do. How did Lady Strandfellow expect her guests to survive this insipid gathering without assistance?

In answer to that question, Liam's gaze quickly scanned the room for a glimpse of Adeline. The instant he found her, he felt the wine begin to work, relaxing him in subtle doses.

This evening, she wore a sheath of white netting over a yellow petticoat that brought out threads of gold in her light brown hair. She possessed an honest beauty. Her complexion had that scrubbed-clean pink that made her all the lovelier. And when she looked at him in return, he felt his lungs expand, as if the air he breathed was somehow fresh and untainted.

The upward lift of her brows indicated her surprise at seeing him, but there was something almost beseeching in her gaze, calling to some slumbering part of him that he'd never awakened.

Adeline stood beside her parents and Juliet. Not far separated, Aunt Edith chatted with Lady Strandfellow, the latter glancing at the Pimms sourly. That was when Liam realized something was amiss.

Only now did he notice that Adeline's eyes were too wide, her smile more brittle than bright. She should be laughing, her eyes shimmering with gaiety. This was her adventure, after all.

He had the impulse to cross the room immediately and stand by her side. Yet he also knew such behavior, amongst such
pious
company, would only make matters worse for her.

Liam loathed these types of events. Here, propriety was paramount . . . at least on the surface. Everyone looked the part—styled and coiffed to perfection, their finery without flaw, their gloves gleaming white. He smirked at this pretense. The utter hypocrisy.

Several familiar faces amongst this lot had not only attended a few gatherings hosted by the infamous Lady Reynolds but were also members of an elite gentleman's club run by Lady Hudson. And when Liam caught their gazes, each one in turn would startle and dart a nervous glance at their wives.

What? Did they imagine that he was the bringer of sin and that theirs would be exposed in his presence? At least he had the decency to wear his misdeeds in the open.

“You look like the devil,” Thayne remarked, sidling up to him.

“Then it is fitting, considering that I am now standing in hell.” Liam cast a baleful look over the length of the ballroom. The paneled ceiling, walls, and dark wood floors might have set the perfect stage for an illicit encounter behind one of the potted trees in the corners. Instead, wall sconces, chandeliers, and tapers lit every nook and cranny and made the room overly warm. He tugged at his cravat. “Should have known you'd make the cut for the Select Seventy.”

Only gentlemen who were highly regarded and married, or highly regarded, unmarried, but searching for a bride received invitations. The only qualification Liam fit was being unmarried. Likely, Lady Strandfellow was reciting a constant litany of prayers under her breath to be saved from such an unworthy guest as he.

“Ah, yes. Quite the achievement, considering I've done nothing other than become a marquess by happenstance,” Thayne mocked. Though the truth was, the moment he'd inherited the title from a distant relative, he'd turned downright respectable.
Traitor
.

“You did not have to force such a fate upon me,” Liam insisted.

Thayne was doing all that was expected of a titled nobleman, attending teas and soirees, riding through the park at a fashionable hour, and refusing invitations deemed
improper
by the
ton
's matrons. In contrast, and because nature abhorred a void, Liam typically accepted more than his usual share of improper invitations. At least until now.

Though it did not escape his notice that soon enough, Liam would not have any of his real friends left. He'd be the only one of their foursome without a family. Not that he needed one.

“What are friends for?” Thayne remarked a bit too brightly.

Liam grumbled. “All I require now is a decent drink. Yet there are no spirits to be had. At least, nothing stronger than this watered-down wine and cups of tepid green tea.”

“Yes, unfortunate that.” Thayne frowned as he looked down into his empty glass. “Apparently, Lady Strandfellow has recently taken to believe that even black tea causes too much stimulation and therefore leads to uninhibited behavior.”

“Not a single card game in sight either.”

Thayne chuckled. “This is
polite
society. The only attraction this evening is the event itself. Conversation is acceptable, and dancing—”

“As long as it does not allow for too much contact between partners,” Liam added with a sardonic laugh.

Their hostess needed to turn her quizzing glass on Vale and his bride. They appeared engrossed in their study of a clock stand's pendulum, but Liam wasn't fooled. He noticed how Vale discreetly toyed with Ivy's glove, and how she smiled coyly in response, her cheeks flooded with color. Even though they were married, everyone knew that their hostess disapproved of any open sign of affection.

Such familiar touches from an unmarried gentleman to a debutante would cause a scandal. In fact, if Liam were to stop beside Miss Pimm and explore the flesh beneath
her
glove, their hostess would likely gasp and faint on the spot.

And it was just shocking enough that it made Liam itch to do it. His fingertips, and other parts, pulsed with yearning as he looked at the narrow expanse of skin exposed above her glove and beneath the gathered sleeve. More than that, he wanted to hold her against him, to brush away the curling tendrils from her cheeks. And he was weak-willed, already imagining how soft they would feel against his own.

Then again, he didn't have to imagine it. He knew exactly how it felt to have her hair brush his face. To have her lips upon his. Her sweet breath on his tongue . . .

He issued an involuntary groan.
Bollocks
. He never should have kissed her.

“Are your injuries paining you?” Thayne asked, interrupting Liam's dangerous thoughts. “I can procure a chair . . .”

Liam shook his head and dragged his attention away from Adeline before he caused a spectacle.

“Had I known, I would have asked you to stay with me for your recuperation.”

“Think nothing of it. I was not even conscious the first day, and following that, I was not capable of leaving the bed.”

Even now, Liam did not want to admit how exhausted he felt.

“Ah. So then you were
unable
to leave Lord Boswick and his family,” Thayne said blandly as if this was all a matter of curiosity. Nothing more. “That is a relief. I thought you'd chosen to stay. There are rumors abounding, you know.”

“So I am told.” Liam felt his hackles rise. He knew where this was going and cast Thayne a look of warning. “I'm certain that did not bode well for your wager.”

“Wager?” Thayne scoffed, feigning innocence. Then he shifted from one foot to the next, and his gaze shot across the room to where Adeline stood with Juliet.

“I've always known. You must have forgotten how fond of me your mother is.” Liam drained the last of his watered wine with a shudder and gave the empty glass to a passing footman before turning back to Thayne. “What I can't fathom is why you would do such a thing? Wagering to transform me into an
Original
is like trying to lose.”

Thayne said nothing in response, but his knuckles turned white as he gripped his own glass.

“But wait! Have I hit the mark?” Liam asked with a waggle of his brows. “Are you trying to lose in order to make Juliet stay in London?”

“You are an arse.”

“Do try to be more original with your insults.” When Adeline had said the same words, at least she had a wealth of emotion behind them.

Thinking of her automatically drew his attention to her. Again. Yet, as he looked across the ballroom, the vivaciousness and determination that marked her character were still absent. In place of it was an air of uncertainty in her wide eyes as she stared at the dancers.

Only now did he think of her limb, recalling what she had confessed to him about not dancing. Though he guessed she'd never had the opportunity. After all, Adeline was not one to permit anything from stopping her. She'd proven her bravery by attending this gathering.

As if sensing his careful study, she looked in his direction. For two beats, they shared a knowledge to which only he was privy—her secret and his admiration. Slowly, he inclined his head, still holding her gaze. In response, her mouth tilted up at each corner before she turned back to her parents.

Lord and Lady Boswick hovered protectively by her side until Aunt Edith called them away, apparently, to speak with Lady Strandfellow. Liam wondered how that encounter would fare. For Adeline's sake, he hoped for the best.

“All right, then,” Thayne said curtly, stepping in front of Liam, his dark brows lowered in obvious irritation. “I wagered on you because you have the makings of being an
Original
. You fascinate the
ton
.”

“My title and wealth garner their interest. That is all,” Liam corrected, beginning to feel his own ire climbing. This was not a topic he liked to discuss, and Thayne knew it.

“It is more than that. Even those who disapprove of you love to whisper about your escapades. But what they don't realize is that I know that there is something worthy buried beneath that unscrupulous façade. I've seen it.”

Liam winced from the attack. “Are you threatening me?”

Thayne scoffed, and after a minute of glaring back at him, barked out a laugh. “Only you would take those words as a threat. Anyone else would know that he'd been complimented.”

Not Liam. He needed his reputation to stay as it was. If the
ton
saw him as respectable, then they would start to imagine him as a genuine candidate for the marriage mart. The last thing he needed was another brush with a conniving family who used deception to gain his favor and affection. He preferred knowing exactly where he stood. He would never be tricked again.

F
or Adeline's very first London soiree, this was not much of an adventure. In fact, it was downright unpleasant.

Upon arriving, Lady Strandfellow had been cordial, but only just. She received Adeline and her parents with a curt nod and a sniff that wrinkled her nose. And then she'd made it perfectly clear that they'd been invited only as a favor to the Dowager Duchess of Vale.

Then she was introduced to a few young women and their mothers. Well, Adeline supposed that
introduced
was not quite the correct word. Perhaps
identified
or
classified
—as one would a certain species of garden weed—was more fitting.
And this is
Adeline Pimm
. . . in Latin we refer to her as
debutantus most unwelcomus
.

Having spent her life in Boswickshire with everyone knowing about her limb, she had become accustomed to pity or revulsion. But she hadn't been prepared for censure.

More than anything, Adeline had wanted to turn up her nose at them in return, but displaying rude manners was no way to thank the dowager duchess, Ivy, and Juliet for this great favor. So instead, Adeline kept with the lessons she'd learned from her parents—to smile at those who would disparage her.

She wasn't the only one who earned scorn from this sanctimonious gathering either. Whispers began the moment Liam entered the room.
A rake invited to the Select Seventy
?
What could Lady Strandfellow have been thinking
?

Adeline had been surprised as well, and beside her, Juliet's silence spoke volumes. She was positively fuming, albeit beneath a cool exterior.