Читать книгу: «A Marriage of Notoriety»
The servant brought her cloak and Xavier took it from him.
He stepped towards Phillipa and placed it around her shoulders, so close she felt the warmth of his body. The touch of his hands on her shoulders caused a frisson of sensation down her back.
She disliked being so affected by Xavier Campion. It made her think of how she’d felt dancing with him. The thrill of coming close to him, of touching him.
The servant opened the door and the cool evening air revived her.
Phillipa crossed over the threshold with Xavier right behind her. ‘I do not need an escort.’
He fell in step with her. ‘Nevertheless, I need to do this.’
She scoffed. ‘Do not be absurd. You can have the company of any woman you like. One of the gentlemen told me so.’
His step slowed for a moment. ‘Phillipa, if any danger should befall you on this walk home I would never forgive myself for not preventing it.’
He sounded so serious.
‘So dramatic, Xavier. I am not your responsibility.’
His voice turned low. ‘At this moment you are.’
Welcome to
Diane Gaston’s
THE MASQUERADE CLUB
Identities concealed, desires revealed …
This is your invitation to Regency society’s most exclusive gaming establishment.
Leave your inhibitions at the door, don your disguise and indulge your desires!
Club proprietor Rhys, the most renowned gambler in London, finally meets his match in
A REPUTATION FOR NOTORIETY
Already available
And now Rhys’s friend Xavier, the most devilish rogue in town, prefers to gamble with ladies’ hearts in
A MARRIAGE OF NOTORIETY
A Marriage of Notoriety
As a psychiatric social worker, Diane Gaston spent years helping others create real-life happy endings. Now Diane crafts fictional ones, writing the kind of historical romance she’s always loved to read. The youngest of three daughters of a US Army Colonel, Diane moved frequently during her childhood, even living for a year in Japan. It continues to amaze her that her own son and daughter grew up in one house in Northern Virginia. Diane still lives in that house, with her husband and three very ordinary housecats. Visit Diane’s website at http://dianegaston.com
Previous novels by the same author:
THE MYSTERIOUS MISS M
THE WAGERING WIDOW
A REPUTABLE RAKE
INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY
A TWELFTH NIGHT TALE
(in A Regency Christmas anthology) THE VANISHING VISCOUNTESS SCANDALISING THE TON JUSTINE AND THE NOBLE VISCOUNT† (in Regency Summer Scandals) GALLANT OFFICER, FORBIDDEN LADY* CHIVALROUS CAPTAIN, REBEL MISTRESS* VALIANT SOLDIER, BEAUTIFUL ENEMY* A NOT SO RESPECTABLE GENTLEMAN?† BORN TO SCANDAL A REPUTATION FOR NOTORIETY**
†linked by character
*Three Soldiers mini-series
* The Masquerade Club
and in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:
THE UNLACING OF MISS LEIGH
THE LIBERATION OF MISS FINCH
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?
Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
AUTHOR NOTE
The timeless theme of the fairytale Beauty and the Beast often reappears in romance novels, as well as in Disney movies, Phantom of the Opera, King Kong and more. Do we ever tire of this story? I’ve written it before, in my Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBook THE UNLACING OF MISS LEIGH (my Phantom of the Opera story), and now in A MARRIAGE OF NOTORIETY. I dare say I will write it again.
Part of the appeal of the Beauty and the Beast theme is its message—genuine beauty is what one has on the inside, not the way one appears on the outside. How many of us look in the mirror and forget this as we examine every flaw? How often do we gaze at models in magazines or celebrities on the red carpet and feel like garden gnomes in comparison? And how much do all of us want to be loved for who we are, not the way we appear?
I enjoyed exploring this issue once more, and giving my hero and heroine their own chance to discover that beauty isn’t just skin-deep.
Dedication
For my new daughter-in-law Beth, beautiful on the inside and the outside,
and a wonderful addition to our family.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Prologue
London, Spring 1814
‘Mr Xavier Campion,’ Lady Devine’s butler intoned in a baritone voice.
‘Adonis is here!’ gasped one of the young ladies standing near Phillipa Westleigh. The others shared furtive smiles.
Phillipa knew precisely who her friends would see when their gazes slipped towards the doorway. A young man tall and perfectly formed, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and muscled limbs. His hair would be as dark as the ebony keys on a pianoforte and longer than fashionable, but an excellent frame for his lean face, strong brow, sensitive mouth.
The young ladies had been tittering about him the whole evening. Would he come to the ball? Could they contrive an introduction? He’d been the main topic of conversation since they’d discovered him at the opera the night before. ‘He is an Adonis!’ one had proclaimed and the name stuck.
Phillipa had not attended the opera that night, but heard before all of them that he’d come to town. She, too, glanced to the doorway.
Clad in the formal red coat of the East Essex infantry, Xavier Campion looked as magnificent as a man could look in regimentals.
He scanned the room, his brilliant blue eyes searching until reaching Phillipa. His lips widened into a smile and he inclined his head before pivoting to greet Lord and Lady Devine.
‘He smiled at us!’ cried one of Phillipa’s friends.
No. He’d smiled at her.
Phillipa’s cheeks flushed.
Did he remember her? They’d been childhood friends in Brighton during the summers, especially the summer when she fell and suffered her injury.
Phillipa’s hand flew to her cheek, to where the jagged scar marred her face. Not even the clever feather her mother insisted be attached to her headpiece could hide the disfigurement.
Of course he remembered her. How many scar-faced girls could be known to handsome Xavier Campion?
She swung away, while the others giggled and whispered to each other. She heard their voices, but could not repeat a word any of them spoke. All she could think was how it might be if her appearance were different, if her right cheek were not branded with a jagged red scar. How she wished her complexion was as unflawed as her friends’. Then she could merely have a pretty ribbon threaded through her hair instead of the silly headpiece with its obvious feather. She wished just once Xavier Campion could look upon her and think her as beautiful as he was handsome.
Her companions suddenly went silent and a masculine voice spoke. ‘Phillipa?’
She turned.
Xavier stood before her.
‘I thought that was you.’ He’d noticed her scar, he meant. ‘How are you? It has been years since I’ve seen you.’
The other young ladies stared in stunned disbelief.
‘Hello, Xavier,’ she managed, keeping her eyes downcast. ‘But you have been at war. You have been away.’ She dared glance up to his face.
His smile made her heart twist. ‘It is good to be back in England.’
One of her friends cleared her throat.
Phillipa’s hand fluttered to her cheek. ‘Oh.’ She looked from Xavier to the pretty girls around her. It was suddenly clear why he had approached her. ‘Let me present you.’
When the introductions were complete the other young ladies surrounded him, asking him clever questions about the war, where he’d been and what battles he’d fought.
Phillipa stepped back. She’d served her purpose. Her introductions made it possible for him to ask any of them to dance. She imagined their minds turning, calculating. He was only the younger son of an earl, but his looks more than made up for a lack of title. And he was reputed to have a good income.
Her friends were solidly on the marriage mart. They’d all been bred to hope for the perfect betrothal by the end of their first Season. Phillipa’s hopes had quickly become more modest and certainly did not include snaring the most handsome and exciting young man in the room. Not even ordinary eligible gentlemen paid her the least attention. Why should Xavier Campion?
In Brighton, when she’d been a young, foolish child, she’d been his companion. Although a few years older, he played children’s games with her. He filled buckets at the water’s edge with her and built castles out of the pebbles on the beach. They’d chased each other through the garden of the Pavilion and pressed their faces against its windows, peeking at the grandeur inside. Sometimes when they were at play, she’d stop and stare, awestruck at his beauty. Many a night she’d fall asleep dreaming that some day, when she was grown, Xavier would ride in like a prince on horseback and whisk her away to a romantic castle.
Well, she was grown now and the reality was that no man wanted a young lady with a scar on her face. She was eighteen years old and it was past time to put away such childhood fancies.
‘Phillipa?’ His voice again.
She turned.
Xavier extended his hand to her. ‘May I have the honour of this dance?’
She nodded, unable to speak, unable to believe her ears.
Her friends moaned in disappointment.
Xavier clasped her hand and led her to the dance floor as the orchestra began the first strains of a tune Phillipa easily identified, as she’d identified every tune played at the balls she’d attended.
‘The Nonesuch’.
How fitting. Xavier was a nonesuch, a man without equal. There were none such as he.
The dance began.
Somehow, as if part of the music, her legs and feet performed the figures. In fact, her step felt as light as air; her heart, joy-filled.
He smiled at her. He looked at her. Straight in her face. In her eyes.
‘How have you spent your time since last we played on the beach?’ he asked when the dance brought them together.
They parted and she had to wait until the dance joined them again to answer. ‘I went away to school,’ she told him.
School had been a mostly pleasant experience. So many of the girls had been kind and friendly, and a few had become dear friends. Others, however, had delighted in cruelty. The wounding words they’d spoken still felt etched in her memory.
He grinned. ‘And you grew up.’
‘That I could not prevent.’ Blast! Could she not contrive something intelligent to say?
He laughed. ‘I noticed.’
The dance parted them again, but his gaze did not leave her. The music connected them—the gaiety of the flute, the singing of the violin, the deep passion of the bass. She would not forget a note of it. In fact, she would wager she could play the tune on the pianoforte without a page of music in front of her.
The music was happiness, the happiness of having her childhood friend back.
She fondly recalled the boy he’d been and gladdened at the man he’d become. When his hand touched hers the music seemed to swell and that long-ago girlish fantasy sounded a strong refrain.
But eventually the musicians played the final note and Phillipa blinked as if waking from a lovely dream.
He escorted her back to where she had first been standing.
‘May I get you a glass of wine?’ he asked.
It was time for him to part from her, but she was thirsty from the dance. ‘I would like some, but only if it is not too much trouble for you.’
His blue eyes sparkled as if amused. ‘Your wish is my pleasure.’
Her insides skittered wildly as she watched him walk away. He returned quickly and handed her a glass. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
Showing no inclination to leave her side, he asked polite questions about the health of her parents and about the activities of her brothers, Ned and Hugh. He told her of encountering Hugh in Spain and she told him Hugh was also back from the war.
While they conversed, a part of her stood aside as if observing—and judging. Her responses displayed none of the wit and charm at which her friends so easily excelled, but he did not seem to mind.
* * *
She had no idea how long they chatted. It might have been ten minutes or it might have been half an hour, but it ended when his mother approached them.
‘How do you do, Phillipa?’ Lady Piermont asked.
‘I am well, ma’am.’ Phillipa exchanged pleasantries with her, but Lady Piermont seemed impatient.
She turned to her son. ‘I have need of you, Xavier. There is someone who wishes a word with you.’
He tossed Phillipa an apologetic look. ‘I fear I must leave you.’
He bowed.
She curtsied.
And he was gone.
No sooner had he walked away than her friend Felicia rushed up to her. ‘Oh, Phillipa! How thrilling! He danced with you.’
Phillipa could only smile. The pleasure of being with him lingered like a song played over and over in her head. She feared speaking would hasten its loss.
‘I want to hear about every minute of it!’ Felicia cried.
But Felicia’s betrothed came to collect her for the next set and she left without a glance back at her friend.
Another of Phillipa’s former schoolmates approached her, one of the young ladies to whom she had introduced Xavier. ‘It was kind of Mr Campion to dance with you, was it not?’
‘It was indeed,’ agreed Phillipa, still in perfect charity with the world, even though this girl had never precisely been a friend.
Her schoolmate leaned closer. ‘Your mother and Lady Piermont arranged it. Was that not clever of them? Now perhaps other gentlemen will dance with you, as well.’
‘My mother?’ Phillipa gripped the stem of the glass.
‘That is what I heard.’ The girl smirked. ‘The two ladies were discussing it while you danced with him.’
Phillipa felt the crash of cymbals and the air was knocked out of her just like the day in Brighton when she fell.
Prevailing on family connections to manage a dance invitation was precisely the sort of thing her mother would do.
Dance with her, Xavier dear, she could almost hear her mother say. If you dance with her, the others will wish to dance with her, too.
‘Mr Campion is an old friend,’ she managed to reply to the schoolmate.
‘I wish I had that kind of friend.’ The girl curtsied and walked away.
Phillipa held her ground and forced herself to casually finish sipping her glass of wine. When she’d drained the glass of its contents she strolled to a table against the wall and placed the empty glass on it.
Then she went in search of her mother and found her momentarily alone.
It was difficult to maintain composure. ‘Mama, I have a headache. I am going home.’
‘Phillipa! No.’ Her mother looked aghast. ‘Not when the ball is going so well for you.’
Because of her mother’s contrivance.
‘I cannot stay.’ Phillipa swallowed, trying desperately not to cry.
‘Do not do this to yourself,’ her mother scolded, through clenched teeth. ‘Stay. This is a good opportunity for you.’
‘I am leaving.’ Phillipa turned away and threaded her way quickly through the crush of people.
Her mother caught up with her in the hall and seized her arm. ‘Phillipa! You cannot go unescorted and your father and I are not about to leave when the evening is just beginning.’
‘Our town house is three doors away. I dare say I may walk it alone.’ Phillipa freed herself from her mother’s grasp. She collected her wrap from the footman attending the hall and was soon out in the cool evening air where no one could see.
Tears burst from her eyes.
How humiliating! To be made into Xavier Campion’s charity case. He’d danced with her purely out of pity. She was foolish in the extreme for thinking it could be anything else.
Phillipa set her trembling chin in resolve. She’d have no more of balls. No more of hopes to attract a suitor. She’d had enough. The truth of her situation was clear even if her mother refused to see it.
No gentleman would court a scar-faced lady.
Certainly not an Adonis.
Certainly not Xavier Campion.
Chapter One
London, August 1819
‘Enough!’ Phillipa slapped her hand flat on the mahogany side table.
The last time she’d felt such strength of resolve had been that night five years ago when she fled Lady Devine’s ball and removed herself out from the marriage mart for good.
To think she’d again wound up dancing with Xavier Campion just weeks ago at her mother’s ball. He’d once again taken pity on her.
No doubt her mother arranged those two dances as well as the first. More reason to be furious with her.
But never mind that. The matter at hand was her mother’s refusal to answer Phillipa’s questions, flouncing out the drawing room in a huff instead.
Phillipa had demanded her mother tell her where her brothers and father had gone. The three of them had been away for a week now. Her mother had forbidden the servants to speak of it with her and refused to say anything of it herself.
Ned and Hugh had a rather loud quarrel with their father, Phillipa knew. It occurred late at night and had been loud enough to wake her.
‘It is nothing for you to worry over,’ her mother insisted. She said no more.
If it were indeed nothing to worry over, then why not simply tell her?
Granted, in the past several days Phillipa had been closeted with her pianoforte, consumed by her latest composition, a sonatina. Pouring her passions into music had been Phillipa’s godsend. Music gave her a challenge. It gave her life meaning.
Like getting the phrasing exactly right in the sonatina. She’d been so preoccupied she’d not given her brothers or her father a thought. Sometimes she would work so diligently on her music that she would not see them for days at a time. It had finally become clear, though, that they were not at home. That in itself was not so unusual, but her mother’s refusal to explain where they had gone was very odd. Where were they? Why had her father left London when Parliament was still in session? Why had her brothers gone with him?
Her mother would only say, ‘They are away on business.’
Business, indeed. A strange business.
This whole Season had been strange. First her mother and brother Ned insisted she come to town when she’d much have preferred to remain in the country. Then the surprise of her mother’s ball—
And seeing Xavier again.
The purpose of that ball had been a further surprise. It was held for a person Phillipa had never known existed.
Perhaps that person would explain it all to her. His appearance, the ball, her brothers’ and father’s disappearance—all must be connected somehow.
She’d ask John Rhysdale.
No. She would demand Rhysdale tell her what was going on in her family and how he—her half-brother, her father’s illegitimate son—fit into it.
Rhysdale’s relationship to her had also been kept secret from her. Her brothers had known of him, apparently, but no one told her about him or why her mother gave the ball for him or why her parents introduced him to society as her father’s son.
A member of the Westleigh family.
Her mother had given her the task of writing the invitations to the ball, so she knew precisely where Rhysdale resided. Phillipa rushed out of the drawing room, collected her hat and gloves, and was out the door in seconds, walking with a determined step towards St James’s Street.
She’d met Rhysdale the night of the ball. He was very near to Ned’s age, she’d guess. In his thirties. He looked like her brothers, too, dark-haired and dark-eyed. Like her, as well, she supposed, minus the jagged scar on her face.
To Rhysdale’s credit, he’d only given her scar a fleeting glance and afterward looked her in the eye. He’d been gentlemanly and kind. There had been nothing to object in him, except for the circumstances of his birth.
And his choice of friends.
Why did Xavier Campion have to be his friend? Xavier, the one man Phillipa wished to avoid above all others.
Phillipa forced thoughts of Xavier Campion out of her mind and concentrated on being angry at her mother instead. How dared her mother refuse to confide in her?
Phillipa had a surfeit of her mother’s over-protection. She could endure a ball with no dance partners. She could handle whatever mysterious matters led to her family’s aberrant behaviour. Just because an ugly scar marred her face did not mean she was a child.
She was not weak. She refused to be weak.
Phillipa took notice of passers-by staring at her and pulled down a piece of netting on her hat. Her mother insisted she tack netting on to all her hats so she could obscure half her face and not receive stares.
She turned off St James’s Street on to the street where Rhysdale lived. When she found the house, she only hesitated a moment before sounding the knocker.
Several moments passed. She reached for the knocker again, but the door opened. A large man with expressionless eyes perused her quickly. His brows rose.
‘Lady Phillipa to see Mr Rhysdale,’ she said.
The man stepped aside and she entered the hall. He lifted a finger, which she took to mean she should wait, and he disappeared up the staircase.
The doors to rooms off the hall were closed, and the hall itself was so nearly devoid of all decoration that it appeared impersonal. Perhaps a single gentleman preferred no decoration. How would she know?
‘Phillipa.’ A man’s voice came from the top of the stairs.
She looked up.
But it was not Rhysdale who descended the stairs.
It was Xavier.
He quickly approached her. ‘What are you doing here, Phillipa? Is something amiss?’
She forced herself not to step back. ‘I—I came to speak with Rhysdale.’
‘He is not here.’ He glanced around. ‘You are alone?’
Of course she was alone. Who would accompany her? Not her mother. Certainly her mother would never make a social call to her husband’s illegitimate son. ‘I will wait for him, then. It is a matter of some importance.’
He gestured to the stairs. ‘Come. Let us sit in the drawing room.’
They walked up one flight of stairs and Phillipa glanced into a room she presumed would be the drawing room. She glimpsed several tables and chairs.
‘What is this?’ she exclaimed.
Xavier looked dismayed. ‘I will explain.’ He gestured for her to continue up another flight of stairs.
He led her into a comfortably furnished parlour and extended his arm towards a sofa upholstered in deep-red fabric. ‘Do be seated. I will arrange for tea.’
Before she could protest, he left the room again. Her heart beat at such rapid rate that her hands trembled as she pulled off her gloves.
This was ridiculous. She refused to be made uncomfortable by him. He meant nothing to her. He’d merely been a boy who’d once been her playmate. Defiantly she swept the netting over the brim of her hat. Let him see her face.
He stepped back in the room. ‘We’ll have tea in a moment.’ Choosing a chair near her, he leaned close. ‘I do not know when—or if—Rhys will come back.’
‘Do not tell me he has disappeared as well!’ What was going on?
He touched her hand in a reassuring gesture. ‘He has not disappeared. I assure you.’
She pulled her hand away. ‘Where is he?’ she demanded.
He leaned back. ‘He spends most days with Lady Gale.’
‘Lady Gale?’ What did Lady Gale have to do with anything?
Lady Gale was the stepmother of Adele Gale, the silly young woman to whom her brother Ned was betrothed. Both Adele and Lady Gale had been guests at her mother’s ball, so Rhysdale might have met them there, but was there more to that connection?
Xavier frowned. ‘You do not know about Rhysdale and Lady Gale?’
Phillipa waved a frustrated hand. ‘I do not know anything! That is why I am here. My brothers and my father have disappeared and my mother will not tell me where they have gone or why. I came to ask Rhysdale where they were, but it seems I’ve been excluded from even more family matters.’
There was a knock on the door and a manservant entered, carrying the tea tray. As he placed the tray on a side table, he gave Phillipa a curious look.
Because of her scar, no doubt.
Xavier nodded to him. ‘Thank you, MacEvoy.’
The servant bowed and walked out, but not before tossing her another glance.
Xavier reached for the teapot. ‘How do you take your tea, Phillipa? Still with lots of sugar?’
He remembered that? She’d had a sweet tooth as a little girl. That had been a long time ago, however.
She stood. ‘I do not wish to drink tea. I came here for answers. I am quite overset, Xavier. I do not know why everything is kept secret from me. Do I look as if I cannot handle adversity?’ She jabbed at her scar. ‘I am well practised in adversity. My mother—my whole family, it seems—apparently thinks not.’ She faced him. ‘Something important has happened in my family—something more than Rhysdale’s appearance—and I am to be told nothing? I cannot bear it!’ She pressed her hands against her temples for a moment, collecting herself. She pointed towards the door. ‘What is this place, Xavier? Why does my half-brother have a room full of tables where the drawing room should be and a drawing room on a floor for bedchambers?’
* * *
Xavier stared back at Phillipa, considering how much to tell her.
He preferred this version of Phillipa to the one he’d so recently encountered at her mother’s ball. That Phillipa barely looked at him, barely conversed with him, even though he’d danced twice with her. She’d acted as if he were a loathsome stranger.
Her present upset disturbed him, however. Ever since they’d been children, he’d hated seeing her distressed. It reminded him of that summer in Brighton when the pretty little girl woke from a fall to discover the long cut on her face.
He admired Phillipa for not covering her scar now, for showing no shame of it or how she appeared to others. Besides, her colour was high, appealingly so, and her agitation piqued his empathy. He understood her distress. He would greatly dislike being left out of family matters of such consequence.
But surely she’d been told of Rhys’s arrangement with her brothers?
‘Do you not know about this place?’ He swept his arm the breadth of the room.
Her eyes flashed. ‘Do you not comprehend? I know nothing.’
‘This is a gambling establishment.’ All of society knew of it. Why not Phillipa? ‘Nominally it is a gambling club so as to adhere to legalities. Have you not heard of the Masquerade Club?’
‘No.’ Her voice still held outrage.
He explained. ‘This is the Masquerade Club. Rhys is the proprietor. Patrons may attend in masks and thus conceal their identities—as long as they pay their gambling debts, that is. If they need to write vowels, they must reveal themselves.’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘In any event, it is meant to be a place where both gentlemen and ladies may enjoy cards or other games. Ladies’ reputations are protected, you see.’
She looked around again, her expression incredulous. ‘This is a gambling house?’
‘Not this floor. These are Rhys’s private rooms, but he is not here very often these days.’
She pressed fingers to her forehead. ‘Because he is with Lady Gale.’
He nodded. Rhys’s connection to Lady Gale ought to have been roundly discussed at the Westleigh residence.
He could tell her this much. ‘Sit, Phillipa. Have some tea. I will explain.’
He reached for the teapot again but she stopped him with a light touch to his hand. ‘I will pour.’ She lifted a cup and raised her brows in question.
‘A little milk. A little sugar,’ he replied.
She fixed his cup and handed it to him. ‘Explain, Xavier. Please.’
‘About Lady Gale and Rhys,’ he began. ‘Earlier this Season Lady Gale came masked to the Masquerade Club.’
She lifted her cup. ‘She is a gambler? I would not have guessed.’
He lifted a shoulder. ‘Out of necessity. She needed money. She attended often enough for Rhys to become acquainted with her. In learning of her financial need, he began paying her to come gamble.’
‘Paying her?’ Her hand stopped before the teacup reached her lips.
He gave a half-smile. ‘He fancied her. He did not know her name, though. Nor did she know his connection to your family.’
She looked at him expectantly. ‘And?’
‘They became lovers.’ He took a breath. ‘And she is with child. They are to be married as soon as the licence can be arranged.’ He paused. ‘And other matters settled.’
‘Other matters.’ Her brows knitted. ‘Ned’s courtship of Lady Gale’s stepdaughter, do you mean?’
He nodded. ‘And more.’
Rhys’s gambling house and his affair with Lady Gale had hardly caused her a blink of the eye. Surely she was made of stern enough stuff to hear the whole of it.
She gave him a direct look. ‘What more?’
‘Do you know of Ned and Hugh’s arrangement with Rhys?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘I am depending upon you to tell me all of it, Xavier. All of it.’
How could he resist her request?
Ever since her injury. What age had he been? Twelve? She’d been about seven and he’d never forgotten that summer.
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