Lady Be Reckless (Duke's Daughters #2)(3)

“Did you pay no attention at all?” Bennett asked as he glared at Edward. They stood in the enormous ballroom of the house Edward’s father had rented in London, a soft rain falling outside, the inside silent save for Bennett’s practically vibrating outrage.

Edward couldn’t help but smirk at his friend. Bennett was as vehement about this as he was on the Parliamentary floor, and this was about—

“You’re asking if I paid attention during dancing lessons,” Edward said, emphasizing the last two words to show his disdain.

Bennett flung his hands up, hands that had been trying to put Edward into the correct position for the waltz just a few moments ago.

“Yes. You do know that polite society deems it important to dance, don’t you?”

“Ah, and that’s the problem.” Edward bent into a deep bow, spreading his arms wide. “Have you been introduced to Mr. Edward Wolcott, the most notable bastard of your acquaintance?”

Bennett rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to constantly be rubbing the fact into everyone’s faces all the time, you know.”

Oh, but I do, Edward thought. Because if I don’t make reference to it, remove the sting of its mention from anyone who might say something, they will think they’ve hurt me when they mention my dubious parentage. Most people assumed being illegitimate indicated a lack of character, as though being born on the wrong side of the blanket made someone simply wrong.

But he didn’t tell his friend any of that. Bennett knew precisely why Edward did what he did, he just didn’t understand how much it did hurt. The sidelong glances that had supplanted the outright fights his schoolmates had baited him into. Fights that Edward took pride in winning, even though winning meant he was called to the headmaster’s office after each fracas. Mr. Wolcott, the headmaster would say pointedly. Making it clear he knew just why Edward didn’t share his father’s last name.

School was where he had met Bennett, and Bennett had stuck with Edward ever since, no matter how many times Edward pointed out that the son of a marquis should not be friends with the bastard son of a financier. Even though—remarkably—the financier had claimed his son, something very few gentlemen did. Most natural-born children were never acknowledged by their fathers, for fear of ruining their reputations.

But Edward’s father had done what few men would, and now Edward could ruin his own reputation when he appeared on the dance floor.

“Why can’t I just speak with people about horses and hunting and the things I actually like to do, rather than dance or make irritatingly banal conversation?”

Bennett did not deign to reply, instead holding his arms out. “Let’s try this again. I cannot believe that someone so athletic can be so terrible a dancer.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Edward grumbled. Mostly because he’d concentrated on athletics as a way to circumvent the cruel talk; he figured if he was stronger than any of his potential tormentors, he could keep their comments at bay with the very real possibility of physical violence. And his strategy had worked; very few men dared to mention anything now, not after appraising Edward’s physique.

“I do know,” Bennett said as he adjusted Edward’s hands, nudging his feet into the right place and heaving several exasperated sighs, “that you loathe dancing. I am well aware, nearly as much as you, of how much you hate all this rigmarole. But I also know you have to do it. You told me what your father said.”

Edward felt his chest tighten at the mention of his father. Mr. Beechcroft. The man who, inexplicably, had loved and raised him as well as if he had been legitimately born. The man who wanted nothing more than to see his son take a position in Society, a position that he himself could never take, thanks to his merchant upbringing. Edward wished it were enough that he had learned the business and enjoyed doing it. But his father wanted more.

“Fine,” he replied in a grouchy tone.

“And if you cannot bear it for another moment, there is usually an unused library or another type of room you can go to escape for a bit.”

Edward made a harrumphing noise, indicating his thoughts on that idea.

Running away from a problem was not his way; he usually did the opposite, running headlong toward it without considering the consequences.

Bennett, who was accustomed to Edward’s grumpiness, ignored his friend, instead instructing him on how to count out the rhythm of the waltz.

If only Bennett could teach him how not to see mockery in everyone’s faces when he attended his first Society function, introduced with his mother’s name though everyone knew who his father was.

But that would be even more difficult than his mastering the waltz. And he was currently smashing all ten of Bennett’s toes.



“Stop!”

Edward paused as he heard the woman’s voice, even though she wasn’t speaking to him.

He had left the town house about half an hour after Bennett, knowing he just had to walk somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t inside.

It had started to drizzle, and people were scurrying about, most dressed moderately well. He’d wandered toward his father’s London office, which was situated just a few streets over from where London’s most fashionable people shopped and mingled.

The woman who’d spoken was clearly one of those most fashionable people—dressed in a long coat that appeared to be as warm as it was exquisitely detailed.