Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(60)

That decided her.

She turned to Mary Whitsun, wide-eyed beside her. “Fetch Nell, please. I need to dress for a ball.”

LAZARUS FELT THE hackles rise on the back of his neck when he entered the ballroom that night with Temperance on his arm. She was magnificent in the turquoise gown he’d sent to her. Her dark hair was piled atop her head and held with the light yellow topaz pins he’d included in the basket. Her breasts pressed against the shimmering silk bodice, mounded and tempting. She was beautiful and desirable, and every man in the room took note. And he was damnably aware of the other men taking note. He actually felt a growl building at the back of his throat, as if he’d stand guard over her like some mangy dog over a scrap.

What a fool he was.

“Shall we?” he murmured to her.

He could see the movement of her throat as she swallowed nervously. “Yes. Please.”

He nodded and began their perambulation through the overdecorated room. Temperance’s quarry was by the far windows, but it wouldn’t do to approach too eagerly.

Every notable presently residing in London was here, including, inevitably, his own mother. The Countess of Stanwicke was known for extravagant balls, and she’d outdone herself tonight. A platoon of footmen, attired in orange and black livery, attended the gathering, each attesting to the money needed for both their gaudy clothes and their time. Hothouse flowers were mounded on every surface, already wilting in the heat of the ballroom. The scent of dying roses and lilies mingled with that of burning wax, sweating bodies, and perfume, the whole both nauseating and heady.

“I intend to return this gown to you after tonight,” Temperance said, taking up the argument that had begun in the carriage ride here.

“And I’ve already told you I’ll simply have it burned if you do,” he replied smoothly, baring his teeth to a gentleman staring at her bosom. None of them would have ever noticed her in her usual drab black gowns. He was a fool for taking her out of her obscurity and bringing her into contact with these overdressed wolves. “I must confess my disappointment in your waste, Mrs. Dews.”

“You are an impossible man,” she hissed under her breath while smiling at a passing matron.

“I may be impossible, but I’ve gained you entry into the most fashionable ball of the season.”

There was a short silence as he guided her around a pack of elderly ladies in far too much rouge.

Then she said softly, “So you have and I thank you.”

He glanced swiftly sideways at her. Her cheeks were pink, but the color was not from any rouge pot. “You have no need to thank me. I’m merely fulfilling the bargain we made.”

She looked at him, her gilded eyes mysterious and far too wise. “You’ve done more than that for me. You’ve given me this beautiful gown, the hairpins, slippers, and stays. Why shouldn’t I thank you for all that?”

“Because I’ve brought you into this den of wolves.”

He felt more than saw her startled glance. “You make a ball sound overly dangerous, even for one as inexperienced as I.”

He snorted. “In many ways, this company is as dangerous as the people we’ve met on the streets of St. Giles.”

She looked at him skeptically.

“Over there”—he tilted his chin discreetly—“is a gentleman—I use the word in only its social sense—who has killed two men in duels in the last year. Beside him is a decorated general. He lost most of his men in a vain and stupid charge. It’s rumored that our hostess once beat a maid so badly she had to pay the woman over a thousand pounds to hush up the matter.”

He glanced down at Mrs. Dews, expecting shock, but she stared back, her expression open and frank and a little sad. “You’re merely proving that money and privilege do not go hand in hand with good sense or virtue. That, I think, I already knew.”

He bowed, feeling heat stealing up his cheeks. “Forgive me for boring you.”

“You never bore me as well you know, my lord,” she replied. “I only wish to point out that while money can’t buy those things, it can buy food for the stomach and clothes for the body.”

“So you think the people here are happier than those in St. Giles?”

“They should be.” She shrugged. “Being hungry or cold does terrible things for the temperament.”

“And yet,” he mused, “are the wealthy here any happier than a poor beggar on the street?”

She looked at him with disbelief.

He smiled down at her. “Truly. I think a man may find happiness—or discontent—no matter if he has a full belly or not.”

“If that is true, it is very sad,” she said. “They should be happier with all their needs fulfilled.”

He shook his head. “Man is a fickle, ungrateful creature, I fear.”

She smiled at that—finally! “I don’t think I can understand the people from your class.”

“Best not to,” he said lightly.

“You, for instance,” she murmured. “I’m not sure you have any more need of me in St. Giles, but you take me with you still. Why?”

He looked ahead of them, examining the crowd, watching the other men watching her. “Why do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you?”