The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(65)

You have many enemies. I’m not the only one. I am, however, the only one who will see you destroyed . . .

Reggie had suffered through all number of hells.

There had been the day she’d been caught in a compromising position in the Duke and Duchess of Glastonbury’s country estate with the noble couple’s son, Lord Oliver. And then on the immediate heels of that, her and Oliver’s hasty flight to London, where they’d intended to begin again as husband and wife.

Then there had been the night she’d discovered the depth of his depravity and callousness.

The loss of her invisibility, however, proved the greatest lesson in torture.

The Duke and Duchess of Somerset’s distinguished guests openly gawked at Reggie. She could feel their eyes on her from her seat on the sidelines of the ballroom. Yes, this was its own special kind of hell.

Seated alongside a handful of other companions, Reggie stared out, deliberately ignoring Lord Cavendish, who’d taken up a seat beside her.

All in the guise of joining his sister and her companion.

And if Reggie hadn’t had her innocence quashed by another rake years earlier, she might have believed there were some devoted brothers amongst the ranks of nobility.

Alas, working as she did inside a gaming hell, Reggie had observed a different side of that very earl. He was frequently drunk, and he preferred to avail himself of the charms of whores—often several of them at the same time. And then he tried to seduce those same women when Broderick ended prostitution inside the clubs. No, she was wise enough to never be fooled by a cad’s seeming brotherly devotion.

Just then, that devoted brother pressed his thigh hard against hers.

She gritted her teeth and drew away from that bold touch.

The lords of London had been content not questioning her honor within the Devil’s Den, but the rules of respect all changed when she stepped outside that world. Every last patron knew she was neither lady nor proclaimed sister to Broderick. As such, the protections she’d enjoyed in the club ceased.

Of its own volition, her gaze wandered the room, searching, searching . . . and through the dancers performing the intricate steps of a country reel, she found him.

The one good man amongst them. Not a gentleman by rank but honorable in all the ways that most mattered.

Broderick spoke with Gertrude, Ophelia, and Connor, and together they presented a loyal family front, as at ease and in command here as they were at the Devil’s Den. With a glass of champagne dangling between his elegant fingers, by all intents and purposes Broderick very much belonged to this glittering world. She smiled wistfully. That was Broderick, though. Where mere mortals such as Reggie knew their place in the order of society, Broderick inserted himself where he would and took that place as his right.

He didn’t flinch under the focus paid him but rather took it as his due.

But then, why should he not? Every last lady present devoured him with her eyes. From fresh-faced debutantes in blinding-white skirts to the protective mamas at their sides, each woman clamored for a hint of his attention. She wrinkled her nose. Why, even London’s leading lords—some members of the club, most not—courted his favor.

As if he sensed her gaze, Broderick found her over the heads of the other guests.

A charged energy passed between them with the same intensity that had sprung to life while they’d fought one another for control inside her music hall. Her heart hammered. There was a heat in his eyes that seared her, that challenged her even as the room around them continued on in a dizzying whir of sounds.

For a slip of a moment in time, even with the length of the room and dancers twirling between them, passion glinted in his eyes. His stare hot, like a lover’s caress. And then a dark frown pulled at his lips.

Ophelia said something, calling Broderick’s attention away, and the moment was lost.

“You look as happy to be here as I do.”

Reggie gasped. “Cleo,” she squeaked.

The young woman who’d been like another sister to her grinned wryly. “Not quite the greeting I’d expected.”

Reggie jumped up. “Forgive me. I was . . .” Woolgathering. Making eyes at your brother.

Cleo winged an eyebrow up.

“Attending Gertrude,” Reggie finished, praying Cleo would not challenge her on that statement. Hoping that she’d not pry here . . . or anywhere.

Lord Cavendish stretched his legs out and, looping them at the ankle, stared with bald interest at Reggie. “Put yar eyes back in yar head.” Cleo leveled him with a sharp glare that immediately sent his attention swiveling in the opposite direction. “Join me.”

Looping her arm through Reggie’s, Cleo led her along the perimeter of the ballroom, steering her inside an alcove. “Bloody bastard.” The moment the curtain fluttered, allowing them privacy in the darkened space, Cleo spoke. “He must have threatened you.”

“Lord Cavendish? Hardly. He’s made a nuisance of himself, but he’s not—”

“My brother,” Cleo cut in dryly. “I meant my brother.” Reggie stiffened. “Did he promise to interfere in your purchase?”

Reggie sighed. For her and Broderick’s shift from friendship to enemies, she’d not sow the seeds of discontent within his family. She loved all the Killorans too much to be the source of tension amongst them. “I think it best if we not speak about what transpired between your brother and me.”