Once A Scoundrel

Chapter 1-2

He placed her hand on his arm and led her onto the floor. The couples took their positions, then bowed and curtsied before launching into a series of turns and sashays.

As she worked her way down the row toward the head of the line, not missing a step in her bobs and turns, Faith took surreptitious glances at Stephen. She watched from the corner of her eye as he crossed the room to greet her mother and father and then greeted his aunt and uncle, the Duke and Duchess of Chatham, before finally turning to his own parents. He shook the general’s hand and lowered his head to allow his mother to kiss his cheek. When Lady Emily fussed over the way his valet had knotted his snow-white cravat in the latest minimalist fashion, Faith fought back a smile at his expense. Mothers never changed, no matter how old or troublesome their sons.

He’d certainly changed in appearance, though.

Despite being dressed in the same black and white formal attire as every other man in the room, right down to the black tailcoat worn open to reveal the intricately embroidered silk waistcoat beneath, nothing about him was ordinary. As if to impress that point, he’d forgone proper shoes for a pair of well-worn boots. They were the only indication in his apparel that he’d spent the last four years on horseback in the army rather than haunting the clubs on St. James’s Street, yet no one could overlook the proud and straight-spined military bearing he wore like a uniform. A demeanor that distinguished him from every other young man in the room.

His boyish features were gone, and in their place was solid man. Only those deep blue eyes, the curly black hair he still wore unfashionably long, and that charming half-grin that curled at his lips were the same.

Oh, how she remembered that grin! Faith had always found Stephen dashing and his scandalous nature secretly thrilling, even when she’d been a girl in the schoolroom and he’d been at Harrow. All those years when she stared after him dreamily while he’d paid her as much mind as a chair, she’d hoped that someday he might notice her as something other than Strathmore’s daughter. That he might finally do more than make her stare after him longingly and sigh whenever he gave her the smallest compliment. That he might dare to kiss her in some dark garden the way he was rumored to do with other ladies...

Then he did.

And now her foolish heart regretted ever wanting that.

The dance ended. The ladies twirled back into their original positions as the last notes died away. Billingsby led her off the dance floor, taking the long way around the room to return her to her friends. And the way furthest from Stephen so she couldn’t get a better look at him, not even when she craned her neck. Not that she wanted to see him anyway. He meant absolutely nothing to her now, she told herself. And someday she hoped to believe that.

“Dunwich’s arrival has created quite a stir,” Billingsby commented.

“As always,” she muttered, the familiar anger at Stephen tightening her chest.

When Billingsby glanced down at her, puzzled at her tone, she forced a smile. After all, he was a friend of the family, so she needed to be polite to him, and he was only here for the evening. Thank goodness. Because she didn’t like the way he kept staring at her chest. As if a giant stain covered her bodice.

“Your family is close to his, I understand,” he added.

“Very.” Although she wished with all her heart that they weren’t. Then she wouldn’t have to see Stephen again or speak to him...or pretend he hadn’t wounded her.

“I’m certain you’ve heard the latest rumor, then.”

Her smile faded. “You mean the untruth that he’s keeping a mistress?” Surely Billingsby realized what a boor he was to spread gossip about a family friend to her face.

“Not just keeping her—”

She sniffed haughtily. No, apparently the man had no sense of decorum.

“—but her and her son, whom he refuses to acknowledge as his.”

Her heart skipped. An illegitimate son? Impossible. Even from a scoundrel like Stephen. “You are mistaken, sir.”

“Then so is half of London.” He seemed amused at her defense of the marquess—heaven knew Faith was puzzled over it herself—but he didn’t notice that she’d put as much room between them as possible in the crush while still holding onto his arm. By her fingertips. “You know as well as I how rumors start. There’s always a grain of truth at the heart of each.”

“Then that rumor is the exception.” Her chest tightened until each hard beat of her heart made it difficult to breath. How on earth had she managed to find herself defending Stephen, the very last man she should be championing? “Dunwich is a peer who has given the last four years of his life in service to his country.”

“Of course,” he said quickly, as if finally realizing that he’d overstepped. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t. I just—” The words choked around the knot in her throat.

Oh bother! She’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t let Stephen’s presence at Hartsfield Park upset her. Yet her eyes stung with unshed tears, and she trembled. Not with sadness, but anger. At Stephen for the way he’d so cavalierly treated her...and at herself that she still let him distress her.

She pulled her hand away. “Excuse me. I—I need a glass of punch.”

“I’d be happy to fetch—”

She walked away before he could see the hot tears glistening in her eyes. And what a relief that for once he was left staring at her back instead of her bosom. Of course, if Grace’s husband found out that she’d just cut the man, she’d never hear the end of it from her sister. At that moment, though, she couldn’t care less.

With trembling fingers, she took a glass of punch from the refreshments table, then welcomed the relief when the drink washed away the knot in her throat and helped ease the pounding of her heart.

The orchestra sent up the opening flourishes of the next dance. A waltz.

She sighed gratefully. She seldom waltzed and so could safely remain at the side of the room, enjoying both her punch and the moment’s respite to gather herself from—

“Good evening, Faith.”

The glass slipped from her fingers.

A hand shot out and grabbed it before it could smash against the floor.

She whirled around, her mouth falling open. Her heart stopped. Stephen. For one pained moment as she stared at him the world froze around her.

She should have hated him, should have scratched his eyes out, should have screamed! All these years, she’d thought about what she’d say to him when this moment came, what cutting remark she’d level on him, what sophisticated and urbane wit she’d unleash on him...

But now that he stood in front of her, in flesh and blood and gazing back at her with the same wary unease that swirled through her, she couldn’t find any words through the riot of emotions inside her.

Then he reached past her to set down the glass, and the moment shattered. Her heart lurched to a start, and the rushing blood roared deafeningly in her ears.

“Hello, Stephen,” she forced out. Why did you simply leave, as if I meant nothing to you? Did you think of me at all while you were gone? Did you know that I loved you? Thousands of questions swirled inside her. But too overwhelmed in the moment to put voice to one, she lifted her chin and accused instead, “You’re late.”

“Still better than never.” He gave her that devil-may-care grin that had fluttered hearts across England...and broken hers. “I wouldn’t dare miss Strathmore’s birthday party. Or the chance to catch up with the Westovers and Mattesons.” His gaze searched her face, just as uncertain as she about how they would go forward. “I missed you, Faith.” He hesitated, carefully selecting his words. “I treated you badly before, and I’ve come to ask your forgiveness.”

She struggled to breathe as his words shivered through her. Tell him that you need to return to your friends, that your sisters have asked you to join them...Oh, tell him anything to make him stop looking at you like that! “There’s nothing to forgive.” She forced a smile. “I’d forgotten about it completely, in fact.”

His eyes narrowed briefly, as if he’d recognized that for the lie it was. He didn’t believe her, but she didn’t give a fig about what he believed. He’d never again get close enough to wound her.

Even now, with his nearness stirring up the anger she’d carried inside her for so long, she wasn’t certain if she could ever offer forgiveness. But she knew her role for this party, knew she was supposed to smile and be pleasant, to show that the Westover family had accepted him back into the fold with open arms. So she whispered, unable to put full voice to the lie, “We’re still best of friends.”

He held out his hand. “Then how about a waltz for an old friend?” When she hesitated, he cajoled, “I’ve been away for four years, and my horse made for a lousy dance partner.”

Panic churned inside her. No, not a dance. Certainly not a waltz! Being in his arms would be t*****e, even in the middle of a crowded dance floor.

So she seized on the only excuse she could— “Papa doesn’t like for me to waltz.”

“Strathmore finds waltzing too scandalous?” he asked, disbelieving.

“He finds waltzing too scandalous for his unmarried daughters,” she corrected. Not entirely a lie.

“Even with me?”

“Especially with you.”

He laughed easily. Faith was suddenly reminded of how close they’d once been, and an aching sense of loss knotted in her belly. They’d never have that again.

“I’m a soldier come home from the wars.” He clucked his tongue with mocking disapproval. “Where’s your loyalty to crown and country?”

With the weight of what seemed to be every pair of eyes in the room on her, she knew she couldn’t refuse him. Not an old friend of the family. Not when the busybodies were simply salivating for any new bit of gossip about him.

She drew a deep breath to gather her resolve and offered him her hand. “Apparently, the same place as my pride,” she muttered, then winced as soon as the too-earnest words slipped from her lips.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her with a chuckle as he led her toward the dance floor. “It all goes before a fall.”

Before she could respond to that cryptic comment, he pulled her into his arms and whirled her into the waltz.

She’d expected him to be rusty after being away from society for so long, but he danced expertly through the steps, fluidly twirling her around the floor. Each movement demonstrated his natural athleticism, and she followed easily, aware of the heat of his gloved hand on the small of her back and the strength of his fingers folded around hers.

“For someone who doesn’t waltz,” he commented, carefully keeping his voice guarded so other couples couldn’t overhear, “you’re quite good at it.”

“I could say the same about you,” she grudgingly acknowledged with a sniff.

That earned her a crooked grin. “I aim to please you, Faith.”

She stiffened at the subtle flirtation. Drat her flip-flopping stomach! And drat him for being so charming, for being so...him. He’d always been able to flummox her with only a passing compliment. Apparently, some things never changed.

“Mama is thrilled to have you as our guest,” she commented, swiftly changing topics. Best to keep the conversation away from flirtations and firmly on the painfully proper.