Page 3 of Souvenir of Love

“Ifyou had a fortune, Dinsmore.”

“You wound me, Lounsbury. I find it most insensitive that you should make light of my impoverished state, particularly as you stand in my family hall drinking my father’s vintage brandy. Indeed, I have no money. Nor have I the dukedom, since my sire persists in surviving into ripe old age while the majority of his fellows have done the decent thing and passed into the great hereafter. Alas, I am forced to live by my wits.” He paused, smiling pointedly at Lounsbury. “Thank heaven I have them.”

“Wounded my arse.” As a footman passed with a tray of brimming brandy snifters, Lounsbury tossed back his remaining liquor and swapped his empty glass for a full one.

Sir Richard Ashton, a man whose nose loomed large over his receding chin, chimed in with an amused chuckle. “Sensitivities? You’ve sensitivities, Dinsmore? I’d wagermyfortune that even the most skilled surgeon would be hard-pressed to find your heart.”

James pressed a hand to his chest. “I am a most sensitive man. Why, I anguished over whether to purchase this sapphire-blue silk waistcoat. The beauty of the silver embroidery nearly made me weep. It shall break my heart to tell the tradesman that I haven’t the funds to pay him for his exquisite work.”

“Good to make ’em wait,” Lounsbury snorted between sips. “Incentive for the rascals to work harder.” Ashton chuckled again.

James’s smile did not reach his eyes; not paying tradesmen did indeed give them an incentive to work harder—harder at hounding the Dinsmores. As for his heart, he supposed it would take a talented surgeon to find it; he’d buried it deep. Otherwise, the pain of seeing Anne stitching together the satins and laces of old gowns so that no one would guess she couldn’t afford fashionable new ones might be intolerable.More painful still, he reflected, sipping his brandy,was the prospect of her settling for some moneyed dolt like Ashton or Lounsbury, or that half-witted idiot who’d been following her about lately, Edmund Bogglesworth.

Damn Moreham—he could have made such a difference in their lives.

“Why is it, do you suppose,” Lounsbury asked, waving his half-filled snifter at a cluster of young women, “that every pretty girl has to be accompanied by at least two ugly friends? I mean, regard me that threesome over there.”

James eyed his drinking companions over his snifter.

“You’ve got Annabella Fenwinkle, who looks like a pug in ruffles, and her unmarried sister, Arabella Norcroft, who isn’t much better.”

“A pug in ruffles.” Ashton actually giggled.

Better than boors in breeches, James mused.

“And then you have the delectable Elizabeth Harcrest.”

James made a quick visual sweep of the ballroom. Moreham, Davenport, and their wives were standing to the far right, near the doorway to the card room. Elizabeth had made her way to the center of the room, where she stood chatting with her friends, the Norcroft sisters.

“Most delectable,” Ashton agreed, “perhaps I should ask her to dance later this evening…”

“Moreham would have your arm if you attempted to lead her out,” James shot back without thinking.

“Dinsmore, Dinsmore.” Lounsbury tsked. “Certainly, His Lordship is most protective where Lady Elizabeth is concerned, but simply because he spurned your sister doesn’t mean he’d scorn a man with the breeding and the fortune of Ashton.”

“I shall ask her,” Ashton said firmly.

“Move swiftly, my friend, the chit’s dance card is likely to fill up quickly. She’s a title, a fortune, and, from what I hear from the clubs, quite the reputation as a frisky young filly.”

“Plays it fast and loose, eh?” Ashton said with a brandied leer.

James took a deep swallow, drowning a sudden urge to defend Elizabeth’s honor. The vintage liquor burned as it made its descent. He had little doubt such rumors bloomed from the seeds of his sister’s careful sowing.

He was Anne’s only brother.

What choice had he but to help her reap her bitter harvest of revenge?

Two

“Iwish I might be certain. He is such a fine figure of a man, and I…” Arabella’s small hand fluttered dismissively about her rose-patterned gown. “If not for flounces and fichus, I fear I should have no bosom at all.”

Elizabeth leaned conspiratorially toward her friend. “I hear tell the fashion is shifting away from padding and petticoats, to a straighter line. Then you shall be all the rage and my poor rounded bosoms shall be desperately outmoded.”

“You outmoded? Never!” Annabella, Arabella’s sister, laughed. “Your style shall always be uniquely your own.”

Elizabeth cast a discreet glance over her shoulder as she pretended to adjust her mantelet. There James was, standing about with those tiresome boors, Lounsbury and Ashton. He looked bored, lounging against the wall like a dustman on his break. Her lips twitched at this far-fetched comparison. James was far too elegant, far too handsome to ever pass for a dustman. She turned her attention back to Arabella Norcroft’s relentless speculation as to whether Thomas Stirling would ask her to dance. Arabella might not be considered a classic beauty by theton, Elizabeth thought, but she had beautiful brown eyes and a delightful smile, like a brownie up to mischief.

“…and when my mother and I passed him earlier, he smiled and nodded at me. I think he would have approached us, if he had not been engaged in conversation with another young gentleman.”