Wicked Beauty (Brazen Bluestockings #3)

Chapter 3: Bitter Birthday

Alice stabbed her fork into an innocent piece of ham, imagining it was Richmond's hand. Or perhaps Fitzwilliam's. She hadn't quite decided which man she despised more this morning—her unwanted betrothed or the rake who had driven her to such desperate measures.

The breakfast room was mercifully empty save for two young ladies discussing the past Season's biggest pieces of gossip. Morning light streamed through the tall windows, catching on the porcelain serving dishes and white tablecloth. The familiar scents of tea, fresh bread, and ham should have been appetising, but her stomach churned with every bite she forced herself to take.

She had risen early, hoping to avoid both the objects of her ire and the endless stream of birthday wishes she would have to graciously accept. One-and-twenty. And about to be married. After securing herself a husband in the most mortifying way possible. And not just any husband—the Marquess of Richmond, who had made his disdain for her clear long before she accidentally invaded his bedchamber. His cold blue eyes had always swept over her as if she were nothing more than an inconvenient ornament, pretty but without substance.

Though if she were being entirely honest with herself, she could not fault Richmond. He had behaved with more honour than she had any right to expect. He could have exposed her, revealed her prior involvement with Fitzwilliam. Instead, he'd accepted the blame and agreed to marry her. That knowledge sat uneasily in her stomach alongside her resentment, like oil and water, refusing to blend.

The door opened with a soft click, and her fingers tightened on her fork until the metal bit into her palm. Richmond's tall frame filled the doorway, his presence immediately commanding the room. His evening attire had been replaced by an impeccably tailored grey coat that made his shoulders appear even broader, his cravat tied in a precise knot at his throat. Their gazes met for a brief moment before he turned away as if she were nothing more than a piece of furniture.

"Good morning, my lord." One of the young ladies—Miss Hartwell, the daughter of a nearby baron—greeted him with obvious interest, her voice rising slightly in pitch. "I trust you slept well?"

"Tolerably." His deep voice carried across the table as he sat down further away, allowing a footman to bring him some food.

Had he slept as badly as she had after they'd returned to their rooms? She'd spent most of the night tossing and turning, her sheets twisting around her legs like binding ropes, questioning if she should have told her cousin the truth. It might not have mattered. The moment Ravenscroft saw them together in Richmond's room, their fate had been sealed. She'd been too shocked by the gravity of her mistake to say anything at the time. Too appalled by how incredibly wrong everything had gone.

Her cheeks burned at the memory of Richmond's hands on her body, his mouth demanding things she hadn't known she wanted to give. That was perhaps the most mortifying part—not just that she'd mistaken him for Fitzwilliam, but that her body had responded to eagerly to a man she'd always found insufferable. The passion in his kiss had put even Fitzwilliam's to shame, igniting something within her that left her confused and unsettled. Even now, the mere thought of it sent an unwelcome heat curling through her abdomen.

The sound of rapid footsteps in the hallway made her tense. Fitzwilliam strode in, his usual cheerful demeanour replaced by something harder as his gaze landed on her. His mouth curled into what might have looked like a smile to others, but she recognised the cruel edge to it. The handsome features that had once made her heart flutter now seemed twisted, revealing the ugliness beneath. He hadn't appreciated it when she cornered him yesterday to ask if he would do the honourable thing.

"Ah, if it isn't the birthday girl." His voice carried just enough mockery to make her gut churn. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

For a brief second, she thought he was referring to her hasty engagement to Richmond, and her gaze flew to his, her heart hammering against her ribs. But he was talking about her birthday. She forced herself to maintain her composure, though her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her tea. The delicate porcelain cup rattled against its saucer, drawing the attention of the other ladies. She could feel their curious gazes, no doubt wondering about the tension crackling through the normally peaceful breakfast room.