Like No Other

Chapter 1: The Ballroom Imbroglio

       “I, for one, am not in the least afraid of him. I daresay those silly debutantes cramming on the wall embodied that half you’re saying,” replied the other lady scornfully.

     “No wonder. The man’s scowl is enough to take them to their heels,” the Viscount said and emptied his glass before adding, “And his temper—now, that’s a very formidable thing, indeed!”

        Presently, the subject of these heated colloquies was standing idly at the far side of the ballroom, a glass of claret in one hand whilst observing the bustle under puckered brows. He was, of course, completely unaware of someone already contemplating his death at the other end of the room, or those several uneasy glances thrown into his direction. But such ado as this one wasn’t novelty wherever he was bounded, presumably because of his proximity to being a bad ton—something which never went unobserved,(and unremarked for that matter) by the Polite Society. 

        Oh, not that he was a dashing rogue who tends to dally with innocent women, or sneak in a boudoir of some elderly lord’s wife, or a buck who frequented gaming hells to pile more of his debts.  Nor did he engage himself in duels, for no one in his sane mind (excluding Lord Wickham) would be so foolhardy as to call him out, lest be shot dead before sun’s full rising.  

        But these aforementioned did not delineate his flaws.

       Indeed, his fault lies on the other side of the pole. If there was a more splenetic, surly-faced, petulant young man who would likely induced the genteel ladies to scurry away instead of setting their caps at him, and bend the ramrod spines of those who were putting airs, he was none other than Lord Stefan Beaumont, Earl of Stokeford. He didn’t have a gentleman’s grace on his person, nor was he inclined to play gallantry to the opposite sex, or stick to the propriety which a set of good manners was requisite. Everyone doubted he had one, anyway.

        Finally, he caught a young fop staring gingerly at him, and in return gave him his notorious black look, whereupon the poor fellow chocked on his wine and had to be patted at the back by his companion to set his breathing aright .

       “That wasn’t so nice of you, Stefan,” a gentleman sporting a dark blue superfine coat and cream-colored knee-breeches who just appeared beside him said condescendingly. Lord Robert March, a pleasant-looking young man of easy manners and lively demeanour, was an exact opposite of the otherwise somber and often cantankerous Earl. Nonetheless, however striking were the differences between these two gentlemen, their close attachment was formed way back to their heydays at Eton, and from juvenility to adulthood, the two became inseparable. 

         “Damn if it was,” Stefan replied without looking at his friend.

      “Lord, man, what’s making you blue-deviled now?” At Lord Stokeford’s persistent silence, he continued, without deprecation at his friend’s conduct, “I’ve heard you gave Miss Lorrington a rude cut earlier. Young Wickham’s practically eager to reach for your neck.”

      That finally caught the Earl’s attention. “And how the deuce did you know that?”

      “If you think the ears around here weren’t as sharp as pike,” rejoined the Viscount wryly, “you’re entirely mistaken Stefan.”

      “Ah, and yours too? No wonder,” came the sardonic reply.

      Robert chuckled and shook his head.  “God, don’t I just know that? I say, isn’t that Miss Winscott?” He nodded to the direction of a lovely blonde girl in primrose ball gown, standing at the opposite side of the wall with a herd of young bloods hovering at her elbow, and a few more crowding just nearby, apparently waiting for a chance to scrape acquaintance.