Lord of Scoundrels - Loretta Chase [36]
Vawtry suppressed his own smile. Whatever Dain did or didn't do with Miss Jessica Trent, he would not marry her.
Which wasn't to say that Dain would never wed. But that would be only to heap more shame, shock, and disgust upon his family, both the few living— a handful of distant cousins— and the legion dead. The bride, beyond doubt, would be the mistress, widow, or daughter of a notorious traitor or murderer. She would also be a famous whore. The ideal would be a half-Irish mulatto Jewess brothel keeper whose last lover had been hanged for sodomizing and strangling the Duke of Kent's only legitimate offspring, the nine-year-old Alexandrina Victoria. A Marchioness of Dain who was a gently bred virgin of respectable— if eccentric— family was out of the question.
Dain's being married— to anybody— in a mere two months or so was so far out of the question as to belong to another galaxy.
Vawtry accepted the wager.
This was not the only wager placed in Paris that week, and not the largest in which the names Dain and Trent figured.
The prostitutes who'd witnessed Miss Trent's entry into Dain's drawing room and his ensuing pursuit told all of their friends and customers about it. The male guests also related the tale, with the usual embellishments, to anyone who'd listen, and that was everyone.
And everyone, of course, had an opinion. Many put money behind their opinions. Within a week, Paris was seething and restless, rather like the Roman mob at the arena, impatiently awaiting the combat to death of its two mightiest gladiators.
The problem was getting the combatants into the same arena. Miss Trent traveled in respectable Society. Lord Dain prowled the demimonde. They were, most inconsiderately, avoiding each other. Neither could be persuaded or tricked into talking about the other.
Lady Wallingdon, who'd resided in Paris eighteen months and had spent most of that time striving, with mixed success, to become its premier hostess, saw a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and promptly snatched it.
She boldly scheduled a ball on the same day one of her rivals had scheduled a masquerade. It happened to be exactly a fortnight after the Chasing Miss Trent Down the Street Scene. Though Lady Pembury and her two grandchildren did not qualify as the crème de la crème of either Parisian or London society, and though Lady Wallingdon would not have bothered with them in other circumstances, she invited them to her ball.
She also invited Lord Dain.
Then she let everyone know what she'd done. Though she, like at least half of Paris, believed him to be enslaved by Miss Trent, Lady Wallingdon did not expect him to come. Everyone knew that the Marquess of Dain was about as likely to attend a respectable social affair as he was to invite the executioner to test the guillotine's blade upon his neck.
On the other hand, Dain had already behaved in an unlikely manner regarding Miss Trent, which meant there was a chance. And where there was a chance of something impossible happening, there would always be people wanting to be there in case it did.
In Lady Wallingdon's case, these turned out to be the very same people she'd invited. Not a single note of regrets arrived. Not even, to her disquiet, Lord Dain's.
But then, he hadn't sent an acceptance, either, so at least she didn't have to pretend she didn't know whether he'd attend or not, and worry about being caught in a lie. She could keep her other invitees in suspense with a clear conscience. In the meantime, to be on the safe side, she hired a dozen burly French menials to augment her own staff.
* * *
Jessica, meanwhile, was acknowledging defeat. After a mere three encounters with Dain, a simple animal attraction had intensified to mindless infatuation. Her symptoms had not simply become virulent; they had become noticeable.
At Madame Vraisses' party, Mr. Beaumont had made a few sly remarks about Dain. Jessica, whose nerves were still vibrating with the aftershocks of one stormy embrace, had answered far too sharply. Beaumont's knowing smile had