Page 192 of From Rakes to Riches

Snorting, Wexford lifted his glass once more. “Better you than me.”

“Hear, hear,” Lucien said, echoing Wexford’s earlier words before taking a drink himself.

As Tobias made his way downstairs, the port and whisky caught up with him. The sounds of the gaming room called to him like a siren, but he held fast and went to the entry hall where a footman fetched his hat and gloves.

Donning the accessories, Tobias thanked the footman before stepping into the cold night. Thankfully, it sobered him slightly. But only slightly. Brooks’s was a short walk away, as were any number of other entertainments, including the lodgings of his—former—mistress on Jermyn Street.

He could walk there or to St. James’s to grab a hack. Both held temptations. He’d walk up to Piccadilly instead.

“’Evening, Toby,” came a familiar feminine coo.

Closing his eyes briefly, Tobias exhaled, his breath curling from him in a wisp of steam in the chilly air. “Barbara, why are you out in the cold?” She wore a thick cloak, but there was truly no reason for her to be out here.

She sauntered close to him. “Just out for a stroll.”

He shook his head as her familiar scent battered at his defenses, already weakened by the liquor he’d imbibed. “I’m not walking you home.”

Curling her hand around his waist, she smiled up at him. “How about I walk you home? To my lodgings, that is.” Her fingers brushed against his backside.

Typically, his body would jolt with awareness at her touching him like that, his cock hardening. And part of himdidwant her—the part that was warm and addled with whisky. The rest of him didn’t want her, and he wasn’t entirely certain why. Perhaps he was finally ready to actually be the man his father wanted him to be.

No, not that. Never that. Giving in to a flash of rebellion, Tobias lifted his hand to stroke his gloved fingertips along Barbara’s soft, round cheek.

Fuck his father and his machinations.

Except if he truly wanted to win, he needed to wed, and this was not how he would accomplish that.

Tobias stepped from her embrace. “Good night, Barbara.”

He turned and quickly made his way to Piccadilly and the boring safety of a hired hack.

7

Going down the stairs had been challenging. Climbing into the coach had been only slightly better than getting out. As Fiona maneuvered the massively wide skirts of her court gown into the antechamber outside the throne room of the Queen’s House, she prayed she wouldn’t lose her balance. How she wished Prudence were here, and not just for her help, but for her calming and supportive presence.

After they’d returned home from the musicale the night before, Prudence had apologized profusely for revealing her presence in the card room to Overton. In Fiona’s opinion, she’d had no choice—he’d encountered her when he’d gone in search of Fiona, and Prudence had, smartly, told him that Fiona was with Cassandra. Fiona had thanked her for not jeopardizing her position and then admitted that her reasoning was self-serving, for she didn’t want to contemplate navigating London without her. Which was precisely what Fiona was doing today, unfortunately.

The gown was a monstrosity and not just because of its size. It combined the high waist of modern fashion with the wide, hooped skirts of thirty years before, and the effect was that Fionalooked ten times her size. Or that her upper portion was a tiny bird sitting atop a massive rock. It was, in a word, unappealing.

White with a pale peach overskirt that exposed the center of the skirts of the gown, the garment was as heavy as it was unwieldy. Fiona was grateful for the support of Lord Overton’s arm.

“Careful there, Miss Wingate,” he murmured, his features creasing in a slight wince.

Fiona loosened her grip on his sleeve. “My apologies. This is a treacherous costume.”

Lady Pickering looked from the four pale yellow feathers in Fiona’s hair style to survey the room where perhaps a dozen other young ladies were already queued to see the queen. “Yes, four feathers was just right. And the cameo was a brilliant touch, if I do say so.” Her gaze dipped to the several necklaces draped about Fiona’s neck, which also contributed to her sensation of feeling as though she were a human anchor. Indeed, she’d wondered how she was going to leverage herself off the seat of the coach when they’d arrived. Thankfully, the earl had provided a great deal of assistance.

“Pardon me for a moment,” Lady Pickering said. “I must speak with Lady Hargrove.”

Fiona glanced about, wondering if any of the other young ladies felt as ridiculous—or frightened—as she did. And where was Cassandra? She was also being presented today.

A lady in her early forties and, presumably, her daughter approached them. “Good afternoon, Lord Overton. May I present my daughter, Miss Judith Nethergate?”

The earl bowed most elegantly, extending his leg in a way Fiona had never seen him do before. “Lady Corby, Miss Nethergate, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” He gestured to Fiona. “Allow me to introduce my ward, Miss Fiona Wingate.”

Fiona dipped into a rather shallow curtsey. She didn’t dare come close to the depth that would be required in the throne room.

Miss Nethergate was a very pretty and wholly proper English rose with pale blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. Her blossom-pink lips perfectly matched the ribbons and ruffles on her ivory gown. It was every bit as ostentatiously absurd as Fiona’s. In fact, Fiona suspected it might have been slightly larger. Miss Nethergate also hadfivefeathers in her hair—four ivory and one pink.

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