Page 24 of When the Viscount Seduces
Walking toward the other end of the ballroom, Lazarus tried to shake off the persistent feeling of irritation brought on by Price’s comments. Could he really not be a good match for Miss Price? He was a viscount after all. And he possessed charm and wit. He wasn’t acompleteblackguard.
This was an absurd line of thought. Lazarus wasn’t ready to marry anyone, let alone Miss Price.
Why, exactly?
His usual excuses, that he hadn’t yet been inspired to wed or that he hadn’t encountered a woman who made him want to give up his current lifestyle of excess, somehow rang hollow just now. Perhaps he needed to spend the evening at the Rogue’s Den in the arms of the beautiful Thomasina. Except even that sounded distasteful at the moment.
Because he needed to focus on helping Miss Price. He spent the next half hour circuiting the ballroom and refreshment area. He struck up conversations about ladies on the Marriage Mart, and complimented Miss Price wherever he was able.
He was about to depart the ballroom and retreat to the members’ den when he encountered two young bucks, one ofwhom he thought was actively seeking a wife. Lazarus didn’t know them well—the taller of the two, a barrister called Markwith, was the gentleman in search of a bride. The other, shorter man’s name slipped Lazarus’s mind. Both were dressed as medieval knights, without the armor.
“Evening, gentlemen,” Lazarus said. “Enjoying the ball?”
“Far more than regular balls,” Markwith said. “I’ve only recently joined the Phoenix Club, and this is my first one. Are they always this extravagantly decorated?”
Lazarus laughed. “Quite. Though I haven’t determined the meaning of the dais with the thrones.”
“It’s for the king and queen, who will be crowned at midnight,” the shorter man responded. “You can vote for your choice next to the dais.”
There was indeed a small table with a pair of footmen—rather a footman and a footwoman, since the ladies’ side only employed women—dressed as medieval pages, overseeing a large box. A few attendees were writing down their votes.
“Have you voted yet?” Lazarus asked.
The shorter man shook his head. “Haven’t decided. On the queen, anyway. I’ll be voting for myself of course.” He laughed.
Markwith joined in, and Lazarus smiled.
“I’ll be voting for Miss Gwendolen Price,” Lazarus said. What a boon it would be for her to be chosen! He wished he’d known sooner for he would have made a specific campaign. Well, it wasn’t too late. Instead of going upstairs, he’d do his best to ensure she received the most votes. Starting with making his way to the voting table.
“Why Miss Price?” the shorter man asked. “She’s pretty enough and her family’s highly regarded, but have you seen her dance?” He shook his head. “Clumsy as a drunken soldier. Ruined poor Eberforce’s expensive new waistcoat. I was with him when he picked it up on Savile Row.”
“That’s hardly charitable,” Markwith said with a slight frown.
Lazarus was glad the man had spoken so that he could take a moment to form his own response. Else he would have jumped down the shorter man’s idiotic throat. “I’ve danced with Miss Price, and she is a lovely partner. She is exceedingly intelligent and quite witty. You won’t find a more engaging companion on the dance floor.”
“Intelligent, you say?” Markwith said. “Precisely what most interests me in a bride. I shall seek her out forthwith.”
“Don’t blame me when she stamps on your foot,” the shorter man said. He shot a look at Lazarus. “I am not disparaging her. It is a fact. A friend of mine limped all the next day after dancing with her a couple of weeks ago.”
Lazarus wanted to say that wasn’t possible, but he knew otherwise. “Comparing her to a drunken soldier is the definition of disparaging.” He glowered at the man. “Do better.”
Inclining his head toward Markwith, Lazarus stalked away toward the voting table. He soothed his irritation by thinking of how delighted the man would be when he spent time with Miss Price and determined for himself that she was very clever. Perhaps Markwith would be the one to sweep her off her feet and into his arms.
That thought had the opposite effect of soothing Lazarus. It pricked his ire.
Or sparked jealousy.
It was not his place to feel jealous. He would direct Markwith and others like him toward Miss Price. That was their agreement.
Lazarus looked about for Miss Price, but didn’t see her. The set had finished, but it was possible she was already dancing another. Or perhaps, some lucky gentleman had taken her for a circuit of the garden.
At the voting table, he carefully wrote his choice on a piece of parchment and slipped it into the large box. Then he spent the next quarter hour suggesting others vote for Miss Price. After that, he mentioned to all his friends, and some of his acquaintances, that they should vote for Miss Price if they hadn’t already.
Satisfied that he’d done enough and feeling parched, he made his way back toward the doorway to the men’s side of the club. He slipped through the curtained threshold and immediately caught a flash of green silk.
Miss Price had been wearing green.
Lazarus stepped into an alcove and stopped short, for tucked inside was Miss Price. “What are you doing here?” he whispered urgently. “You can’t be in this part of the club.”
