of charities, and of the arts. And those a little less serious in nature…’ He smiled and everyone in the room smiled, too, at what was coming. ‘The member who has won the most entries in the betting book, and the least. The member who consumed the most bottles of port and still left standing, and he who holds the record for sleeping the longest in the drawing room.’ Everybody looked at old Lord Soames.
‘Speak up, young man,’ Soames said in a loud voice. ‘Can’t hear a word you are saying.’
A chuckle rippled round the table, all the more so given that Raggett was sixty if he was a day.
‘Every year we invite someone special to present the awards to each of our gentlemen and this present year is no exception. I guarantee you will not be disappointed. Gentlemen, please put your hands together and welcome straight from the stage of Covent Garden’s Theatre Royal.’
Razeby knew what was coming yet he felt the anticipation of just hearing her name spear through his blood.
‘… the delightful Miss Alice Sweetly,’ finished Raggett.
Every man at the table got to his feet and applauded as Alice swept into the room.
She was dressed in the same pale-green silk evening dress as he had seen her wear a hundred times. A dress that complimented her fair colouring. The bodice was low, but not indecently so, fastened in the centre with a line of pearl buttons that he was most adept at unfastening.
The light from the overhead chandelier cast golden tones in the dark blonde of her hair. She had not followed the fashion, trying to curl her hair and wear it up in a mass of flowing ringlets. She had told him so many times that her hair defied all attempts to hold a curl, no matter how tightly she tied the rags in it or how long she left them in place. She wore it in its usual simple style, caught back in a simple chignon. And tonight she would pluck those pins from it and uncoil it to hang loose and free down her back in long silky straight lengths. With deliberate control he turned his mind away from that image.
Raggett announced each award in turn, then read the name of the winner from the list, before passing the appropriate small silver cup to Alice. It was Alice who presented the cup to each winner, brushing a light kiss against each man’s cheek.
He felt his stomach curl with anticipation. He tried not to think of it. It was just an award. Alice had been his mistress, nothing more. The sex had been amazing. She had been amazing. But that was over, done with. Or so he told himself. And he was taking Miss Longley out in his curricle in the morning. Doing what had to be done. He should just propose, move things on faster.
‘The Marquis of Razeby.’ Raggett’s voice brought him back to himself.
He got to his feet, walked the length of the table to where she stood. And he couldn’t take his eyes from her. She was so self-contained, so radiant and golden, exuding that same strange paradoxical play of shyness and confidence that had enticed him right from the very start. And as he walked towards her, her eyes watched him with that same calm which did not quite cover the teasing playfulness he knew lurked beneath.
‘Congratulations, Lord Razeby,’ she said in that sweet, soft, sexy voice. It stroked against his ear, rippled down the length of his spine, straight down into his breeches.
‘Miss Sweetly,’ he said in a voice that was nothing more than polite, but the hint of a smile played about his lips as much as it played about hers.
She knew what she was doing to him. Her smile broadened as she passed the silver cup into his hands, the tips of her fingers so close to his that his own tingled as if she had stroked against them, when in truth they did not touch. He could smell her perfume, the familiar clean scent of her, making his heart beat faster and stoking the heat all the hotter in his blood. Triggering memories he could not stop: Alice in his arms, Alice naked beneath him on the bed.
She had kissed all of the others. Her eyes held his with that hint of mischief and he knew that she was going to kiss him. And, God help him, he wanted it so much, even standing there while half the members of White’s looked on.
She leaned closer, tilting her face up to his, her eyes holding his all the while. And he could feel the speed of his heart and the driving urge to move his mouth and take hers with all the force of what was crackling between them. She smiled as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Her breath was warm against his cheek, the brush of her lips soft and hinting at so much more. All of which he knew, all of which he longed for.
His fingers tightened around the cup. ‘Miss Sweetly,’ he said in a low husky voice.
He saw the way her smile deepened and he smiled, too. Sharing this moment. Like so many they had shared before. As if there were only the two of them in the room. As if nothing else mattered. As if there were only light in his life.
It was with a supreme effort of willpower that he managed to turn away and give his thanks to those assembled in the room before resuming his seat. But after it was done he kept his eyes on her for every last moment, until she walked from the room with that sexy little wiggle he knew too well.
Alice Sweetly, you minx! And he smiled again and felt a glow in his heart.
‘Razeby was at Almack’s again last night.’ Within Alice’s little parlour two days later, Sara announced the fact without so much as a glance in Alice’s direction.
Alice should have been glad of it because it meant that she really was fine over Razeby and all of them knew it. But the words did not engender gladness. Rather it felt like a hand had tightened around her heart.
‘Was he?’ She concentrated on pouring the tea. Part of her did not want to hear how Razeby was getting on in his search for a woman to marry and part longed to know every damn detail. She did not ask the question but Sara told her the answer any way.
‘He danced with Miss Penny, Miss Lewis, Lady Persephone Hollingsworth.’ She counted the names on her fingers as she rhymed them off. ‘Miss Jamison, and twice with.’ she paused for effect ‘.Admiral Faversham’s daughter, who is quite considered the catch of the Season.’
‘Was Fallingham there,’ Ellen asked, all sweetness, ‘making a list of Razeby’s partners for you?’ She sipped at her tea, a picture of innocence, but Alice was not fooled. It both gladdened and worried her.
‘Only because his crowd were all there. It’s not as if he’s bride hunting. He’ll not be looking to settle down for ages yet.’ Sara could not quite keep the defensive tone from her voice.
‘You hope,’ murmured Tilly beneath her breath.
‘What was that?’ Sara snapped. ‘I didn’t quite catch what you said.’
‘I didn’t say nothing, it was just a bit of wind. Tea don’t half make me burp.’ Tilly shot a smile at Alice.
Alice shook her head and barely suppressed the grin.
‘They’re saying that Miss Faversham has quite set her mind on him.’
‘She ain’t got a chance in hell,’ said Tilly.
‘She’s an heiress,’ retorted Sara.
‘She’d have to be,’ said Ellen. ‘She’s got a backside on her the size of a horse and a face to match.’
Tilly sniggered.
‘He’d have to be blind to go for her,’ Ellen said. ‘It’s about breeding and money,’ protested Sara.
‘Just like a horse,’ said Tilly with a giggle.
‘Enough, girls,’ Alice said with a chuckle.
But when her friends finally left and the maids came in to remove the used tea tray, the image of Razeby dancing with all of those women, one of whom would be his wife, lingered.
For all the teasing and the jest, she knew what Ellen and Tilly had been doing—trying to protect her. As if she needed protecting! As if she were hurting from the split with Razeby! She