worth pursuing, but when it comes so deliciously packaged, how can one resist?’
Richard frowned. The idea of Urmston pursuing Ellen Tatham did not please him. Sir Charles was a cousin of Richard’s late sister-in-law and they had met upon occasion, but Richard had not felt any inclination to pursue the acquaintance following his sister-in-law’s premature demise eight years ago. Richard sensed a cruel and predatory nature behind Urmston’s ready smile and urbane manners. He had met his sort before, a charming man about town, befriending eager young bucks and helping them to spend their—or rather their family’s—fortune. He did not condemn Urmston for his way of life, after all a man must live.
It was no secret Urmston had bullied his wife, who had died in childbirth a year ago, along with their unborn baby. The idea of any innocent young girl being cruelly tricked into marriage and treated badly was not something Richard could condone, yet he had signed up to the wager, along with the others. His frown deepened as he considered the men who had put their signatures in the book. There was no doubt that any one of them would cold-bloodedly ruin the girl in order to win the prize money. That thought proved equally distasteful, though he knew seductions such as this were common practice. And it was not only Ellen Tatham who would suffer. A sudden vision of Lady Phyllida’s distress disturbed him and he quickly pushed it away. Good God, when had he become so fastidious? He must be getting old.
Suddenly the idea of making a play for the heiress himself seemed almost sensible. He would be doing the girl a kindness if he married her, not to mention the fact that her fortune would prove very useful. If reports were true it was sufficient for him to maintain Arrandale and still keep his own family in luxury. He had not come to Bath looking for a wife but it was expected that he would settle down one day, and if Wolf should not return it would clearly be his duty to carry on the line. Perhaps he should not let this chance slip by. He glanced across the room to where Lady Phyllida was presenting her stepdaughter to Lady Wakefield. From this distance they might have been sisters.
It would be an easy seduction. The stepmother was no dragon and he had no doubt he would easily gain her approval. After that, it would be a simple matter to win the hand and the heart of the beautiful Miss Tatham. It was of little consequence whether his heart was engaged. He would treat her well and she would be better off with him than any of the other men who would be vying for her attentions. He had no doubt he would win, by fair means or foul. After all he was a rake, wasn’t he? One of the infamous Arrandale family. And rake hell was what they did.
So now he smiled at Urmston. ‘As you say, Sir Charles, how can one resist such a beauty? I give you fair warning, this is one wager I mean to win!’
* * *
Phyllida kept her smile in place as she progressed around the Pump Room, making Ellen known to her many acquaintances, but inside her heart was racing, as were the chaotic thoughts that flew around her head until she felt quite giddy. Richard Arrandale was the last man she had expected to meet in Bath. Since marrying Sir Evelyn their paths had not crossed, but seeing him again had brought it all back, that night at Almack’s, seven years ago, when he had danced with her.
She remembered it all so clearly. He had been the most handsome young man she had ever seen, with his brown hair gleaming in the candlelight, and that laughing twinkle in his blue eyes. He was only a year or so older than Phyllida but already he had been a confident man about town, whereas she had been a tongue-tied young girl, fresh from the schoolroom and dressed in an unbecoming pink gown that her mother had thought the appropriate colour for a débutante. Her first and only Season had been a tortuous round of parties and dances, where she had been too shy and plain to attract the attention of any young man. She had spent long evenings sitting at the side of the room while the other young girls danced and laughed and enchanted their partners. Even those gentlemen who were persuaded to stand up with her quickly made their exit when they found that she was too shy to do more than blush and return monosyllabic answers to their attempts at conversation. She had told herself it did not matter, that she cared for none of them, and that was true, until she had danced with Richard Arrandale.
Phyllida had known his reputation—everyone in London was aware of it—but in her silly schoolgirl mind she had thought that she could tame him, that if only he could see past her rather plain looks he would be captivated by her goodness and would repent his wild ways.
How he must have despised her for her awkwardness, even though he had laughed and made light of it when she had moved the wrong way in the dance and collided with him. He had responded to her mistake by giving her his whole attention, smiling at her, putting her at her ease. He had looked at her, really looked, as if she was the only lady in the room. As if she mattered. At that point she had lost her heart completely. In her foolishness she had dreamed of him making her an offer, going down on one knee and declaring that he was reformed, for her sake.
All nonsense, of course. A handsome gentleman like Richard Arrandale would never be interested in a gauche schoolroom miss with mousy hair and nondescript grey-green eyes. As her newly married sister had said, when Phyllida had returned starry-eyed from Almack’s that night; ‘Men like Arrandale can turn on the charm whenever they wish. He will not even remember you tomorrow.’
And Olivia had been right. The next time Phyllida had seen Richard Arrandale in Bond Street he had not even noticed her. It had been a salutary lesson and when, a few days later Papa had told her she was to wed Sir Evelyn Tatham, she had buried her girlish dreams for ever.
Phyllida knew she had been right to do so. While she had concentrated on being a good wife to Sir Evelyn, Richard Arrandale had blazed a trail through London society like a shooting star, his outrageous behaviour discussed, condemned and dissected in the society pages of the newspapers. His name was linked with all the most dashing matrons, he attended the most riotous house parties and was thought to have lost more than one fortune at the gaming tables.
Everyone said it was only to be expected, for it was well known that his older brother had killed his wife and run away with the family jewels. Nothing had been proven, the matter had been hushed up as was the way with rich, powerful families, but everyone knew it all the same. Bad blood, they said, and Phyllida knew she should be grateful not to have attracted the notice of such a notorious rake as Richard Arrandale. But sometimes as she lay in her bed with her kind, worthy husband snoring beside her, Richard’s image would return and she could not help sighing for what might have been.
* * *
Too late had Phyllida recognised the tall figure standing beside Lady Hune in the Pump Room and recalled that the dowager marchioness was an Arrandale by birth. She was already committed to approaching, but when Richard had taken her hand and kissed it the years had fallen away and she was once again the awkward girl in her first Season, being saluted by a man who was the embodiment of her dreams.
Only, Richard Arrandale was not the heroic figure of her girlhood fantasies. She knew that only too well and looking up into his face she had seen the faint lines of dissipation about his mouth and eyes. There hung about him a world-weariness that made him seem older than his years, for he could not possibly be more than five-or six-and-twenty. Richard Arrandale was a rake and it was only his connection with Sophia, Dowager Marchioness of Hune, that made her acknowledge him and introduce him to her stepdaughter.
Phyllida took Ellen on a full circuit of the room but afterwards she could never recall just whom they had met, nor what was said. All she could remember was Richard Arrandale’s laughing eyes and the touch of his lips against her gloved hand. As she and Ellen left the Pump Room arm in arm she risked a last look back. He was still watching them, or, more correctly, he was watching Ellen.
‘What is wrong, Philly?’ Ellen stopped in the doorway and turned an anxious gaze upon her. ‘You are shivering, but it is not at all cold. Are you unwell?’
‘What? Oh, no, my love, no, not at all.’ She shook off her uneasy thoughts and summoned up a smile. ‘We elderly ladies are prone to sudden chills, you know.’
Ellen gave a little trill of laughter.
‘Very well, my aged Stepmama! I shall take you home, tuck you up in a shawl and feed you gruel.’
‘That