Passions of a Gentleman (Gentlemen of Honor Book 3) (3 page)

Simon swung his gaze over to where Townson stood in the back corner of the ballroom, his eyes fastened on his wife and the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. Besotted fool.

In the three years Simon had been working with his father in investments he’d been over to Lord Townson’s townhouse more times than he could count and every single time that man wore that same expression whenever his wife was in view.

Simon had never understood it though. His parents had a love match, but they had been…different. He couldn’t place just how nor did he know why, but they’d never been as open about their affections as Lord and Lady Town—

All useless thoughts of his parents or Lord and Lady Townson’s love match evaporated in less than a second when from the corner of his eye he glimpsed another love match: Lord and Lady Belgrave.

Bile surged up his throat and filled his mouth.

“I need—” Simon choked around the burning feeling in his throat then coughed, which only led him then to wince and finally flush with embarrassment.

Lady Townson, apparently not as silly as she first appeared, reached her hand out and gently touched his forearm. “To dance,” she said softly.

His eyes flared wide, but he was powerless to do anything to stop them.
Dance?
That was the last thing he thought he needed to be doing.

Just then, Lady Townson flickered a glance in the direction of Lord and Lady Belgrave. “Dance with Henrietta,” she said softly her brown eyes softening. “The whole room is watching. Give them something to talk about.”

G
ive
them something to talk about.
That was Brooke’s mantra, indeed.

But for just this once, Brooke was right, and Henrietta knew it. Making a mental note to wax wistfully on about her visit to that atrocious museum with Lord Ringsley when Brooke tried to persuade her to encourage Mr. Appleton’s suit, Henrietta took Simon’s hand and allowed him to lead her into the middle of the floor. His eyes shone with something she didn’t recognize right away. Could it possibly be gratitude?

She nearly snorted. Simon Appleton was the last person in the world who’d be showing her gratitude. Brooke had been right in her earlier assessment of Simon: wealthy and handsome, young and charming, he was the most eligible untitled man on the Marriage Mart—and if one were to be completely honest, he was even more sought after than many of those who held a rank.

The orchestra started up and Simon and Henrietta’s bodies fell into proper stance as around them, the entire room full of people faded away.

When they’d danced previously, Simon had held her a little closer than was proper. This time, however, it was obvious. Very obvious.

She wasn’t quite certain if he was doing it intentionally or not, nor did she care to question it. For as irritating as Simon was, he was certainly a skilled dancer—and more than that, his strong hold of her made her feel safe. Not threatened or afraid, nor like he was just going through the motions of being a good dance partner while entertaining thoughts of everything else he’d rather be doing than dancing with her.

Swallowing the uncomfortable lump that had just formed in her throat, she offered Simon her best smile.

She actually rather enjoyed his hold on her. Of course she’d never tell him—or Brooke—such!

Immediately she thrust the very idea from her head. Such a thought did not belong there. Ever. She was only dancing with him as a favor to him, and he was only dancing with her as some sort of balm for his broken heart.

Henrietta glanced over his broad shoulder to the woman who’d devastated him. Ironic. Every other young lady in the room would give her best ball gown to dance with Simon, and the only other young lady in the room who had ever danced with him had rejected him. Well, that wasn’t necessarily fair to her. She didn’t reject him exactly. Lady Belgrave was married to another and had rekindled her romance with her husband.

A shiver skated down her spine. When worded like that it made Simon sound like the worst sort of rakehell. A term that would only enhance his reputation with the swooning debutantes (and Brooke), no doubt.

“Is that amusement I see on your face, Henrietta?”

Henrietta started. “Perhaps.”

“Would you care to share? I could certainly use some humor about now.”

“I probably shouldn’t…”

The corner of Simon’s lips tipped up. “Now you must share.”

A burble of laughter caught in Henrietta’s throat and Simon’s hold on her tightened a fraction, keeping her from publicly embarrassing herself. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Laughter danced in his eyes. “You can show real penance by telling me what you were thinking about.”

“You being a rakehell,” she blurted.

Simon’s mossy eyes tripled in size for a mere half-second before he erupted with laughter.

Cough, cough
. He slammed his open palm against his chest. “Excuse me,” he choked around another cough. “I…can’t…breathe,” he wheezed.

Well, if the mission was to have everyone take notice that Simon had moved on from his
tendre
for Lady Belgrave, their mission had just been accomplished.

Henrietta’s face burned. Never in her life had she had so many eyeballs focused in her direction. Clenching her teeth, she said, “Could you please—”

“No,” he interjected brashly, gasping for air. He let out another harsh laugh then sucked in a large breath of air. “You’re the one who said—” The rest of his sentence would forever remain a mystery—a mystery buried in a deep, rich, contagious chuckle.

“You goaded me into it.”

“I know,” he breathed, reaching for her to resume their dancing position—as if such a thing were possible now.

“Perhaps you should return me—”

“And cause more scandal,” he said in the worst sounding mock indignation she’d ever heard. “I think not, my dearest Henrietta.”

Unintentionally she winced.

Simon studied her, a smile playing on the corner of his lips. “Does my rakish cant not do my rakish ways justice?”

“No.” She twisted her lips. “Nor do I approve of you using my Christian name.”

“You find that more scandalous than the term of endearment,” he mused. “Interesting.”

“No, it's not interesting, it’s rude.”

“Rude?” He scoffed. “Forward perhaps, but not rude.”

“It is when your name is Henrietta,” she muttered. “Cruel even.”

“You don’t like your name?”

She almost laughed at the shock stamped on his face. “It’s a man’s name with ‘etta’ on the end.”

“But it’s a good man’s name,” he said with a smile. “The name of a great king.”

“Ah, then you might like to have been named Alexis?” She forced a shrug. “It’s a form of King Alexei, wouldn’t you agree?”

He grimaced. “Your point, my dear.”

“Thank you,” she said with a triumphant smile.

“Don’t thank me prematurely, I haven’t renamed you yet.”

Henrietta pursed her lips and poked him in the shoulder. “Don’t you dare!” she said on a laugh. Her younger brothers and sisters had always called her Henny, which, even she’d admit, was worse than Henrietta.

“I have it,” he said with a snap of his fingers.

Henrietta’s jaw clenched. “Don’t you dare,” she hissed, her recent goodwill toward him quickly evaporating.

“Henceforth you shall forever be known as Rae,” he said, ignoring her.

“Rae?” she repeated automatically, taken aback. Never had any of them suggested a name anywhere close. She rather liked it.
Rae.
It fit her. She smiled inwardly. She was going to consider herself Rae from this time forward, even if it was that awful Simon Appleton who had suggested it.

“You can shower me with your gratitude now,” he said, giving her waist a light squeeze.

Rae’s throat ran try. “I think we should finish what’s left of this dance.”

Fortunately for her and her quickly being stolen heart, that consisted of about three measures.

Unfortunately for her, Brooke stood in wait for her on the edge of the ballroom, a triumphant smile on her face. “A most enjoyable dance, Mr. Appleton?” the countess asked in a singsong voice.

“Better than any I’ve ever danced before.”

Rae would just bet on that.

“Good, then I suspect we shall be expecting you to call upon us tomorrow?” Brooke asked. Truly, the lady had no shame.

Simon reached for Rae’s hand.
Did he plan to be so bold as to kiss her hand? Here? Now?

As if he sensed her discomfort, he dropped his hand, a hint of pink touching the tops of his cheeks. “I can think of nothing else I’d rather do on the morrow.” Then, with a bow to Rae, he took his leave of the ballroom not to return for the rest of the evening.

* * *

I
t didn’t matter
that Simon didn’t come back to the ballroom. Nor did it matter that she'd danced with three other eligible gentleman. All Brooke seemed to remember was Rae's disastrous dance with Simon Appleton.

“Henrietta, you are going to make the best match of the Season,” Brooke chirped with a happy clap of her hands, then gestured for Rae to turn around so she could unbutton her gown.

Rae obliged. “You didn’t have to dismiss Charlie so soon.”

“Nonsense,” Brooke murmured, unbuttoning the back of Rae’s gown.

“I’m sure Andrew doesn’t think it’s nonsense.”

“Oh, he’ll be rewarded quite handsomely later,” Brooke said.

Rae released a breath that had been restricted by her gown. “Does he find some sort of bizarre satisfaction in hearing about my husband hunting?”

“Well, no,” Brooke admitted, pulling loose the knot at the top of Rae’s corset. “He’s more fascinated at your attempts to escape.” She met Rae’s eyes in the mirror and pursed her lips. “Particularly me.” A smile spread her lips. “But this time I think I have you.”

“Have me?”

Brooke nodded. “Somehow you’ve managed to avoid my matchmaking attempts, but you’ve come to the end of your time.”

“Perhaps the reason I’ve managed to escape is because I truly don’t want to get married,” Rae said, stepping out of her gown and corset.

“Poppycock,” Brooke waved her off. “You might think you don’t want to be married—but believe me, you’ll enjoy it.” A wistful expression came over her face. “I know I do.”

“And what of the others you tricked into marriage?” Rae asked, biting her lip. She didn’t intend for that to sound unkind and prayed Brooke understood.

“Should I invite them over and you can ask th—” A grin as wide as the Thames came across Brooke’s face. “The house party!” she said suddenly, as if that was supposed to mean anything.

“House party?” Rae asked tentatively. “What house party?”

“The one Caroline hosts every year,” Brooke said as casually as if she were talking about the weather. Kicking off her slippers, she started pacing the floor, touching each of her four fingertips against the end of her thumb. She bit her lip. “Close,” she murmured under her breath.

“Close?” Rae knit her brows. “What is close?” Other than her impending doom which seemed to be creeping upon her more by the second.

“We only have five days before we leave for Watson Estate, but that should be enough time…” She started pacing again.

Pushing aside the mounting panic that was threatening to overcome her, Rae put her hands on Brooke’s shoulders, staying her. “Enough time for what?”

“To visit the modiste and have you made up a husband-snagging wardrobe—” she winked— “and a
trousseau.
”

Rae would have groaned if she didn’t think that would only encourage Brooke more. “There is no need to go through any trouble,” she said as easily as she could, her mind racing. A
trousseau!

“Oh, no you don’t,” Brooke said, wagging a finger at her. “Caroline’s house party is the perfect place to snare Mr. Appleton.” She plopped down on the edge of Rae’s feather mattress. “The majority of the female guests will either be married or too old to bother with pursuing your Mr. Appleton.”

“
My
Mr. Appleton,” Rae choked, jabbing her finger in the middle of her chest. “He’s not mine.”

“Not yet,” Brooke agreed with a wicked grin. “But he will be.”

“No, he won’t,” Rae argued. Truly, Brooke was being more exacerbating tonight than ever before.

Shrugging, Brooke said, “Believe what you want, but I do declare you’ll be Mrs. Simon Appleton before the end of the Season.”

I
f ever there
was a time when Simon wished he lived alone—this was it, he thought as he climbed the steps that led to his parents’ townhouse.

The past month had been one disaster after another, and the last twelve hours the worst part of it.

From the back recesses of his mind a memory of the ball he’d attended before risking an unholy amount of money placing bets at his club flashed in his mind, or more precisely the image of a certain young lady. His…odd…encounter with Miss Henrietta Hughes, or Rae as he now thought of her, had been the most enjoyable moment he’d had since April.

That
was how bad his life had become.

Ever-so-carefully, he slid his key into the lock on his front door and unlocked it then just as carefully, he eased open the heavy door and slipped inside before closing it with a deliberate slowness that would make it impossible for the door to—

CREAK!

Damn. Only two inches shy of securely pushing the door back into its doorframe, no less.

“Just close the door already and come see me, boy,” came Father’s voice from the hall.

Begrudgingly, Simon gave the door a harder-than-necessary tap, leading it to all but slam closed. Releasing a deep breath, he turned the lock in the door then walked toward his father.

“I apologize if I woke you,” he offered, lumbering into Father’s dimly lit study.

Father snorted. “Do you have another for if you made your mother force me to stay awake until you came home?”

Simon drew his brows together. “Another what?”

“Forced apology,” Father said. He waved his hand in the air. “Never mind that. I’m tired and you’re finally here.”

“Then what do you say that we both go to bed and tell Mother you waited for me?”

Father poked out his bottom lip. “I take it you’d consider our last few exchanges the talking she was insistent we do, too?”

Simon nodded. “Sounds logical to me.”

“Well, it doesn’t to me.”

Every muscle Simon possessed tightened at the sound of his mother’s voice. The feeling didn't flee when she walked into the room and came to stand beside Father. Three tiny flames sent a low glow through the room, allowing Simon to see the dark circles under the eyes of both his parents.

“Simon, about today,” his mother started, wringing her hands.

“There’s nothing more to say about it,” he said quickly. The last thing he wished to do was to discuss with his mother what an ass he’d made of himself to the woman who was now happily—and willingly—betrothed to Simon’s
half-brother
.

“Simon, Lucy and Giles—”

Simon held up his hand. “Stop. Please, I pray you.” He lowered his hand to his lap. Truthfully, he didn’t care so much about Lucy’s interest in Giles. It was—

“Let me explain—”

Simon pushed to his feet, the screech of the feet of the chair he’d vacated against the floor kept him from hearing whatever nonsense she was about to spout. A stab of shame pierced his heart. He’d never harbored such harsh feelings against his mother before. He pushed away the guilt. She deserved it for all of her deceit and careless disregard for her own son.

“Mother, as I said, there is nothing more to explain,” Simon said coldly. He nodded his head in both of their directions, “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’m going to bed.”

Mother opened her mouth as if to protest, but closed it with a sharp snap when Father placed his hand on her forearm.

Sunup did not come soon enough.

Simon was up, dressed, and waiting on Mr. Nelson’s stoop before the first rays of sunlight lit the street.

Mr. Nelson had always tried to tempt Simon into leasing some of the finest bachelor’s lodgings in all of London. With his parent’s townhouse only a block from the investment office Simon shared with his father, he hadn't seen the necessity in keeping his own lodgings just yet.

Last night, he’d finally seen the necessity, and the sooner Mr. Nelson could find him a townhouse, the better.

“Finally came to your senses, eh, Appleton?” Mr. Nelson teased, unlocking the front door to his office.

Simon walked inside removing his hat. “You could say that.”

Mr. Nelson gestured to the two wing-backed chairs in his office. “I don’t suppose a recent newspaper altered this decision.”

“Might.” Simon fell into one of the chairs, too tired to care how Mr. Nelson even knew about his failed courtship of Lucy Whitaker. He winced. Damn. He’d forgotten how rigid Nelson’s chairs were.

The man’s house was nicer than the Grenier Hotel, but he was too blasted cheap to spend a shilling more than he absolutely must to make his office comfortable, offering his clients two splintered chairs to select their torture from. Nelson’s desk was in similar disrepair. The top was stained with ink, coffee, and whiskey and if Simon wasn’t mistaken at least two of the desk legs had a book—each of a different height—shoved under it to keep it somewhat stable.

“Damned bastard fly. Letting himself in here and not offering pay rent,” the grey-headed man grumbled as he slipped on his wire spectacles then took a seat opposite the desk from Simon. “I just need a few details.” He licked his finger then leafed through a small messy stack of papers on his desk. Finding the page he wanted, he yanked it out and shoved the rest aside.

“I’ll be honest, Nelson, I’m not too selective.”

Nelson
harrumphed.

If Simon weren’t in such a testy mood already, he might implore Nelson to explain himself. Instead, he just answered the man’s questions about location and price range and ducked every now and then when the older man swung a rolled up newspaper in his direction, intent on slaying the winged intruder.

“All right, Appleton. Last question: do you require any particular amenities.”

“Amenities?” Simon echoed. He was interested in leasing bachelor’s holdings, not hosting a ball. “No.”

Nelson looked up from his desk and shook his head. “I’ll just jot down a few that my other clients in your position enjoy.”

Simon didn’t know what to make of Nelson’s cryptic statement, so he ignored it. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

“I’ll find you something no sooner than the twentieth.” He dropped his quill on his desk and folded his hands. “Likely it’ll be the first of next month before you could move in.”

“Brilliant,” Simon muttered. That was almost three weeks away.

Nelson
smacked
his newspaper down on the edge of his desk. “That’s what you get,” he said, scowling at the dead fly. He tossed the newspaper down on the floor next to his desk. “Is your mother being impossible?”

Simon stiffened. He might not be pleased with his mother currently, but he had no wish to discuss her in any capacity to Nelson.

“No matter,” Nelson said with a flick of his wrist. “You could always stay for a spell at Swenson’s.” He held Simon’s gaze. “They’re discreet.”

Swenson’s was a boarding house not too far from the lending library. For as much as he didn’t wish to go back to his parent’s house, it would only stir up more gossip if it were to be revealed that Simon had taken up residence in a boarding house. Sure, plenty of bachelors did so while waiting for a townhouse to rent. But most of them hadn’t garnered nearly as much attention about their previous romantic interludes, or lack thereof, as Simon.

“Thank you,” Simon said, standing. He put his felt hat back on his head and nodded to Mr. Nelson. “I’ll come back in ten days.”

Leaving Mr. Nelson’s office, Simon made his way in the direction of nowhere in particular when the chime of a distant church bell arrested his attention. The corners of his eyes crinkled on their own accord. He should go pay a call on Miss Hughes.

For some odd reason she had a very strong dislike for him.

For an even odder reason he rather enjoyed provoking her.

Oh, whom was he trying to fool? He knew exactly why she didn’t like him: he’d seen her nearly naked—and just because that had happened three years ago, he vividly remembered every single detail. He swore under his breath. Such lusty thoughts could get a man in trouble, or at the very least make it uncomfortable to walk down the street.

Too late for that.

He yanked at the bottom of his coat in a futile attempt to cover his body’s reaction to the memory.

Now that he’d reminded himself of why she didn’t like him, it still didn’t explain why he enjoyed provoking her so. Not that he’d truly provoked her.

He turned the corner, his mind going back to a time a month ago when he’d borne witness to what could only be described as the most uncomfortable conversation to ever grace a London drawing room…

I
t had
all started when Simon had
tried
to be a friend to the only friendless debutante of the Season: Isabelle Knight. He’d danced with her at balls and paid her calls every so often. One such day he decided to pay her a call was after news that her estranged husband had come back to Town and made a scene.

Simon would have never imagined the reprobate would have had the brass to call upon Isabelle. But when he did, Simon did the first thing he could think to do: pretend to ask Isabelle her opinion on a poem he’d written to give to a certain young lady. Which, just to make clear, he had not actually written.

It was then that he and Lord Kenton sat spellbound while Isabelle and Lord Belgrave sharped their claws on each other:

“I was wondering if Mr. Appleton here would be kind enough to read aloud his poem or ode or whatever it is that he gave you so that I, too, might know what to say to make a lady swoon with delight.”

Isabelle pursed her lips, fire Simon had never seen before flashing in her green eyes. “I doubt there is anything you could say to a young lady to make her swoon with delight.”

“Why, Belle, I had no idea you thought I was so charming that all I have to do is be present to make a young lady swoon.”

She lifted her chin a notch. “I do believe you lost all of that charm when you crossed the line from confident to arrogant.”

“So you think I was once that charming?” he parried with a cocksure grin.

Another time and place, Simon might have chuckled at his return. But knowing just a glimmer of their history, he didn’t find Lord Belgrave’s statement humorous in the least.

Isabelle lifted her chin a notch, any more and someone might confuse her for an ostrich, then brought her hands to her chest and in a sing-song tone said, “Oh dear me, I never thought I’d see the day where the haughty Sebastian Gentry, Lord Belgrave, had to fish for compliments.”

Simon’s eyes flew to Lord Belgrave. There was no way he couldn’t pass by the chance to see the older man’s face! “Does that mean that you’ve spent your whole life thinking about me, then?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Not even just a little?”

“No. Not even just a little.”

Like a spectator at Gentleman Jack's, Simon’s head bobbed back and forth between Isabelle and Lord Belgrave with each statement.

“It doesn’t have to be for a positive reason that you thought of me, my dear. Just that you did,” he said, grinning.

“And fill my mind with something more unsavory than what’s found at the bottom of a privy? I should think not.”

Simon held his breath in a refusal to laugh or make any sound that might keep him from hearing Lord Belgrave’s response to
that
statement.

“Ah, then it was of fond thoughts, indeed,” he concluded with a knowing grin.

She fisted her hands into her skirt. “Fond thoughts, indeed. Why, I must confess that only four months ago my carriage rolled past where a young lady had slipped on the ice on her front steps. A gentleman she seemed to know ignored her cries for help and walked right past her. It was in that moment, I briefly gave into my girlish insensibilities and wondered whatever happened to you.”

“Did you now?” A stoic look came over his face, transforming him to marble. “And how do you know that cad wasn’t me?”

She looked down to examine her nails before meeting his eyes and giving a casual shrug. “Oh, wouldn’t you know, he was far too handsome to have been you.”

A
little over a month later
, mindlessly walking down the street Simon still winced at her words the way he had that day in Mrs. Finch’s drawing room.

He still couldn’t puzzle out the how or why those two had rekindled their romance.

He frowned. Was his provoking of Rae just as callus as Lord Belgrave? He hoped not. Simon’s intent was just good-natured fun. But did she understand it that way? He tried to think back on the few times he’d seen her this Season and had been afforded the opportunity.

She’d all but outright refused to speak to him at any of the balls until last night, but he’d always been sure to wink at her when he saw her. Or when they were alone, he’d give a low sweeping bow. It always made him laugh when she blushed and grimaced at him. His favorite had come in the form of waggling his eyebrows at her at that blasted statue museum.

Good-natured. All of it.

But why do you do it?
The question called to him from the back of his mind, and he immediately thrust it from his thoughts.
It is best not to explore that,
he reasoned.

Just like it’s best not to explore the reason that every time you need a scapegrace when put into a sticky situation regarding ladies you always say your interests lie with one Miss Henrietta Hughes,
asked that annoying voice in the back of his head.

Simon’s mouth went dry.
Oh, gads, please no.
He racked his brain…

Dancing with Isabelle at the ball earlier in the Season, he’d stupidly decided she’d make a good wife and he might as well ask her to marry him since she seemed to be drowning in the sea of sharks in London. When she’d rebuffed him…he claimed an interest in Rae. Damn.

When he’d pretended to have written an ode to a lady. He’d supposedly written it for…
Rae.
Damn and blast.