Newmarket, May, 1788

She hadn’t wanted to come to the Race Ball. But then when did she ever want to attend an entertainment with her husband?

Yet here she was.

Because her parents were dead and her brother needed a living.

And she would do anything to assure Will a future.

Dismissing the familiar encroaching melancholy that always overcame her when she allowed herself to recall the reasons she had wed, Elspeth reminded herself that there were many in the world in much more dreadful circumstances than she. And duty was a virtue, was it not?

“Get me another brandy and be quick about it,” her husband snapped.

The world abruptly intruded. She heard the music once again, took note of the dancers sweeping by, looked down at the ugly twisted face of her husband gazing up at her from his Bath chair. Biting back the sharp remark on the tip of her tongue, she nodded instead and moved away to do his bidding.

“Who’s that?” Lord Darley nodded, his gaze on Elspeth as she skirted the edge of the dance floor. “She’s damned fine.”

“That pretty thing is Grafton’s latest wife.”

“Another? How many is that for Old Hellfire?”

“Three.”

The Marquis of Darley lifted his brows. “Is that the one who—”

“Put Grafton in that Bath chair? Yes, indeed. Some six months ago.” Viscount Stanhope raised his brows. “It was the juiciest of scandals.”

“Grafton had an apoplexy on their wedding night as I recall.”

“And Lady Grafton’s still a virgin. Or so rumor has it. Which may account for his watching her like a hawk. She’s not allowed out without a duenna.”

“Grafton’s too old for a sweet little vixen like that,” the marquis murmured, following Elspeth with his gaze. “Although he still likes to show her off from the look of her low décolletage. Where did he find her?”

“She’s a vicar’s daughter. Not your style, Julius. Excellent family but no money; some dust up over a small inheritance that should have come her way but went to a cousin instead, a younger brother who needed a leg up in the world. Grafton spied her at a hunt near his country place and the rest is history. She’s a superior rider apparently; her father was a crack whip.”

“Was?”

“He’s dead, as is the mother. There’s only a brother left and he’s off to India with the Seventy-Third.”

The marquis smiled faintly. “So she might be in need of some company.”

“If only that were an original thought,” Charles Lambton drily noted. “You and every man who’s laid eyes on her thinks as much. But consider—even if it were possible which it’s not—do you really want to bed a vicar’s daughter?”

“It makes no difference to me if her father was a blacksmith.”

Aware of his friend’s democratic and unconstrained view apropos bed partners, the viscount said more precisely, “I meant she might be prudish.”

“With a fulsome body like that, I’d suspect the lady is up to some degree of carnal amusements.”

Charles shrugged. “Word has it she’s refused all offers with a distinct coolness.”

The marquis’s glance swung away from the lady back to his friend. “She’s been approached?”

“Of course she’s been approached. If you didn’t so pointedly avoid society, you’d be aware of the stunning entrance she made at Lady Chenwith’s rout, not to mention her appearance as Iphigenia at Lady Portland’s costume ball. Her costume was very revealing. Grafton stuck to her side like glue—his Bath chair notwithstanding—and she turned down every invitation to dance. Which were not invitations to dance exclusively as I’m sure you understand.”

“Hmmm.”

“Don’t waste your time. She’s unavailable. Unless you want to pay Grafton to watch perhaps,” Charles quipped.

The marquis grinned. “Now there’s a thought, old miserly wretch that Grafton is. On the other hand, politesse and tact is more likely to win fair maid. I believe I’ll have to accept an invitation or so this week at Newmarket.”

“Don’t tell me you’re willing play the gentleman for her. I thought only horses and debauch interested you. Lady Grafton’s reputation is sterling by the way. Not your usual preference in women.”

“She intrigues me.”

“Don’t they all.” A blunt rejoinder, but then the men had been friends since childhood.

“We can’t all be in love with our stepsisters,” the marquis murmured. “And you must admit Lady Grafton’s sexual allure is impossible to ignore. I haven’t seen such showy, impressive breasts”—he winked—“probably since my wet nurse. You don’t suppose she’s pregnant with some stable boy’s brat?” he drawled.

“Not unless the stable boy is a special friend of Grafton’s. He keeps his wife on a tight leash.”

“Like Selina.”

“I’ll thank you to keep your unseemly thoughts to yourself.” Charles was still struggling with his unsuitable passion.

“Selina’s not actually related to you.”

Charles scowled. “We don’t all view the world with the same elastic principles as you.”

“You should ask her”—Darley smiled—“find out whether she’s more adaptable than you—more flexible as it were.”

“That’s enough, Julius. You’re speaking of the woman I love.”

“Very well, but if you don’t even try to play the game, Charles, you’ll never know what she thinks. In my case, I’m going to bestir myself to make Lady Grafton’s acquaintance and see what she thinks.” Lord Darley smiled. “Thank you, by the way. I never would have come to this tedious affair without your insistence.”

“And the promise of first bid on Run-To-The-Gold’s next offspring,” Lambton gruffly noted.

Another flash of perfect white teeth. “That, too. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see if I can remember any of the virtuous, Biblical maxims beaten into me by my overzealous tutors.”