“I shall talk to him.” Trey blew out a long breath. “Somerton and I go back to Harrow. While we may move in different circles now, I believe he may still owe me one favor.”
“So, if he agrees, then all we have to do is pretend I wish to speak with him.”
“We wish to speak with him. You don’t know Somerton as I do. Which is more than likely a good thing.”
“Very well, then,” Banning replied, holding his glass up in salute. Now he had to determine how to deal with Avis Copley’s anger if she discovered his plan. The woman was more stubborn than a mule. Like his sister, once Avis had an idea in her head there was no dissuading her. But he would stop her, for her own sake.
Chapter Three
As Avis dressed for her cousin’s ball, she continued to tell herself that everything she had designed was for the best. Emory Billingsworth was a gentleman and would not speak a word of their affair. As a writer and a friend, he would be a good choice to initiate her into the passions of the flesh.
As her maid placed the final pins in her hair, Avis reviewed her list of the benefits and disadvantages of her planned affair. Discovering the truth of what happens between a man and a woman—to satisfy her curiosity—was most definitely a benefit. Putting a stop to these persistent dreams, another plus.
Yet, being ostracized by Society wasn’t something she desired. And the thought of pregnancy terrified her. Since her friends had reminded her of the consequences, Avis had thought of little else.
She enjoyed meeting with her friends and attending the balls and the theater. But she was twenty-six-years old. She wanted, no needed, to discover what she was missing by remaining a spinster. The way her married friends giggled and whispered about their husbands when they thought no one could hear them had only increased her curiosity. Assuming she could find her courage to go through with the idea, she would spend only a night or two with the man anyway.
Once she had contained her inquisitiveness, they would end their time together and resume their platonic friendship. She had worked out every detail of their relationship from how she would ask him to how they would end as friends. Everything would work out perfectly.
Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine Emory Billingsworth kissing her. Unfortunately, the only image that came to mind looked nothing like Emory and far too much like Lord Selby.
She clenched her fists in her lap. Selby was a cur. She hated him. She most certainly did not want to kiss him…again.
“All done, ma’am,” her maid said with a satisfied smile.
Avis stood up and walked to the mirror. While not an “Incomparable,” tonight the woman reflected back at her appeared different, almost alluring. Highly unusual for her normally rather bookish self.
The lower than normal neckline on her new emerald gown might have something to do with her bold feelings. The dress gave her a sensual look, not something for which she normally strived. Her brown hair was piled into curls upon her head with long, spiral tendrils framing her face. There was a hint of confidence in her smile; hopefully, that same self-assurance would reach her mind, too.
With a nod of determined satisfaction, she departed for the ball. She would make the arrangements with Emory tonight. Everything was organized. She could sneak him into the house after dismissing her servants for the night. Then all she had to do was make sure he left via the back entrance before the servants awoke for their morning preparations.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of her former home. As the maroon and gold liveried footman opened the door, a familiar ache touched her soul. She did not miss the house, only her mother. She had been dead for ten years, yet the pain remained. Her heart wept for all the wrongs that had played out in that house, misdeeds a child couldn’t fix and a wife should never have to endure.
With a deep breath for courage, she walked up the steps. Bateman opened the door and smiled broadly at her.
“Miss Avis, welcome home,” he said as if this was still her home.
“Good evening, Bateman. Is everything ready?”
“Yes, miss.”
Avis walked up to the first floor and gave an approving nod. The ballroom was exactly as she and Celia had ordered. Long pink and white roses stood in crystal vases at every corner and near every entrance to the room, just as she’d requested. Glancing up at the ceiling, she was taken aback to notice the yellow silk draped across it like the blazing sun on a summer afternoon.
That girl knew nothing about decorating a room for a ball.
“Avis!”
She turned to see the new Lady Watton all but running to her. She remembered what her mother said about controlling her temper—breathe, count to ten. One, two, three, four, five—
“Why is the ceiling draped in yellow?” At least she’d made it to five.
“The room is perfect, isn’t it?” Celia twirled around as her jonquil dress flared out and her golden tresses spun with her. She looked like a golden canary in her elaborate birdcage.
“I thought we had agreed on the pale pink silk for the ceiling?”
Celia twisted her bow shaped mouth into a frown. “But pink wouldn’t go with my new gown.”
“That is true,” Avis said, resigned.
The sound of voices from the hall announced their first guests, saving her from a whimsical conversation about the importance of fashion matching the ball decorations.
“I must go and greet my guests,” Celia said with a slight giggle. She and Lord Watton took their positions at the entrance to the ballroom.
Avis watched the people arrive and greeted many of her acquaintances, but she searched for only one person. Finally she glanced back to the entrance relieved to see Emory assessing the room. His perfectly combed back, graying blonde hair drew attention to his broad forehead and brown eyes. He wore black form-fitting breeches and a well-padded emerald jacket that spread across his narrow shoulders like moss on a tree. The cravat he wore was tied in some new fashion. They would look splendid dancing together.
He scanned the room once more but did not seem to notice her.
She was determined to rectify that.
While she still had her courage, she strolled across the deserted dance floor, her gaze locked on her victim. Halfway to him, a large body bumped into her. The man caught her close to keep her from tumbling to the floor. She looked up into sparkling blue eyes and wanted to scream.
“Selby, you oaf! Don’t you ever look where you are going?”
“I must apologize, Miss Copley. I barely recognized you,” he said with a pointed look at the valley of her breasts exposed by her dress.
She yanked herself away from him. “You are a beast.”
“Hmm, probably so,” he said with a rakish grin.
Avis strode away from him, still looking for Emory, who had managed to disappear into the crowd. The musicians finished tuning and the dancing was set to begin. Avis moved off the dance floor, glaring over at Selby. He irritated her in so many ways she couldn’t begin to count them.
She finally located Emory in a crowd of men, which meant she wouldn’t get the chance to talk to him until later. Everything was fine. It was only a small change to her plan. She could talk to him later. Strolling out of the room, she headed down the hall to her father’s—no, Watton’s—study.
As she sat in the overlarge chair, memories of watching her father working here overwhelmed her. She glanced down at her arm and the faint jagged scar still visible after almost twenty years. Looking over at the raised