Well over six feet tall, he was perhaps one of the few men to whom she had ever stood close and not felt like an Amazon. He had thick, black hair, curled in unruly waves, and his skin was not the pale, insipid colour of most Englishmen in the winter months. Instead, it had a golden tint to it that only added to the impression of virile good health, and then there were his eyes. Lord Courtenay had eyes the blue of a Mediterranean sea, piercing and utterly swoon-worthy.
She sighed.
And now he would hate her until the end of time. Marvellous.
“Felicity,” her father said, a look in his eyes that suggested he believed she had run mad. If he thought she’d deliberately tied herself in marriage to this devilish fellow, she could hardly blame him. “The arrangements have been made. You’ll marry the day after tomorrow.”
Bunty swallowed and dared a glance at Lord Courtenay. His face was a mask. Her heart quailed. Lord Courtenay—Ludo to his friends—had always smiled at her up until now. She had never tried to fool herself that his smile had any meaning to it, past a faint sense of pity and a naturally amiable temper—well, amiable towards women, anyway. Ludo was a rake of the first order, a hell-born babe, a troublemaker, and a black sheep. He was the youngest son of the Marquess of Farringdon who had thrown him out years ago, and Ludo had responded by putting all his energy into blackening the family name as far as he might.
He’d done a spectacular job so far.
Yet, unlike many of the men she had encountered, he had never been cruel. Not to her, anyway. There had been no smirking or murmured comments for her to overhear and make her blush with mortification. He had always given her that smile that caused her insides to quiver and made her feel muddled and giddy. They had not met that often, but for Bunty it had always been a memorable occasion. She had carefully packed away the thoughts of that sensuous mouth curving upwards just for her, to be taken out and relived again and again on the days when she felt alone, fat, and unloved.
Now he’d likely wish her to perdition on a daily basis and never smile at her again.
Oh, well. Such was her fate. As her mother said, at least she was getting married.
Bunty tried not to cry.
One hour earlier…
Lord Ludovic Courtenay, youngest son of the Marquess of Farringdon, was bored. This was usually cause for concern. When Ludo was bored, bad things happened. To be fair, Ludo did not intend for bad things to happen, not anymore. He had been trying his best to behave himself for over a year now, but he simply appeared to be a magnet for trouble. If there was something brewing within a mile of his person, he would gravitate—quite unknowingly—towards disaster. It was a gift of sorts, and one he was beginning to wish he did not possess. Once upon a time, he had revelled in his ability to create chaos and turn any polite party into a re-enactment of Sodom and Gomorrah, or Gentleman Jackson’s boxing club. Recently, however, it had become a millstone around his neck. He was bored and tired and… lonely. Everything he had always enjoyed had lost any appeal. Brawling and causing trouble had long since failed to satisfy him. He supposed he must be getting old. A lowering thought. His ballet dancers and opera singers, and all the pretty ladybirds with whom he usually associated were lovely, and good company, and he was very fond of them, but….
But.
Ludo sighed and snatched a glass of champagne from a server. He ought not be here. This was not the kind of event he got invited to, which was why he’d had one of his less disreputable friends smuggle him in. The cream of the ton were here, and so he was not welcome. He’d be evicted at any moment, no doubt.
“Ludo, what the devil are you doing here?”
Ludo looked around to see the cool grey gaze of the Earl of Falmouth upon him.
“Falmouth,” Ludo replied, smiling. “Don’t worry, I’m on my best behaviour.”
Falmouth snorted. His wife, the countess, gave a heavy sigh.
“Oh, zhat is a pity, and it is such a dull party, too,” she said in her charming French accent.
Ludo grinned at her.
He liked the earl and his beautiful young wife. Unlike most others present, they were not the least bit stuffy. In fact, if the rumours about the earl were true, he was a dangerous man. Though close to two decades older than his wife, their marriage was a remarkable success. Tall, dark, and vigorous still, he was a striking figure, and his lovely French countess stared up at him as though he’d hung the moon for her alone. That the two of them adored each other was plain to see, and Ludo was struck by a jolt of something that felt remarkably like jealousy.
“Hunting, Ludo?” Falmouth queried.
“Hardly,” Ludo lied, and felt an unaccustomed tinge of heat creep up the back of his neck.
The fellow was too astute for his own good. Ludo hadn’t even admitted to himself that he’d come hoping to meet a nice young lady, and… and what? The usual experience was one of watching them blush and stammer and then remove themselves from his company as though the devil had come to tea. He supposed it was true enough. He had been so intent on punishing his family over the past years that he’d never stopped to consider he might be punishing himself, too. He’d made a career of showing his so-called father and brothers that he did not want them, just as they had spent his entire childhood vividly illustrated how badly they’d not wanted him, and now… well, now no one else wanted him either.
After a few words with Falmouth and his lady, Ludo moved on, draining his glass on the way and snatching up another. Two young ladies passed by, arm-in-arm, chattering merrily until they saw him. They blanched and skirted around him as if they might be ruined simply by breathing the same air. Irritated, Ludo winked at them and they gasped, hurrying away. He snorted. This was utterly pointless. He did not understand why he had bothered to come tonight.
Liar.
And there she was.
Felicity Bunting was standing talking to Thomas Tindall. Tommy, to his intimates, was the Earl of Stanthorpe, and an easy-going, good-natured chap. Under normal circumstances Ludo liked him, only… only he was making Miss Bunting laugh, and….
Ludo’s chest grew tight.
It was ridiculous, really. He didn’t know her at all, had never spoken a word to her. On the rare occasions they had crossed paths, though, he had admired her. There was something wholesome and real about her, as if she was truly who she appeared to be, with no pretence, no façade. Ludo had noticed she laughed often and with no restraint: a rich, joyous sound that made him want to smile. That was such a novelty of late he always gravitated towards her, as though turning towards the sun. She was also gorgeous. Thick brown hair and wide eyes of the same colour complemented a heart-shaped face with rosy cheeks that blushed a deeper shade at the slightest provocation. All of that without even considering the body that must lay beneath her gown, and God, did he want to consider it. She was all curves and softness, and he wanted very badly to seek comfort in her embrace.
So, why had he not approached her, demanded a little voice in his head. Because he was a bloody coward. Him, the wickedest rake in London, if the gossip sheets were to be believed, and he was terrified to approach a nice, gently bred lady in case she reacted the same way as all the others. He didn’t want to see her look at him in horror, did not want to see her gasp and take a step back. Which was why he was still dithering here, watching Tommy enjoy her company whilst he stood like a dog outside a butcher’s shop, salivating for something he could not have.