The Virgin in the Rake’s Bed by Ava MacAdams
Chapter One
“Look at that ridiculous creature.” Kenneth Denninson gulped down half of his brandy in annoyance, his dark eyes fixed on a young woman weaving through the crowd at the ball.
His friend, Liam Westwood, the Earl of Keswick, scoured the room. “Hmm?”
“That wretched imp, Miss Emily Jones, that my grandmother has seen fit to employ as her ‘companion.’ I should think a dullard of a spaniel would be of more use.” Kenneth downed what was left in his glass. “She rather resembles a packhorse. Truly, it is an embarrassment. Does my grandmother not realize that everyone is watching?”
Above all things, Kenneth valued his pride, and the pride of his family name. As the Duke of Hudson, he had a certain dignity to uphold, and his grandmother was currently making a mockery of it. Or, rather, her new companion was, carrying a bag, two shawls, three glasses of champagne, and a plate of hors d’oeuvres.
Has she never heard of poise? She could quite easily have set down my grandmother’s accessories and gone back and forth for refreshments.
“Johanna tells me she is a delightful girl,” Mark Carlton—the Earl of Sinclair and the third corner of their friendship triangle—insisted.
Kenneth pursed his lips. “Their opinion has been clouded because they pity her. Fortunately, I am not weighed down by such things.” He watched the girl stumble into a group of refined young ladies, seeing her apologize profusely as she shuffled away, much of the champagne spilling down her forearms.
Suddenly, Mark lunged at Kenneth, and pressed his ear to Kenneth’s chest. He tapped on his breast pocket rather strangely and peered up at Kenneth with a grin. “I was just making sure you still had a heart, Denninson.”
“It is not about heart. It is about ensuring one’s heart is not taken advantage of.” Kenneth pushed his mischievous friend away. “And I fear that your wives coerced my grandmother’s heart into making a rash decision. What merits does this rough urchin have? Not a month ago, she was stirring porridge at that wretched orphanage your wives adore so much. Now, she is companion to a Dowager Duchess. Clearly, someone has been manipulated.”
Liam and Mark exchanged a smirk.
“I think you are protesting too much, Dear Denninson.” Liam flashed a wink at Kenneth. “You are never normally so vocal about your dislikes. One might even think you were trying to manipulate us into believing you loathe her, when really you rather like her.”
Kenneth sniffed. “Do not be so ludicrous. I am merely assessing the behavior of a new servant and have found her severely wanting in all aspects of her work.”
“It sounds more like you are severely wanting something,” Mark teased.
Kenneth narrowed his eyes at his friends. “You must desist with this,” he said firmly. “I understand that the two of you have been blinded by love’s poisoned arrow, but I have no intention of wedding, or even contemplating the institution again. And I would remind you that, not so long ago, you were both of the same mind.”
“Which is how we know that it would do you immeasurable good to find yourself a lovely young lady to fall hopelessly in love with.” Mark nudged Kenneth playfully in the ribs.
Just then, Emily tripped on the train of another young lady’s gown and tumbled headfirst into the chest of Lord Foster. Kenneth watched in horror as champagne flew from the three mishandled glasses, the majority of it splashing directly into Lord Foster’s shocked face. The plate of hors d’oeuvres followed closely after, toppling out of Emily’s hand and crashing to the floor, sending pastry and salmon cream everywhere.
“I’m so sorry, M’Lord!” he heard Emily cry, as she made matters worse by trying to dab away the champagne with his grandmother’s shawl.
I hope he strikes you for your clumsiness. And if he will not do it, then my grandmother ought to.
The ball had gone deathly silent, with every pair of amused eyes turned toward the messy scene. And in that silence, Kenneth felt his irritation prickle further. This was supposed to be a celebration, organized by his grandmother, to honor her sixty-fifth birthday. He could not abide seeing her humiliated like this because she had taken pity on a waif from an orphanage.
Beauty cannot be one’s only redeeming feature…
“Should we aid her?” Liam suggested.
Kenneth shook his head. “Do not intervene. I am still assessing her behavior, and I should like to see how she manages to extricate herself from this chaos.”
A dark flush of red had appeared across Emily’s plump cheeks as she curtseyed almost to the floor in apology. In a way, that blush made her seem even prettier. And with her shining red hair, wide blue eyes, milky skin, and bitten-red lips, she was far prettier than most of the ladies in attendance that night. Not to mention her curvy silhouette, highlighted by ill-fitting garments that were too tight in all of the most tantalizing places.
But none of that enticed Kenneth. She could have been a literal goddess and it would not have stirred him, for he had sworn, long ago, never to be stirred again. At least, that was what he told himself.
Unfortunately, Liam and Mark’s wives had not received Kenneth’s order to stand back. The two beautiful ladies, Nora and Johanna, the Countess of Keswick and the Countess of Sinclair respectively, rushed to tend to the foolish girl.
“Lord Foster, how lucky you are!” Nora cried, so all in the ballroom would hear. “I heard you saying you were in need of immediate refreshment, and Miss Jones has seen to your thirst!”
A ripple of laughter made its way around the ballroom, easing the tension.
Kenneth’s expression darkened. “Your wife has a rare gift, Westwood.”
“She has many,” Liam replied, smiling. “But which are you referring to?”
“She can turn anything, even a direct insult, into a jest.” Kenneth folded his arms across his chest, unsatisfied with the turn of events.
Lord Foster blinked in surprise. “Goodness, why… why yes, I daresay she has!” A chuckle boomed out of his barrel chest, shattering what remained of the tension. “And most creatively, too!”
“We ought to name it the Foster. A splash of champagne, straight to the mouth,” Nora went on, putting a reassuring arm around Emily’s trembling shoulders. “Though, perhaps the servants will thank us for not asking for a Foster too often. They might fear for their employment, chucking champagne into the mouths of the country’s elite!”
Lord Foster doubled over, laughing hysterically, as the rest of the ballroom joined in. “Lady Keswick… you are… a scream, as ever!”
“Now, if you will excuse me, I should like a Foster of my own.” Nora ushered Emily away from the scene, while Johanna picked up the fallen shawls and bag, until the three women were hurrying out of the ballroom. They did not wait for the servants to help. Evidently, they were in too much of a rush to spare Emily further embarrassment.
Kenneth looked on, wondering if he ought to follow the three women. Someone needed to teach Emily a lesson in decorum, for Nora would not always be there to salvage the situation. But he found himself rooted to the spot. Ever since Emily’s arrival at Hudson Manor, he had barely spoken a word to her. Instead, he had let his brooding disapproval speak for him. The thought of seeking her out in private and looming over her, chastising her harshly for her behavior, felt much too intimate.
She would only attempt to bewitch me, to gain my sympathy, as most women do. And that, I cannot allow.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said to his two friends. “I find I have lost my taste for the night’s celebrations.”
With that, he marched out of the ballroom, intending to spend the rest of the evening in his chambers. There, he would read his Bible, concentrating on the passages that taught of resisting temptation, until his mind was clean of that wretched, beautiful, useless, shapely, wide-eyed girl.
No woman will ever bewitch me. For my friends were right—I no longer have a heart.
