Pryor Cousins

Chapter 1-1

Decimus Pryor—Dex to his family and friends—enjoyed being the center of attention. He’d never minded being gossiped about. What wasn’t to like about being pointed out as a notable rake? The man who’d seduced the ravishing Lady Winslow from under the nose of a rival, the dashing buck who’d been the first to snare Lady Brereton when she entered the ranks of available young widows, the Lothario with the legendary stamina who’d entertained the Cleweston sisters in their hunting box for one blissfully strenuous week.

A wit had once labeled him le jouet des jeunes veuves. As sobriquets went, it hit the mark; Dex was only interested in young widows, and he was extremely happy to be their plaything. Assignations with the lovely young relicts of deceased noblemen were his raison d’être. Flirtations and stolen kisses and amorous liaisons with ladies who knew exactly what they wanted—and with no need to worry about outraged husbands, because the husbands in question were dead. So, yes, Dex was very happy to be called le jouet des jeunes veuves.

le jouet des jeunes veuves.raison d’être.le jouet des jeunes veuvesBut no one had called him that for several months. The name that followed him around these days was Vigor, and while that nickname could be taken as a compliment, it was not.

Vigor, but no finesse.

An observation that Lady Twyckham—beautiful and viperish—had made about him.

Dex liked making people laugh. Jokester, jester, wag—those were all labels he was happy to own—but while he liked making people laugh, liked being laughed with, he didn’t particularly like being laughed at, and he especially didn’t like being mocked.

with,at,That’s what was happening at Wimbledon House this evening. The ball was in full swing, couples whirling around the dance floor while matrons and dowagers gossiped on the sidelines, ostrich feathers nodding in their headdresses. A promising number of young widows were present, but instead of sending him come-hither glances and roguish smiles, they were whispering behind their fans. “Look, it’s Vigor,” he heard one of them say to another. Her companion shushed her, and they both tittered and turned away.

Dex gritted his teeth behind a smile and made a note never to pursue either lady. It was their loss. His stamina—his vigor—was legendary.

vigorToo legendary, alas.

It was four months since acid-tongued Lady Twyckham had made her unfortunate comment about his prowess, but whispers and laughter still followed him. Some of it was friendly laughter, like at his club, where he was openly ribbed, but some of it wasn’t. Those two young widows and their barbs of laughter weren’t friendly.

Both ladies turned back to him, lowering their fans and giving him the sorts of smiles he was used to receiving from young widows, playful and provocative, flirtatious, but Dex mistrusted them. If either—or both—of them invited him into their beds, he rather thought it would be to laugh about it afterwards with their friends.

He aimed an indifferent nod at them, an indifferent smile, and moved on, heading for the far side of the ballroom, where a footman presided over a tureen of punch that was as potent as it was fragrant. Every time the laughter and mockery became too much, his feet led him back to the tureen. The punch was the only good thing about tonight’s ball. It took the edge off his anger. Dex wasn’t used to being angry. He was used to flirting and joking, to making ladies blush and laugh and invite him into their boudoirs. But not tonight. Tonight he was stewing in wounded pride.

His punch procured, Dex leaned his shoulders against a silk-covered wall, trying to look nonchalant, as if he didn’t care that half the ballroom was covertly—or not so covertly—laughing at him.

Hyperbole, he scolded himself, sipping the punch, tasting rum on his tongue, champagne and orange zest, sugar and spices. It wasn’t half the ballroom. It wasn’t even a quarter. It was mostly just the young widows. His sole purpose for attending this ball.

Hyperbole,Damn Lady Twyckham to perdition.

He ought to have stayed in the country. The Little Season had seemed tempting when he was buried in Gloucestershire, but now that he was in London he’d far rather be back at his grandfather’s estate, where there were no enticing young widows, but equally there was none of the mocking laughter that so stung his pride.

His gaze drifted over the assembled guests. It wasn’t a crush, but it was full for a ballroom in early September. But then, balls at Wimbledon House were few and far between, invitations highly sought.

A sprightly contredanse was underway, the musicians plying their bows with fervor, young ladies and sprigs of fashion dancing vigorously. Vigorously. Pah. Dex’s upper lip curled involuntarily, angrily. He hid it behind the rim of his glass.

contredansePah.He would probably be able to laugh about this one day, but that day was very far off.

He sipped the punch, his gaze drifting over the dancers. Débutantes held no attraction for him, be they the shy, shrinking ones who dared not meet his eyes or their more confident peers who boldly flirted with him, hoping to snare a duke’s grandson as a husband. He had no interest in virgins and no interest in marriage, just as he had no interest in other men’s wives. Young widows on the other hand, experienced and enticing, unfettered by husbands . . .

Dex sighed into his fifth glass of punch. Or was it his sixth?

If he couldn’t remember how many glasses he’d had, it was probably time to leave.

He scanned the ballroom, unerringly finding the young widows—a cluster of them in the farthest corner, several on the dance floor, the pair who’d given him those coquettish smiles he mistrusted. There, near the door to the cardroom, was the delectable Viscountess Fortrose—or more properly, the Dowager Viscountess Fortrose, given that the current viscount, her late husband’s cousin, had a wife who was also Viscountess Fortrose.

One needed that qualifier “dowager” when both ladies were in town, but now that autumn had taken hold and the viscount and his wife had retreated to their country estate, it was unnecessary. Such a disconcerting term, dowager. It brought to mind elderly matriarchs, stately and gray-haired and with formidable bosoms, but Eloïse Fortrose was slender, not stately, and her hair was a striking white-blonde. She wasn’t someone you could easily overlook. She was pretty, yes, and the white-blonde hair was unusual, but it was her clothing that really captured the eye. The dowager viscountess favored bold, vivid colors. Rich yellows and deep crimsons, emerald greens and azure blues. Gaudy, the most disapproving of the matrons called her, but they were wrong; there was nothing flashy or garish about Lady Fortrose’s wardrobe. Not that she cared what people said about her. She possessed a cool, aloof confidence that was almost, but not quite, hauteur. She was frosty with rakes, coolly friendly with everyone else, and notoriously picky when it came to lovers. As one Casanova had so aptly observed, “Every time she sees a rake coming, she raises the drawbridge, lowers the portcullis, and sends archers to man the ramparts.”

That comment had led to her being dubbed Lady Fortress.

Dex found the juxtaposition of vivid color and cool reserve intriguing. Eloïse Fortrose was an enigma, a puzzle, a challenge. He wanted to joke, cajole, and wheedle his way into her boudoir and melt her frosty heart.

Unfortunately, the viscountess had rebuffed every approach he’d made—and he’d made a number over the years. Dex hadn’t given up hope yet. He would continue to lay siege to the Fortress, but not right now, when his pride was so dented.

At that moment, Dex discovered that his evening was looking up, for there, having newly entered the ballroom and not two steps from the viscountess, was Lady Swansea.

Lady Swansea’s proximity to Viscountess Fortrose was unfortunate. The viscountess was resplendent in eye-catching pomegranate red; Lady Swansea wore fawn trimmed with blonde lace. Alongside the viscountess she looked mousy, dowdy even. But, unfortunate choice of gown aside, she was an undeniable beauty, a voluptuous treasure, ripe for the plucking. Or at least, she’d been ripe for the plucking four months ago.

He and Lady Swansea had been getting along very well indeed when Dex was last in town, their flirtation rapidly heading towards an affair. They’d been on the brink of a liaison, and if his cousin hadn’t dragged him off to Hampshire in pursuit of a red-haired governess, Dex had no doubt that he and Lady Swansea would have been intimately acquainted by now.

He set aside his empty glass and sauntered across to her. His smile was jaunty, the familiar swagger back in his step.

“Lady Swansea, how delightful. I had no notion you were in town.” Dex bowed over her hand with a flamboyant flourish, kissed her gloved fingertips, then offered an extravagant compliment: “Your beauty is dazzling tonight. You outshine the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the sky.”

Lady Swansea used to blush and giggle when he paid her such fulsome compliments; now, she tittered and said, “You look very well, Mr. Pryor. Very . . . vigorous.”

Dex’s smile congealed on his lips. Was she poking fun at him?

He looked into those blue eyes, discovered a glint there, and realized that she was.

But perhaps it was a friendly glint? They’d laughed together often enough, he and Lady Swansea, before he’d left for Hampshire. Perhaps this was her idea of a joke, some friendly teasing between the two of them?

“Would you care to dance, Lady Swansea?”

“Oh, no,” she said, removing her fingers from his clasp. “Too vigorous for my taste tonight.”

vigorousDex decided that it wasn’t a friendly glint in her eyes. He kept his smile with effort. “Another time, then.” He inclined his head politely, stepped away, and willed his face not to become a humiliated red. His feet wanted to march from the ballroom, but he refused to give Lady Swansea the satisfaction of seeing him leave so soon after her little witticism. So he had a sixth glass of punch, or perhaps it was a seventh, and then strolled out to the vestibule and requested that his carriage be brought round—he was ambling, not running away—and had to wait an interminable fifteen minutes before it drew up at the door. That was the problem with balls at Wimbledon House. One couldn’t just walk home. One had to drive the five wretched miles back to London before one could bury oneself in one’s club with a bottle of good claret and get comfortably drunk.

amblingUnfortunately, Viscountess Fortrose had also decided to leave the ball early, along with her two companions, the diminutive and aging French comtesse with whom she resided, and a stout, gray-bearded Russian baron. Dex kept his distance. He didn’t need a rebuff from the oh-so-ravishing viscountess tonight.

Coaches came, coaches went, and finally it was his turn. He stepped outside to the accompaniment of the lilting strains of a quadrille. The carriage sweep was lit by torchlight and moonlight, dark inkblots of cloud smudging a starry sky.

The coach had a crest on the door and came with a coachman and a footman. Neither the crest nor the servants were his. Dex owned a curricle and a phaeton, but he had no reason to own a town carriage, not when his uncle, the Marquis of Stanaway, and his grandfather, the Duke of Linwood, had carriages and servants to spare.