Simon’s instantaneous response was a murderous impulse to separate Burdick’s head from the rest of his body. He wasn’t certain how much of the cold, splintering rage was fueled by the image of Annabelle Peyton in bed with the porcine Lord Hodgeham, and how much was elicited by Burdick’s snide enjoyment of gossip that was very likely untrue.

“I would say that if you’re going to slander a lady’s reputation,” Simon said in a dangerously pleasant tone, “you had better have some hard proof of what you’re saying.”

“Egads, gossip doesn’t require proof,” the young man replied with a wink. “And time will soon reveal the lady’s true character. Hodgeham doesn’t have the means to keep a prime beauty like that—before long she’ll want more than he can deliver. I predict that at the season’s end, she’ll sail off to the fellow with the deepest pockets.”

“Which would be mine,” Simon said softly.

Burdick blinked in surprise, his smile fading as he wondered if he had heard correctly. “Wha—”

“I’ve watched as you and the pack of idiots you run with have sniffed at her heels for two years,” Simon said, his eyes narrowing. “Now you’ve lost your chance at her.”

“Lost my…what do you mean by that?” Burdick asked indignantly.

“I mean that I will afflict the most acute kind of pain, mental, physical, and financial, on the first man who dares to trespass on my territory. And the next person who repeats any unsubstantiated rumors about Miss Peyton in my hearing will find it shoved right back in his throat—along with my fist.” Simon’s smile contained a tigerish menace as he beheld Burdick’s stunned face. “Tell that to anyone who may find it of interest,” he advised, and strode away from the pompous, gape-jawed little runt.

CHAPTER 3

Having been returned to her town house by the elderly cousin who sometimes acted as her chaperone, Annabelle strode into the empty, flagstoned entrance hall. She stopped short at the sight of the hat that had been placed on the scallop-edged demilune table against the wall. It was a high-crowned gentleman’s hat, gray banded with dark burgundy satin. A distinctive hat, compared to the simple black ones that most gentlemen wore. Annabelle had seen it on far too many occasions, perched on this very table like a coiled snake.

A stylish cane with a diamond-tipped handle leaned against the table. Annabelle entertained a lively desire to use the cane to bash in the crown of the hat— preferably while the owner was wearing it. Instead, she walked up the stairs with a leaden heart while a frown pinched her forehead.

As she neared the second floor where the family rooms were located, a heavyset man came to the top landing. He viewed her with an intolerable smirk, his complexion pink and moist from recent exertion, while a lopsided lock of his combed-over hair dangled like a rooster’s crest.

“Lord Hodgeham,” Annabelle said stiffly, swallowing against the shame and fury that had lumped in her throat. Hodgeham was one of the few people in the world whom she genuinely hated. A so-called friend of her late father’s, Hodgeham paid infrequent calls to the household, but never at regular visiting hours. He came late at night, and against all dictates of decorum, he spent time alone in a private room with Annabelle’s mother, Philippa. And in the days after his visits, Annabelle could hardly fail to notice that some of their most pressing bills had been mysteriously paid, and some irate creditor or another had been appeased. And Philippa was uncustomarily brittle and irritable, and disinclined to talk.

It was nearly impossible for Annabelle to believe that her mother, who had always shrunk from impropriety, would allow anyone the use of her body in return for money. Yet it was the only reasonable conclusion to draw, and it filled Annabelle with helpless shame and rage. Her anger was not directed solely at her mother— she was also furious at their situation, and herself for not yet having been able to land a husband. It had taken a long time for Annabelle to realize that, no matter how pretty and charming she was, and no matter how much interest a gentleman displayed, she was not going to get an offer. At least not a respectable one.

Since her come-out, Annabelle had gradually been forced to accept that her dreams of some handsome, cultivated suitor who would fall in love with her and make all her problems go away was a naive fantasy. That disillusionment had sunk in deeply during the prolonged disappointment that was her third season. And now in her fourth season, the unappealing image of Annabelle-the-farmer’s-wife was alarmingly close to reality.

Stone-faced, Annabelle attempted to walk past Hodgeham in silence. He stopped her with a meaty hand on her arm. Annabelle jerked back with such antipathy that the force of the movement nearly caused her to lose her balance. “Don’t touch me,” she said, glaring into his florid face.

Hodgeham’s eyes appeared very blue against the ruddiness of his complexion. Grinning, he rested his hand on the top of the banister, preventing Annabelle from ascending to the landing. “So inhospitable,” he murmured, in the incongruous tenor voice that so many tall men seemed to be afflicted with. “After the favors I have done for your family—”

“You’ve done no favors for us,” Annabelle said tersely.

“You would have been cast into the streets long ago if not for my generosity.”

“Are you suggesting that I should be grateful?” Annabelle asked, her tone saturated with loathing. “You’re a filthy scavenger.”