Treasure of the Ton (Heiress, Book 2) (Ebook)

1802, London

Ezra Ashworth, Lord St. George, strolled into the Ravensmere coming-out ball far too late for anyone to notice his presence. He moved through the surrounding room, searching for Ravensmere—or as he once knew him, Lord Harrow, back when they were young men. A time that seemed far too long ago to count the years.
He passed a footman and swiped a glass of champagne, taking a much-needed sip. He was back in London and once more thrust into a society he had hoped he’d never have to be part of again.
And yet, with his mother’s ailing health, and his own body having suffered too much physical abuse from past employment, he had decided to return to England and take up the post of Earl St. George, as was his birthright. If he could make his mother happy in her dotage, then that would satisfy him well enough.
He spied Ravensmere standing with whom he presumed to be his wife, the duchess. He took in the couple—a handsome pair, to be sure. Duchess Ravensmere more so than he had thought her to be. But then, Ravensmere had always had a liking for exquisite things, and so his wife being no different should not have surprised him.
Ezra started toward his oldest, and pretty much only, friend, slipping through the crowd unnoticed—a trick he’d learned many years ago after working for the Foreign Office. Thankfully, it came in handy here and now, being back in the vampiric world of the ton.
Ravensmere caught sight of him and smiled before starting toward him.
“St. George. Ezra. How good to see you, my old friend.” Ravensmere pulled him into an embrace.
Ezra patted his friend’s back in return, glad to see him also.
“And you, old friend. How good it is to see you.”
“After all these years you’re back in London. I can barely believe it.” The duke looked him up and down, and for a moment Ezra wondered if he’d ask him to turn pirouette.
“This is my wife, the Duchess of Ravensmere. Rosalind, may I introduce you to my oldest and closest friend, Ezra Ashworth, Lord St. George.”
Ravensmere’s pretty wife held out her hand, a mischievous light in her eye.
“It is very nice to meet you, my lord. My husband mentioned you’d be attending this evening, and you’re very welcome. I hope you’ve come prepared to dance.”
Ezra shook his head, liking the personable and pretty lady who had captured his friend’s heart.
“I must beg to be allowed to rest this evening, Your Grace. I only arrived back in London this morning, and dancing, I fear, shall be beyond my capabilities at present.”
“Not that I mind in the least,” Ravensmere said. “We shall supper together and catch up. There is much to discuss.”
Ezra nodded, but also knew there would be much to conceal. Parts of his life no good society needed to know or learn of. As it was, the past several months he had tried to forget what had occurred merely to be able to function like a normal person.
So far, he had succeeded well enough.
“Could we perhaps have a quiet beverage in your library? I’m weary, I’m sorry to say, and the older I get the less I’m able to keep up as we once did.”
He hoped his plea to his oldest friend would be approved, but if the duke did state that he wished him unconditionally to attend supper, then of course he would. But he would much rather leave this grand event to those who wished to partake and have a quiet brandy in another, less-populated part of the house.
“Yes. There is time, is there not, my love, before we dine this evening?”
“An hour at least,” the duchess stated, smiling up at her husband, love all but beaming from her face. “Go and enjoy your whisky, husband. I shall see you in an hour.”
The duke leaned down and kissed his wife, and Ezra cleared his throat, having never seen such a public display of affection between a couple so highly positioned in the ton.
It was as refreshing as it was a little shocking.
They excused themselves from the duchess and moved toward the library. The duke spoke on inconsequential gossip, and before they had left the ballroom, they were waylaid several times by His Grace’s guests.
“You go on ahead. The library is just across the foyer, St. George. I shall join you posthaste.”
“Of course.”
Ezra moved toward the library and, pushing the door open, was immediately hit with the sweet scent of leather and books, mixed with a hint of dust.
The best scent in the world, in his opinion—other than that of freshly laundered sheets. He strode over to the unlit hearth and sat on one of the large, wingback leather chairs. He stared at the fire, clean and set for whenever it was required to be lit, and wondered at his life—what he would do now that he was in London.
What his mother wished him to do was more the point.
Marry, of course. So she may settle into the dowager house and enjoy her dotage and time as a commanding matron of the ton.
He smiled at the thought of his dearest mama, who, now that he was home, was able to finally relax and enjoy her frivolities in town.
The door to the study slammed shut and Ezra jumped. The huffing and mumbling of a woman’s voice stilled his reaction, and he sat for several heartbeats, wondering if he was perhaps in the wrong room after all.
“Damn blasted pompous dolt,” the woman cursed.
Ezra narrowed his eyes. Was that a foot stomp he’d just heard? He moved to peek around the leather chair and gaped. A chill ran down his spine, and he swallowed the cry that almost voiced itself. He clasped the edges of the chair, not sure if he wanted to ground himself, keep hidden, or hope the apparition—woman—who had entered the library would dissipate.
“Selfish snob.”
A chair scraped and Ezra hazarded another peek at the woman, who was striding about the library like a herd of elephants. What was wrong with the chit that she would be so out of sorts?
Not to mention—who the hell was she?
He narrowed his eyes, drinking in her features that were uncommonly like her.
His heart hurt at the thought, and he attempted to shake it aside, to try to not let melancholy overtake his senses.
He had fought hard this past year, trying to move forward, to allow what had occurred to go, as he had been instructed to do. And yet, seeing this vision before him, he was reminded once again of his failure.
Of his inability to seek revenge on those who had harmed those he cared for most.
The woman, pacing before the duke’s desk, and as if sensing she was not alone, looked up and saw him.
He did not say a word. Not that he thought speaking would be at all possible for him at this present moment.
Not that he needed to converse at all…
“Who are you?” she asked, placing her hands on her slender hips and raising one inquisitive brow. “You should have made your presence known.”
Ezra stood—not that he wished to face this goddess before him, but because that was what was done. The right thing to do as a gentleman in polite society and in his friend’s home.
“My lady, I’m Lord St. George. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“We’ve not been introduced properly. I shouldn’t be speaking to you at all.” She sauntered over to him, no matter that her words were less than friendly.
Closer now, he devoured her features, noting that they were uncommonly familiar. Her eyes, in particular, were like looking back in time, and he found himself wanting to reach for her, to hug and cradle her close to his beating heart and remind himself that she was safe.
Alive.
He closed his eyes and fought not to fall into the past.
“Are you well, Lord St. George? Or is the vision of me so grand that you’re like so many of the other fops out in the ballroom, and will pretend to admire my beauty and wit, while really just biding your time until you leave for your whore down in Covent Garden?”
He stared at her, having never heard a woman of her class speak so crassly. “I beg your pardon. Should a young woman such as yourself know such things?”
“Well, when one hears a group of the gentlemen who had only just pretended to fawn all over me and then speak as crassly as I just have, then yes. I suppose I now do know of these things. And I must say, they leave me wanting.”