An hour after his mishap with a wayward pastry, Lord Greyson Cliffton, the Earl of Claymore, would have given almost anything for time travel. A time and place where there had been no sign of Lord Henry, Marquess Crowley, droning on and on about his successful business ventures. Say, earlier in the day when in the dawn's orange glow, he had found himself knee deep in horse dung.
That would have been infinitely preferable to Crowley's assurances, all of which Greyson knew to be rubbish.
The man had a sly smile. Not to mention the rumors which had only been confirmed as Greyson watched the man throughout the many hours of the night. It seemed the esteemed Marquess liked to prey on the insipid.
Greyson had been brought up by a father who urged him to listen to his instincts. While Greyson on the best of days had few, if any, good remembrances of the man, Greyson did find that his father had been correct in that, at least. A lesson his son had finally taken into consideration. He knew with one glance at Crowley, that no way in hell would he be investing any of his funds with him.
Did the ton actually buy the horse shite this man was selling?
He received his answer a moment later, however, when Lord Ashbury, Viscount Norbert, interjected  Crowley's boasts to shake hands and remind Crowley of their meeting the day after next.
"How much longer must we feign interest, do you think," Thorne said from beside him, his back held upright in a negligent posture by the marble columns behind him, "before we can disillusion the pup in that we are not complete ijets?"
Greyson laughed, "It's not like you have any bearing in the matter, Thorne. It's my money the Marquess intends to suck dry."
Thorne gave his words a moment of thought, his lips pursing, before he straightened, a rough pat on Greyson's back pushing him forward. "Ah, I do believe you're right, old man." Thorne tossed Greyson a wink before he strode off, calling out a "Haloo"'to a passing acquaintance.
Greyson didn't know if he should feel amused or betrayed.
"Bloody bastard."
"I beg your pardon, Claymore. Did you say something?"
Greyson tore his eyes from his friend's retreating back before meeting a pair of brown eyes.
"Is there a way we could conclude business, Henry," Greyson asked, dropping the honorific of his title. "I find myself ready to call it an evening." He found his patience wearing thin. Especially as, at that moment, the woman who had yet to leave his mind's eye, came into view on the far side of the ballroom.
Greyson grinned. She was next to the bloody dessert table. Obviously, the lady had a weakness, but at the moment she looked untouchable with her porcelain skin swathed in blue spools of fabric.
His little caterpillar, fitting her environment.
She was faced in his direction, but her eyes were on her friend, the same blonde haired woman she had been with before, that it gave him leave to look his fill. It was her eyes he remembered most, truth be told. A shade of aquamarine that were striking in her pale face.
She smiled, tilting her head and drawing Greyson's admiring gaze to that magnificent hair. A tumble of dark curls were swept off her face, a haphazard confection that could crumble at any moment.
She had flirted with him easily, her head tilting seductively as she had viewed him, but Greyson knew it was not a calculated move. She didn't look as if she were sizing up his estate or looking for the nearest corner where she could seclude him in hopes of marriage.
The lady had laughed at herself, the clumsiness of the moment stretching into a heated tension. An air of expectancy had bloomed even if Greyson got the feeling she didn't fully comprehend her own appeal.
He had felt half crazed when a wayward curl had fallen along her collarbone. Greyson had imagined releasing all that hair, the heavy, dark weight of it coming to rest alongside her pale skin. He could imagine spreading the layers out on his pillow, watching the glint of a candle highlighting the chestnut and caramel strands, her delectable body laid out beneath him as he crawled up her body on all fours to burrow his face in her neck.
That scent.
Greyson barely held back his groan. She had smelled of lilacs and rain, the freshness of it sending want through him.
Crowley, no doubt sensing Greyson's distraction, moved a step over, coming back into Greyson's line of sight.
"Well, Claymore, what say you?" Holding his hand before him, Crowley waited, his smile satisfied for the kill.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Greyson decided he had had enough. "You want me to raise the horses I already breed without your money," Greyson added, eyes flashing, "sell the resulting unions of those first-rate studs I already own, and you, as partner will obtain a profit of twenty percent for each race won and part credit by mouth as your due?"
Crowley laughed harshly, his brown eyes glinting. "I will sponsor your business, Claymore. That is what sponsors do, yes? There is no harm to you unless my donations become squandered in which case reparations need be made." Crowley finished as if Greyson's acceptance was a forgone conclusion, as if Crowley hadn't admitted to securing his fortunes no matter if the man he sponsored did well or poorly. Not to mention doing none of the work.
Greyson had seen a lot of greed and injustice in the ton. It was why he had extricated himself from all his father's social circles after he had passed on, only to be reinforced after the incident with Georgianna.
"All I ask is for you to sign a contract. I can have my silicitor send it 'round for you to look over."
Greyson laughed sharply, disbelief written in every line of his face. "You must be joking."
Still not understanding Greyson's tone, Crowley gave him a wide grin. "It is much too good a deal, isn't it? Just think! With your stock and my reputation we could become filthy rich gents. Breed the best racehorses-"
The gall of the man.
Greyson cut Crowley's speech short, coming out from his lean to show the predator in himself that had been merely playing with its snack. Crowley's own body seemed to tighten with the threat, his eyes glinting with a malicious edge that screamed, "don't test me."
Not that Greyson had ever submitted to threats.
"I already have the best stock. What need have I for you?"
Greyson could see Crowley floundering in indecision, whether there was a chance he could make Greyson change his mind.
Greed must have won for a gleam of triumph filled Crowley's eyes. "What if I sweeten the pot?"
"I beg your pardon?"
The. Gall.
The calculation in the man's look let Greyson know he wouldn't like what was said next.
"I can sweeten the pot, make it worth your while. I have a niece, you know," Crowley said, "of marriageable age. Quite a handful, if you know what I mean."
Greyson's eyebrows shot up, too stunned to speak. Surely, he wasn't saying -
"As of yet, no one has caught her eye, and she is a mite on the shelf. Nonetheless," Crowley continued, chuckling, "she is of fine breeding stock for men like us."
One moment Crowley stood before him, laughing, and the next, Greyson had his hand wrapped tightly around the man's cravat, listening to him sputter. "You dispicable piece of shite," he growled, curling his body to shield them from the curious gazes of the ton. "Not only would I never allow a man to lay claim on my profitable purebreds, I would never take to wife an unwilling woman who had been bartered about like a parcel of land."
Greyson fought the rise of his temper with each word that fell like blades between them. He forced himself back a step, releasing the pressure on Crowley's throat. "Although I pity your niece who had no choice in drawing a scum-sucking leech like you as her uncle."
The last dart thrown, Greyson didn't wait to see the man's reaction. He distanced himself, making brisk strides through the ballroom. He was done cow-towing to the foppish gents and the so called gentlemen that made up London's elite. And he was quite done talking business with the lot of them.
The only possible delay in staying in this ballroom would be to find Crowley's niece and warn her. He felt a pang of sympathy for the girl.
Whoever she was.
Greyson turned towards the card room, intent on finding Thorne who he had arrived with, when he saw it again. A waterfall of blue silk from the corner of his eye. Â He slowed to a halt, landing in the way of a dancing couple.
The man crashed into Greyson's still form. By the time Greyson mumbled an apology and the man was back within the cadence of his dance, the narrowed eyed glare lost in faces, so too was the woman.
As mysteriously as she had shown herself, the lady had cocooned back into her shell, a caterpillar blending in among others.
Greyson was determined to catch her this time, to learn her name.
Unfortunately, by the time he glimpsed her once more, she had been thoroughly claimed by another. Her companion led her to the dance floor, a waltz striking from the chords of the band.
Greyson watched helplessly as she was twirled about the floor. He was entranced by her gown as it danced about her rounded hips. The slight mounds of her breasts as they rose daringly above the bodice of her gown.
Hell, even the curve of her ear made him harden in his breeches.
He was content to wait. To build the anticipation.
Until, that is, he noticed the stiff way his little caterpillar held herself, her eyes scanning the masses imploringly, hoping for a disturbance.
Greyson straightened, his instincts clamoring for the second time this evening.
He observed the man's smile, the hungry look in his eyes. And then Greyson noticed their path that drew ever closer to the secluded and empty balcony.
He didn't hesitate.
Crossing the ballroom with long strides, he wasn't aware of the people he collided with nor the conversations, boisterous and disjointed, that bombarded him. Instead, Greyson focused on the exact moment when the couple disappeared, their bodies swallowed in shadows.