Excerpt of When You Love Someone by Susan Johnson

Newmarket, May, 1788

She hadn’t wanted to come to the Race Ball. But then when
did she ever want to attend an entertainment with her
husband?

Yet here she was.

Because her parents were dead and her brother needed a
living.

And she would do anything to assure Will a future.

Dismissing the familiar encroaching melancholy that always
overcame her when she allowed herself to recall the
reasons she had wed, Elspeth reminded herself that there
were many in the world in much more dreadful circumstances
than she. And duty was a virtue, was it not?

“Get me another brandy and be quick about it,” her husband
snapped.

The world abruptly intruded. She heard the music once
again, took note of the dancers sweeping by, looked down
at the ugly twisted face of her husband gazing up at her
from his Bath chair. Biting back the sharp remark on the
tip of her tongue, she nodded instead and moved away to do
his bidding.

“Who’s that?” Lord Darley nodded, his gaze on Elspeth as
she skirted the edge of the dance floor. “She’s damned
fine.”

“That pretty thing is Grafton’s latest wife.”

“Another? How many is that for Old Hellfire?”

“Three.”

The Marquis of Darley lifted his brows. “Is that the one
who—”

“Put Grafton in that Bath chair? Yes, indeed. Some six
months ago.” Viscount Stanhope raised his brows. “It was
the juiciest of scandals.”

“Grafton had an apoplexy on their wedding night as I
recall.”

“And Lady Grafton’s still a virgin. Or so rumor has it.
Which may account for his watching her like a hawk. She’s
not allowed out without a duenna.”

“Grafton’s too old for a sweet little vixen like that,”
the marquis murmured, following Elspeth with his
gaze. “Although he still likes to show her off from the
look of her low décolletage. Where did he find her?”

“She’s a vicar’s daughter. Not your style, Julius.
Excellent family but no money; some dust up over a small
inheritance that should have come her way but went to a
cousin instead, a younger brother who needed a leg up in
the world. Grafton spied her at a hunt near his country
place and the rest is history. She’s a superior rider
apparently; her father was a crack whip.”

“Was?”

“He’s dead, as is the mother. There’s only a brother left
and he’s off to India with the Seventy-Third.”

The marquis smiled faintly. “So she might be in need of
some company.”

“If only that were an original thought,” Charles Lambton
drily noted. “You and every man who’s laid eyes on her
thinks as much. But consider—even if it were possible
which it’s not—do you really want to bed a vicar’s
daughter?”

“It makes no difference to me if her father was a
blacksmith.”

Aware of his friend’s democratic and unconstrained view
apropos bed partners, the viscount said more precisely, “I
meant she might be prudish.”

“With a fulsome body like that, I’d suspect the lady is up
to some degree of carnal amusements.”

Charles shrugged. “Word has it she’s refused all offers
with a distinct coolness.”

The marquis’s glance swung away from the lady back to his
friend. “She’s been approached?”

“Of course she’s been approached. If you didn’t so
pointedly avoid society, you’d be aware of the stunning
entrance she made at Lady Chenwith’s rout, not to mention
her appearance as Iphigenia at Lady Portland’s costume
ball. Her costume was very revealing. Grafton stuck to her
side like glue—his Bath chair notwithstanding—and she
turned down every invitation to dance. Which were not
invitations to dance exclusively as I’m sure you
understand.”

“Hmmm.”

“Don’t waste your time. She’s unavailable. Unless you want
to pay Grafton to watch perhaps,” Charles quipped.

The marquis grinned. “Now there’s a thought, old miserly
wretch that Grafton is. On the other hand, politesse and
tact is more likely to win fair maid. I believe I’ll have
to accept an invitation or so this week at Newmarket.”

“Don’t tell me you’re willing play the gentleman for her.
I thought only horses and debauch interested you. Lady
Grafton’s reputation is sterling by the way. Not your
usual preference in women.”

“She intrigues me.”

“Don’t they all.” A blunt rejoinder, but then the men had
been friends since childhood.

“We can’t all be in love with our stepsisters,” the
marquis murmured. “And you must admit Lady Grafton’s
sexual allure is impossible to ignore. I haven’t seen such
showy, impressive breasts”—he winked—“probably since my
wet nurse. You don’t suppose she’s pregnant with some
stable boy’s brat?” he drawled.

“Not unless the stable boy is a special friend of
Grafton’s. He keeps his wife on a tight leash.”

“Like Selina.”

“I’ll thank you to keep your unseemly thoughts to
yourself.” Charles was still struggling with his
unsuitable passion.

“Selina’s not actually related to you.”

Charles scowled. “We don’t all view the world with the
same elastic principles as you.”

“You should ask her”—Darley smiled—“find out whether she’s
more adaptable than you—more flexible as it were.”

“That’s enough, Julius. You’re speaking of the woman I
love.”

“Very well, but if you don’t even try to play the game,
Charles, you’ll never know what she thinks. In my case,
I’m going to bestir myself to make Lady Grafton’s
acquaintance and see what she thinks.” Lord Darley
smiled. “Thank you, by the way. I never would have come to
this tedious affair without your insistence.”

“And the promise of first bid on Run-To-The-Gold’s next
offspring,” Lambton gruffly noted.

Another flash of perfect white teeth. “That, too. Now if
you’ll excuse me, I’ll see if I can remember any of the
virtuous, Biblical maxims beaten into me by my overzealous
tutors.”