The Wickedest Lord Alive by Christina Brooke Read Free Book Online

by the hand. “We must find you partners, and quickly.”
    There were distinct advantages to having the toast of the district as a bosom friend. Before the musicians had struck up for the first set, Clare had filled Lizzie’s commitments by ensuring her own partners were obliged to ask Lizzie to take the floor with them also.
    “How charming to see you this evening, Miss—ah— Allbright .”
    Lizzie turned and saw that a young lady, very finely dressed in pale blue sarcenet, stood behind her.
    Miss Worthington was younger than Lizzie, and they had known each other since Lizzie’s arrival in Little Thurston. Yet, somehow, they had never progressed to first names.
    In fact, Miss Worthington always said “Allbright” with pointed emphasis that reminded Lizzie she was not entitled to the vicar’s name.
    Lizzie curtsied and murmured a greeting and would have turned away, but Miss Worthington said in her bored voice, “I see you are wearing that charming figured muslin again.”
    And I see you are wearing that sour expression again, Lizzie wanted to say. But she bit back the retort, as she always did. Miss Worthington was the daughter of gentry who had lived in this district for centuries. Lizzie Allbright was a foundling and must never be allowed to forget the fact.
    “How kind of you to say so,” she answered, as if Miss Worthington had complimented her rather than pointing out the limitations of her wardrobe.
    “I hear that you have met the newcomers,” observed Miss Worthington, her gaze scanning the crowd. Her fine eyebrows rose. “Stealing a march on the rest of us?”
    “Indeed, no,” said Lizzie. “It was mere chance that I met the gentlemen at Lady Chard’s.”
    Dancing with Lord Lydgate would make Lizzie a target for malice from Miss Worthington and her set. Lizzie knew perfectly well that she might be tolerated and even lauded for her good works, but if it seemed she’d attracted the attention of one of these matrimonial prizes, she’d soon be put in her place.
    Good Heavens, what would they do if they found out the truth? She, plain Lizzie Allbright, was a marchioness. Miss Worthington would probably expire of an apoplexy. A bubble of hysterical laughter caught in Lizzie’s chest. The thought almost tempted her to confess.
    “Do excuse me,” she said hastily before the horrid girl could question her further. “I must check that everything is in order for the dancing.”
    “You are endlessly obliging,” murmured Miss Worthington. “What would we all do without you, Miss Allbright?”
    “Spiteful cat,” remarked Clare as she came up to slip her arm through Lizzie’s and cart her off. “Do not let her bother you. I can see you are all on end.”
    She was flustered, but not over Miss Worthington’s ill-natured comments in particular. The implications of her deception seemed to crowd in on her from every side.
    Lizzie made herself shrug. “If I am not inured to her little barbs by now, I never will be.”
    She expected a far more devastating attack from a different source. Lizzie glanced up at the musicians, who were assembling in the gallery above the ballroom. She could not even take pleasure in the thought of dancing tonight.
    Tom Beauchamp had claimed the supper dance that Steyne wanted, to Lizzie’s relief. Tom was Clare’s brother and a dear friend. He’d fancied himself in love with Lizzie once, but that was many years ago and he’d grown out of it since.
    As for her own feelings, a hasty ceremony and a soulless coupling had ruined her for any other man—and not just in the conventional sense. The knowledge made her want to flay herself for rank stupidity.
    She wanted a family. Children and a household of her own. To expect or even hope for more from Steyne was to engage in air-dreaming.
    “Tom,” said Clare frostily, curtsying as Tom approached. She possessed herself of a nearby masculine arm, which happened to belong to Mr. Perkins.
    “Hello, brat,” said Tom with a wry