Brook Street: Fortune Hunter by Ava March Page A

Julian well received then it must be fact. Oscar knew Julian had worried about his reception, but the man needn’t have worried. Handsome and charming, and related to a marquis, he was the sort of fellow Society jumped to fawn over. Soon, the day’s post would arrive with invitations addressed not only to Oscar, but to Julian, as well.
    A footman crossed in front of them. Oscar reached out, passing over the brandy to snatch a glass of wine from the servant’s tray. Last night had been more than enjoyable, but after waking with a bit of an aching head, he should keep to wine tonight. Couples moved about the floor, the ladies clad in beautiful gowns, their skirts swooshing with each turn of the waltz. Anderson rounded the corner of the dance floor nearest Oscar and Radcliffe’s spot by the column, a tall buxom blonde in his arms.
    Oscar smiled. The wager was his. That had been none other than Mrs. Hudson with Anderson. If the man was dancing, then he must be hard on the prowl.
    “He seems rather fond of dancing,” Radcliffe said. “That’s the third lady he’s partnered this evening.”
    Oscar’s brow furrowed. He didn’t recall seeing Anderson on the floor with anyone other than Mrs. Hudson. He followed Radcliffe’s line of sight to…Julian.
    So what that Julian was doing his duty? Gentlemen were expected to stand up at functions. Shortly after arriving in Town, Oscar had learned that one’s dance partner didn’t necessarily imply a specific preference, rather just the appearance of it.
    “Even you occasionally dance at a ball,” Oscar said. Radcliffe rarely danced and to Oscar’s knowledge, he did not actually bed women. Yet he had a reputation that rivaled Anderson’s, to the point where mothers warned their young, virginal daughters to steer clear of him. It just proved the unreliability of gossip and rumor.
    “According to Anderson, she has many talents.”
    “She, as in Lady Whitley?”
    Radcliffe nodded once.
    Unease nipped at Oscar’s stomach.
    Radcliffe set his empty glass on the tray of another passing footman. “I’m off to the card room. Care to join me?”
    “Not at the moment. I’ll likely join you later, though,” Oscar said, catching himself just in time and turning the we’ll to an I’ll.
    Once Radcliffe left him, he turned his attention back to Julian.
    Was that polite attention on Julian’s features, or more than the polite attention due a lady during a dance?
    Those lips that had slid down Oscar’s prick not twenty-four hours ago were curved in a smile, his gaze flickering over the shoulder of the woman in his arms as he expertly guided her around the other couples.
    Merely polite attention and nothing more, he reassured himself.
    Still, when the last note of the waltz faded into the din of hundreds of voices, Oscar set off for the opposite side of the parquet floor, toward where Julian stood with Lady Whitley, bowing over her hand.
    He reached Julian’s side just as the man was stepping off the dance floor after surrendering the lady to another gentleman. “I believe I’ve won our wager,” Oscar announced. At the confusion in Julian’s hazel eyes, Oscar nudged his chin toward Anderson leading his latest conquest in the direction of the refreshment table.
    Recollection dawned. “Indeed. It appears as if congratulations are in order. You chose wisely.”
    “More of an educated guess. Unlike you, I had the advantage of knowing the man’s usual variety.” Julian’s gaze drifted over the top of Oscar’s head. “Care to play a hand of cards?” They’d surely find Radcliffe there, but the masculine room filled with only men suddenly held great appeal. He would just be sure to avoid Radcliffe’s table—no way could he sit across from the man, with Julian beside him, without blushing.
    “Not at the moment. I’m engaged for the next dance.”
    Engaged. Even though he knew Julian was simply referring to a dance partner, the word snagged in Oscar’s mind. Unease nipped