“Damn, I completely forgot. I will. No sense in him making a fool of himself again.”
“Where is Sir Sebastian?” Lucia asked. “I’ve rarely seen you without him, Lord Dewhurst.”
“He is, well, he is—” Dewhurst opened his mouth, closed it and glanced at Alex. Selbourne raised a brow.
“In the country!” Dewhurst said, looking every bit the naughty child trying to wheedle his way out of a sticky situation.
“In the country, my lord?” Lucia smiled silkily. If only Dewhurst knew how often she’d been that naughty child. His tricks weren’t going to work with her. “But I saw Sir Sebastian at the duke’s ball last night.”
Dewhurst’s face fell. “Yes, well, he—dash it!—I knew that story wouldn’t work!”
“I think that what Lord Dewhurst is trying to avoid telling you, Miss Dashing,” Alex said, and Lucia admired him for coming to his friend’s aid. “Is that at this moment Sir Sebastian is probably in the bed of Lady Randall.”
Lucia’s mouth dropped open. “But—but—she’s married!”
He grinned. “I warned you, sweetheart. If you insist upon furthering this intimate connection with me”—his eyes warmed, and Lucia felt her stomach flip in response—“you’ll undoubtedly find that some of my . . . associates display an appalling lack of propriety. A vice, I fear, I am often guilty of myself.” He winked at her.
Lucia sat up straighter. The rake! Well, she could play at world-weariness, too. “No matter.” She waved her hand in a gesture she hoped conveyed a suitable degree of ennui. “I was only surprised because Lady Randall seemed so happy.”
Alex snorted. “Lord Randall is over sixty. I think there may be areas where her husband . . . does not rise to the occasion?”
“Oh!” Lucia felt her face heat and lowered it, knowing she must be crimson to the roots of her hair. Her eyes bored holes into the pattern of her dress. She heard Dewhurst attempting to cover his laughter with a cough.
“Then you’ll speak to him?” Dewhurst finally choked out.
Alex nodded. “Lady Randall and I are . . .” He glanced at Lucia. “Acquainted. She’s not worth Middleton making a fool of himself.”
Lucia felt like throwing something at the gloating rake. Instead she said icily, “Lord Selbourne, is there any woman in London—nay, in the country—you aren’t acquainted with?”
He raised a brow. “You.”
She clenched her fists in restrained anger. “Horrid man. Don’t even talk to me.”
“I only meant that Middleton falls in love once a month and walks about in a daze for weeks proclaiming his undying devotion. The puppy looks a complete fool.”
“I assure you that the ladies don’t think so. We think he’s romantic.”
“Really?” Dewhurst’s eyes lit up with interest.
Alex gave him a quelling look. “I’m sure you do, but he’s still a fool.”
“Why?” Lucia knew she was annoying him almost as much as he annoyed her, but he’d intrigued her with his comment. He’d offended her as well. Why was falling in love foolish?
“Miss Dashing,” Dewhurst answered for Alex. “Selbourne thinks any man in love is a fool. He doesn’t believe in love.”
Alex frowned but didn’t object.
“Now I, on the other hand—”
“Middleton is not in love,” Alex interrupted. “He’s in lust, and it’ll soon pass.”
Lucia huffed. “You don’t know that. Have you ever been in love, Lord Selbourne?”
His gaze met hers, and she blinked innocently. Dewhurst coughed, “Perhaps I should get out here?”
Lucia merely stared at Selbourne. She’d asked the question to prove a point, to get the better of him, but now she was curious as to his response. What of Alex’s French mistress? Could he be in love with her? He didn’t act like a man in the throes of such a passionate emotion.
“I could ask you the same question, Miss Dashing,” Alex said finally, still not breaking eye contact.
