Perhaps because you keep stirring the pot.
Thankfully, another voice entered the conversation before Simon could utter that biting retort.
“Lord Calderon?”
He turned to find Ricardo at his elbow. “Yes, Ricardo?”
“Your carriage is here, my lord.”
“Excellent. Thank you.” He turned to Ritz. “If you will pardon me, Monsieur, I have a dinner engagement, and I must go.”
“Of course.”
Their gazes locked, the two men bowed again, then Simon turned away. Passing through the entrance door held open for him by a doorman, he walked into the courtyard, where a driver in elegant livery waited for him beside a carriage with an aristocratic insignia.
“My lord,” the driver greeted, tipping his cap with his left hand as he opened the door with his right. “I’m Reeves, your driver this evening.”
“Reeves. Where are we going?”
He smiled. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but Lady Stratham has instructed me not to tell you. It’s a surprise, she said.”
“Then I shall not attempt to spoil it.”
He stepped into the carriage, settling back against the black leather seat as Reeves closed the carriage door. A few moments later, the vehicle jerked into motion, pulled out of the Savoy courtyard, and began rolling along the Strand. They traveled up Drury Lane, then turned onto New Oxford Street, making for the West End. A short time later, Reeves was opening the carriage door for him in front of a four-story mansion on Park Lane.
Exiting the carriage, Simon walked through a pair of wrought iron gates, across a flagstone courtyard, and up a trio of stone steps, where a tall man in livery was standing by the massive front doors.
“Lord Calderon?” he said with a bow. “I am Hardwicke, the butler here. Lady Stratham is expecting you. This way, please.”
He led Simon through the front doors, across an opulent marble foyer, up a curving staircase, and into a luxuriously appointed drawing room on the first floor, where Delia was waiting for him.
“Lord Calderon, my lady.”
Simon had always prided himself on his discipline and self-control, but when she turned at the sound of his name, his throat went dry and his body began to burn, reminding him with undeniable force why pride so often went before a fall.
9
Dressed in a cashmere gown of vivid cyclamen pink, she stood out against the green walls of the room like an exotic flower on a mossy embankment. Impeccably cut, the soft woolen gown seemed to hug every curve of her figure. Her black hair was piled high atop her head in a riot of curls that looked ready to come tumbling down at any moment, and the way the low neckline clung to her full, round breasts shredded all Simon’s efforts not to think about her without her clothes.
“You came.”
The surprise in her voice forced him out of his reverie, and he drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I wasn’t sure, to be honest,” she confessed as she came toward him. “All week, I’ve been thinking you’d find some excuse to cry off.”
“I would never do such a thing. It wouldn’t be right.”
She halted in front of him, tilting her head a little to one side. “Do you always do what is right?”
“I try to,” he said, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on her face, trying to ignore the erotic scent of her perfume. “That, I daresay, also surprises you.”
“Funnily enough, it doesn’t.” She smiled, the corners of her almond-shaped eyes tipping upward. “Though I expect we might often differ in our definition of what’s right.”
That was probably true and a good reminder for him to keep his wits about him. He glanced around, noting the elegant mahogany furnishings, rich velvet draperies, and gilt-framed paintings. “Whose house is this? Yours?”
“Heavens, no. This is Westbourne’s London residence. At this time of year, the only person on the premises is usually Hardwicke, but I brought a few of Max’s other servants down from Idyll Hour to prepare the dinner and do for us this evening.”
“Idyll Hour?”
