Casting one last gaze across the crowded ballroom, deciding she would retreat to the refreshment room if she could not find him, she saw him… and wondered how on earth she could have missed him. He stood by the windows, bathed in golden torchlight, standing out among the guests as if the heavens themselves had illuminated him.
He raised the glass of punch in his hand, flashing her a wink as he caught her eye and sipped. Clearly, he had placed himself there on purpose, knowing how the light would make him appear. It wasalmostimpressive, his attention to detail.
She smoothed her hands down the elaborate beading of her skirts, suddenly feeling foolish again. Had she played right into his trick by wearing the gown? How badly would he relishseeing her do as she was told? She dreaded the thought, already preparing her complaints for when she was closer to him. But, right now, they were a safe ballroom’s width apart.
Licking his lips, he tilted his head to one side, nodding in the direction of the exit.
She frowned, shaking her head in confusion. What was that supposed to mean? It could have meant anywhere.
Rolling his eyes with a smile, he performed a reasonably discreet charade, pushing imaginary spectacles onto the bridge of his nose, pretending to open out a book, nodding along as if the invisible story was very interesting indeed. That done, he tilted his head again, leaving her in no doubt of what he was saying:Meet me in the library.
She swallowed tightly as he downed the contents of his glass and snuck out through the garden doors, leaving her to find her own way to the Croston library.
Alone.
I should fetch Mrs. Mitford,she told herself, already knowing that she would not. This was not a conversation she needed anyone to overhear, even if it meant briefly risking her reputation. Indeed, it would be nothing short of a catastrophe if she was caught with society’s most infamous rake in the library of the biggest gossipmonger the tonhad ever seen.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Valeria looked exactly as Duncan had hoped she would. In truth, if he had been a betting man, he would have wagered most of what he owned on hernotwearing the gown he had sent for her. It would have been a pity, for it was utter perfection: a beaded masterpiece of midnight blue, like the central eye of a peacock’s plumes or the sheen of a raven’s feather.
The entire gown, with capped sleeves and an overlay of brass-toned lace, glittered as she paced back and forth in front of the library fireplace. She had arrived before him, unaware that he was observing through the terrace doors, savoring the sight of her before he made his entrance.
How has no one married her yet? Are society’s gentlemen so blind?He knew the real answer, and it had nothing to do with her appearance, but everything to do with that acid tongue and frosty demeanor of hers. Lesser men did not appreciate a challenge, and greater men had no reason to approach when mothers were shoving their daughters into their paths.
He opened the door and stepped inside, chuckling as she jumped in fright.
“Were you expecting someone else?” he asked. “Do you often meet gentlemen in such clandestine places? Shall I, perhaps, leave the door open?”
She shot him a disapproving look. “The ladiesyoupursue might not flinch at your unannounced arrival, butIwas not expecting you to creep in through the garden. You see, this is entirely new to me—skulking about in darkened corners of other people’s houses.”
He laughed as he strode toward her through the aisle of bookcases. “Are you truly always so severe, or are you occasionally soft?”
Her eyes pinched, as if he had startled her again. “I am… learning to be softer with gentlemen. With my friends, I am considered a delight.”
“Is that so?”
He paused a short distance away, admiring the glimmer of her gown, and the way it shaped her, making the suggestion of a pleasing figure without giving too much away. The style of the day allowed for plenty of imagination, and he had not strayed too far from that in his selection.
“Stop it,” she chided.
“Stop what?”
“Staring at me like that. We are not at a museum; I am not an exhibit to be gawped at.”
He smirked. “I would attend every day if you were.”
“If you cannot be serious, Your Grace, then I shall leave,” she said a note too quickly, her hand moving to her throat, fidgeting with the simple pendant there. “Do you have the list or not?”
With more diligence than he had expended on anything in quite some time, he had spent the last few days compiling the list she had asked for. It was right there in his tailcoat pocket. But seeing her in that gown, hearing her sharp retorts, watching her steel her courage, he no longer felt inclined to hand it over.
He had grown accustomed to ladies falling over themselves to talk to him and be near him. This was… refreshing, a stroke of color in the tedium that had become his existence. To her detriment, perhaps, he found that he did not want to rush the payment of his debt.
“I have been thinking,” he said, wandering around to the fireplace, viewing her from every angle she would allow. “What you need is a tutor, not a matchmaker. True, I could hurl a bunch of names at you, but what good would they be if you are incapable of securing the prize?”
Her eyes flared, her hands clenching into fists. “Excuse me?”
“I observed you just now, in the ballroom.” He circled her again, discreetly closing the gap between them until he passed just behind her.
