Chapter 3
Grayson saw her as soon as she entered the room. She looked exactly the same as she had a year ago. Those dark honey-gold curls bobbed tantalizingly about creamy shoulders. And she dazzled the room with a confident smile. The last time he’d seen her, her eyes had filled with tears, her chin had dropped to her chest, and she’d ran from the room and from his life.
She’d valiantly, stupidly, jilted him, and he’d let her. More idiot him. If he’d taken the time to swim through the fog of grief he’d been drowning in, he’d have seen sooner—immediately—that she’d wanted him to stop her. But he’d not, and he’d missed his chance.
Across the room, she laughed, and he not only heard it, he felt it down the entire length of his spine and into his toes. He tapped his boot, trying to shake out the feeling, but still could not resist peeking at her.
She spoke to Lady Collington with her entire body, flipping her wrists, tilting her head, her elegant feet dancing in place as she laughed at the conversation. Those fingers, the slim ankles peeking from beneath the hem of her dress, the slight yet full curves of her body—they all sent lust spiraling through him. Attending the house party had definitely been a bad idea. A catastrophic idea.
But he couldn’t avoid it; he needed the necklace.
And the woman who had it stood within sight.
But quickly slipped out of it! She and Miss Cavendish followed Lady Collington out into the garden, presumably to the swinging path of lanterns leading to the revelries on the lawn. But Henrietta stopped in the doorway, waving the others on, and knelt to inspect her gown’s hem. The fabric pulled up, offering him a glimpse of her shapely ankle.
She frowned, her entire body a mass of frustration, then stood and, before moving into the dark, looked directly at him.
Her eyes slammed into his like a bolt of lightning.
He took a step toward her, as if pulled by her gaze, then she disappeared into the shadows.
“Hell,” he hissed under his breath.
“Did you speak, my lord?” Lady Willow blinked up at him.
“No, no. I mean yes. Nothing of import. Sorry to disturb you.” His thoughts skittered along the garden path behind Henrietta. She’d be alone, the others far ahead of her. She afforded him a perfect opportunity. He needed a covert conversation with her, and the shadowy garden provided the ideal location.
He glanced across the room at the Duke of Valingford, who occupied a chair in the corner, surrounded by a small group of equally angular and dour-looking men. He seemed engrossed. Good. But what about Lady Willow and her mother? Would they notice if he snuck off? Less than a foot from his right ear, the duchess yammered on about some ailment while Lady Willow repeated, “Yes, Mama” and “No, Mama” without hearing a word her mother said. Neither of them paid him the least bit of attention, leaving him free to flinch with each high-pitched syllable.
And to covertly disappear. He scooted a foot away. Did they notice?
Lady Willow’s eyes cut into him, though she remained facing her mother.
Hell. He’d been caught. But her mother held her captive, and she could do nothing about his retreat, not that she would. He scooted another foot.
Lady Willow’s hand shot out and pulled him back. Well, surprising, that. And a bit brazen. And completely uncharacteristic.
“Yes, Mama,” Lady Willow echoed before leaning close and hissing. “Going somewhere, my lord?”
Grayson winced. “I, um.” He cleared his throat and pulled at his ever-constricting cravat.
“Willow!” Her mother’s voice sliced between them, and they swung to attention like soldiers.
“Yes, Mama?” Lady Willow’s voice drained of its previous pertness.
“Remove your hand from Lord Rigsby’s person this instant.” The duchess never looked down at the point where her daughter’s hand clutched Grayson’s forearm. How had she known?
Lady Willow let go of his arm immediately.
“My lord,” the duchess crooned, “my daughter can be impetuous.”
Lady Willow? Impetuous? He’d not seen a single sign of that particular personality trait in the last few months he’d spent courting her. Perhaps she had hidden depths. Shehadgrabbed his arm and hissed a challenge. He peeked at his almost fiancée, searching.
She blinked twice, her doll eyes blank and glassy.
No hidden depths, then. He must have imagined it.
“You’ll have to excuse her,” the duchess said. “You can rest assured she will remain passive and submissive in all matrimonial, ahem, relations.”
