She fought a smile. “Is he?” It had certainly taken Sydney long enough to notice. “He’s probably staring at my shameless gown.”
“I never said it was shameless,” he snapped. “Besides, he’s staring at us both.”
“He is?” When Sydney’s gaze shot to her, she added hastily, “Why would the Earl of Iversley be staring atus?”
“He probably recognizes me—I went to Harrow with the wicked devil. He and his friends were wild and reckless sorts, didn’t study or do anything useful. Iversley was the worst—he never met a rule he didn’t break. And he got away with it because he was heir to an earl.” Sydney’s resentment shone in his face. “We used to call him Alexander the Great. I suppose he’s in London to burn through whatever fortune his late father left to him.”
She stole another peek at Lord Iversley. Anyone who could rouse the amiable Sydney’s ire must be a wicked devil indeed.
And he was staring at her again. Goodness, that frank gaze he skimmed down her gown was quite scandalous, a thrillingly slow appraisal that sucked the breath right out of her. By the time his eyes returned to her face, she was light-headed.
Then he lifted his glass of champagne in a toasting gesture, as if the two of them shared some secret. Like “two larks who alone know the words to their song,” her favorite line from Sydney’s poems.
With a blush, she jerked her gaze away. She was supposed to be coaxing Sydney into offering for her, not gaping at Lord Iversley.
“That dashed blackguard.” Sydney tugged on her arm. “Let’s go this way before he begs an introduction to you. I don’t want you anywhere near him.”
No, indeed. Because if the earl could make her breathless with only a look, imagine what he’d do up close. Probably stop her heart. Clearly, the man had a thorough knowledge of the secrets divulged inThe Rake’s Rhetorick.
“Besides,” Sydney added, “I need to talk to you privately about something.”
Katherine’s heart lifted as Sydney pulled her toward the gallery doors.Thank you, Lord Iversley.Her own hints might not have penetrated Sydney’s usual fog, but a little jealousy was apparently working beyond her wildest dreams.
It was about time.
***
With a scowl, Alec watched his fetching quarry disappear with the blond baronet. Had Lady Jenner been right? Was Miss Merivale nearly engaged to the man? Byrne hadn’t mentioned it.
Alec had wanted to meet the flame-haired female even before he’d learned who she was. Her gown alone distinguished her from her insipid peers. None of that virginal white for Miss Merivale, oh no. She wore scarlet in a pattern with some life to it, like the richly hued costumes Alec used to see in Portugal and Spain.
And to think she was Byrne’s little heiress—how could he be so lucky? Or cursed—the squire’s daughter was now alone on the gallery with that damned Sir What’s-His-Name. If Alec had to choose another heiress after all this, he wasnotgoing to be happy. Because this one already intrigued him. None of the others did.
Setting down his champagne glass, Alec strolled out the gallery doors, then edged down the marble walkway until he could see the couple. Sliding behind a pillar, he lit a cigar and tried to hear their conversation. He didn’t have to try hard.
“Admit it, Kit,” the man said peevishly, “you’re upset because I haven’t made any…well…formal offer for your hand.”
“I’m not upset,” Miss Merivale answered. “I’m sure you have your reasons.”
Her voice, direct and capable yet still feminine, pleased Alec as much as her self-composed words. He couldn’t stand simpering, vacuous women.
“Actually, I do,” her companion said defensively. “For one thing, Mother’s neuralgia has been acting up again, and she—”
“Forgive me, Sydney, but your mother’s neuralgia seems to come and go at her whim. If you delay offering for me until she recovers, my funeral will come before my wedding.” Miss Merivale’s voice dropped so low, Alec had to strain to hear it. “Your mother doesn’t seem to approve of me.”
“It’s not you; it’s your family. She thinks they’re a trifle…well—”
“Vulgar.”
Her whispered word made Alec scowl. By God, how he loathed that term. He’d heard it far too often in his childhood.
“Not vulgar, exactly,” Sydney corrected her. “But Mother never approved of my father’s friendship with yours. Even you must admit that the squire was a coarse and immoral fellow. Not to mention that your mother is rather—”
“Crass. Yes, I’m perfectly aware of my family’s faults.” The woman’s voice held such wounded dignity that Alec winced. “I know what you’re trying to say, and I don’t blame you for deciding we shouldn’t marry.”
“No! That’s not it at all! You know you’re the only woman for me.”
Alec gritted his teeth. Blast. For a moment there, he’d thought—
