“Another victim on your list? Have you, at the very least, spoken to this one before?”
Rhys shot her a dark glance. “Yes, I have, and she was very pleasant. So, if you are ready…?”
Although she had dressed for an evening out, she’d actually considered remaining at home to wait for Gray. But that would be foolish. He obviously wished her to go, since he went to such lengths to see her escorted. She was not a young girl any longer, nor naïve. It should not bother her one whit that Grayson had spent hours finding pleasure in her body, only to leave her behind for the evening. A mistress would find nothing untoward, she told herself.
And she continued to remind herself of that fact as the course of the evening progressed. But when she caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the crowded Hammond ballroom, the knowledge was discarded. Mistress or not, a knot formed in her belly, only to be quickly replaced by a cold flare of anger.
“Lord Spencer Faulkner is here,” Rhys noted casually, as the young man entered the ballroom just a few feet away from where they stood along the edge of the dance floor.
“So he is.” But Grayson was not. So he had lied to her. Why was she surprised?
She studied her brother-in-law carefully, noting both the similarities to her husband and the differences. Unlike her close resemblance to Rhys, Gray and Lord Spencer had only a passing physical familiarity, which gave her a small glimpse of what their father must have looked like.
As if he felt her perusal, Spencer turned his head and met her gaze. For one brief, unguarded heartbeat she saw something decidedly unpleasant, and then it was shielded with studious impassivity.
“Well, well,” Rhys murmured. “I believe we have finally met a man who is truly immune to your charms.”
“You saw that?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” His gaze raked the throng before them. “I can only hope that you and I were the only ones who—Good God!”
“What?” Alarmed by his shock, Isabel rose to her toes and looked around. Was it Gray? Her heart raced. “What is it?”
Rhys thrust his champagne at her with such haste the sloshing liquid nearly overwhelmed the flute, which would have ruined her satin gown. “Excuse me.” And then he was off, leaving Isabel blinking after him.
Rhys followed the trim form that weaved easily through the guests. Almost as if she were a wraith, she went by unnoticed, an unremarkable woman wearing an unremarkable dress. But Rhys was arrested. He knew that dark hair. He had dreamt of that voice.
She left the ballroom, and moved swiftly down the hall. He followed. When she exited the manse through a study door, he gave up any effort to hide his pursuit and he caught the knob just as it swung away from him. Her small, piquant face tilted up to his, the wide eyes blinking.
“Lord Trenton.”
He stepped out onto the terrace, and shut out the sounds of the ball with a click of the latch. Sketching a short bow, he caught up her gloved hand and kissed the back of it. “Lady Mystery.”
She laughed, and his grip tightened. Her head angled to the side in what looked to be puzzlement. “You find me attractive, don’t you? But you cannot reason why. Quite frankly, I am equally puzzled.”
A soft chuckle escaped him. “Will you allow me to investigate a little?” He bent slowly, giving her time to pull away before he brushed his lips across hers. The soft touch affected him strangely, as did her scent, which was so soft it was a mere hint in the cool night air. “I think a few experiments might be in order.”
“Oh my,” she breathed. Her free hand moved to shelter her stomach. “That just gave me a little flutter right here.”
Something warm expanded in his chest, and dropped to settle between his legs. She was not his type of female at all. Mousy. A bluestocking. Certainly he found her discourse refreshing in its frankness, but why he wished to toss up her skirts was a matter he could not reconcile. She was too slender for his tastes, and lacked the full womanly curves he appreciated. Still, he could not deny that he wanted her, and he wanted to know her secrets. “Why are you out here?”
“Because I prefer here to there.”
“Walk with me, then,” he murmured, tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow and leading her away.
“Will you flirt shamelessly with me?” she asked as she fell into step beside him. They found a winding garden path and strolled. The way was unlit so they progressed slowly.
“Of course. I will also discover your name before we part.”
“You sound so certain of that.”
He smiled down into her moonlit eyes. “I have my ways.”
She harrumphed skeptically. “You shall have fun matching wits with me.”
“I’ve no doubt your brain is formidable, but that is not the part of you I would use my wiles on.”
She gave a chastising push to his shoulder with her free hand. “You are wicked to speak thusly to a woman of my inexperience. You are making me light-headed.”
Rhys winced, slightly chagrined. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” Her hand brushed across where she had touched him a moment before and his blood heated, his step faltered. How could the brush of a gloved hand over the material of his coat and sleeve arouse him?
“Is this sort of bantering the way men speak to women they feel an intimacy with? Lady Grayson laughs often at things that are said to her by men I find to be quite dull.”
Coming to an abrupt halt, Rhys glared down at her.
“I meant no offense!” she said quickly. “In fact, Lady Grayson is a woman I find to be multifaceted in only the most flattering sense.”
Studying her carefully, he concluded she was sincere and began walking again. “Yes, once you become friends with a member of the opposite sex and you are comfortable with them, your conversation can become intimate.”
“Sexually intimate?”
“Oftentimes, yes.”
“Even though the end goal is not sexual, merely for temporary amusement?”
“You are a curious kitten.” His smile was indulgent. To think that such a mundane act as flirtation could become exciting when seen through her eyes. He wished he could sit for hours with her and answer all of her questions.
“I’m afraid I lack the knowledge required to banter in the manner to which you are accustomed. So I hope you forgive me when I just ask you outright to kiss me.”
He stumbled, scattering the gravel on the path. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me, my lord.” Her chin lifted. “I would very much like you to kiss me.”
“Why?”
“Because no one else ever will.”
“Why not? You underestimate yourself.”
Her smile was impish and filled him with delight. “I estimate myself just fine.”
“Then certainly you know that another man will kiss you.” Even as he said it, Rhys realized how deeply the thought disturbed him. Her lips were soft as rose petals and sweetly plump. They had cushioned his when he kissed her, and he found them to be the prettiest lips he’d ever seen. The image in his mind of another man sampling them made his fists clench.
“Another man may like to, but he won’t.” She stepped forward, and rose to her tiptoes, offering her mouth to him. “Because I will not allow him to.”
Against his will, Rhys caught her to him. She was slender as a reed, her curves slight, but she fit to him. He held still for a moment, absorbing that fact.
“We fit,” she breathed, her eyes wide. “Is that usual?”
He swallowed hard and shook his head, lifting one hand to cup her cheek. “I’ve no notion what to do with you,” he admitted.
“Just kiss me.”
Rhys bent his head, hovering only a hair’s breadth away. “Tell me your name.”
“Abby.”
He licked her lower lip. “I want to see you again, Abby.”
“So we can hide in gardens and be scandalous?”
What could he say? He knew nothing about her, but her attire, her age, and t
he fact that she ran about unescorted told him of her lack of consequence. It was time to marry, and she was not a woman he could court.
Her smile was knowing. “Just kiss me and say good-bye, Lord Trenton. Be content that you have given me the fantasy of a handsome, dashing suitor.”
Words failed him, so he kissed her, deeply and with feeling. She melted into him, became breathless, gave a soft whimper that stole his wits. He wanted to take liberties with her. Strip her bare, share with her all the things he knew, see the sexual act as she would, with wonder.
So when she left him in the garden, the farewell he should have spoken would not come. And later, when he returned to the manse with a sham exterior of normalcy, he realized she had not said it either.
Chapter 12
“How interesting that she should arrive without Grayson,” Barbara murmured, her hand tucked lightly over Hargreaves’ arm. Turning her head, she perused the throng again.
“Perhaps he intends to join her later,” the earl replied, with far more nonchalance than she would like. Should he suddenly decide he no longer wanted Isabel Grayson, she would be alone in her attempts to lure Grayson back to her bed.
She released him and stepped back. “Trenton has left her side. Now would be the time to approach her.”
“No.” He shot her an arch look. “Now is not the time. Think of the talk that would ensue.”
“Gossip is our aim,” she argued.
“Grayson is not a man to be toyed with.”
“I agree, but neither are you.”
Hargreaves stared across the ballroom, his narrowed gaze arrested by his former love.
“Look how morose she is,” Barbara goaded. “Perhaps her decision is one she already regrets. But you will never know if you don’t speak with her.”
It was this last thought that garnered the results she wanted. With a muttered oath, Hargreaves moved away, his broad shoulders squared in determination.
She smiled and turned in the opposite direction, seeking and then finding the young Lord Spencer. Feigning an attempt to move past him, Barbara brushed her breasts along his forearm and when he turned to her with wide eyes, she blushed.
“I do apologize, my lord.” She looked up at him through her lashes.
He offered an indulgent smile. “No apologies necessary,” he said smoothly, catching up her proffered hand. He moved to step out of her way, but she held tight. He arched a brow. “My lady?”
“I would like to reach the drink tables, but the crush is rather daunting. And I am so very parched.”
His half smile was knowing. “I would be honored to offer my services.”
“How gallant of you to come to my aid,” she said, falling into step beside him. She studied him furtively. He was quite handsome, though in not the same way as his older sibling. Grayson had a dangerous edge that could not be ignored, despite his outward appearance of insouciance. Lord Spencer’s nonchalance, however, was not a façade.
“I endeavor to make myself useful to beautiful women as often as possible.”
“How fortunate for Lady Grayson to have two such dashing Faulkner men at her beck and call.”
His arm stiffened beneath her gloved touch and she could not hold back her smile. Something was amiss in the Grayson household, a circumstance that could only work to her advantage. She would have to ply the youngest Faulkner with her wiles to discover what the issue was, but that was a prospect she found most appealing.
With a quick glance over her shoulder to be certain Hargreaves had gone to Isabel Grayson, Barbara wiggled her shoulders in anticipation and determined to enjoy the rest of Lord Spencer’s evening.
“Isabel.”
John halted a discreet distance away. His gaze raked her from head to toe, taking in the pearls weaved through her auburn tresses and her lovely dark green gown, the deep color of which set off her creamy porcelain skin to perfection. Her three-strand choker of pearls did an admirable job of attempting to hide the faint bruising around her neck, but he took note of it nevertheless. “Are you well?”
Her smile was both fond and sad. “As well as can be expected.” She canted her body toward him. “I feel dreadful, John. You are a good man who deserved to be treated better than I have treated you.”
“Do you miss me?” he dared to ask.
“I do.” Her amber gaze met his directly. “Though perhaps not in the way that you might miss me.”
His mouth curved. As always, he admired her candor. She was a woman who spoke without artifice. “Where is Grayson this evening?”
Her chin lifted slightly. “I will not discuss my husband with you.”
“Are we no longer friends, then, Pel?”
“We certainly will not be if your aim is to pry into my marriage,” she snapped. And then she blushed, her gaze dropping.
He opened his mouth to apologize, then stopped. Isabel’s ill-humor had grown more and more frequent as their affair progressed. He now began to wonder if their relationship had been winding down prior to Grayson’s return and he had simply been too dense to realize it.
Releasing a deep breath, he attempted to turn his thoughts inward in consideration of this possibility. However, a sudden disturbance and Pel’s subsequent stiffness beside him drew his attention. He looked up and found the Marquess of Grayson standing across the room. Grayson’s gaze was first riveted on Isabel, then it moved to rest on him.
Chilled by that stare, John shivered. Then Grayson turned away.
“Your husband has arrived.”
“Yes, yes. I know. Excuse me.”
She had already traveled a short distance from him when he remembered Barbara’s plan. “I will escort you to the terrace, if you like.”
“Thank you,” she replied with a nod that set her fiery curls in motion. He had always loved her hair. The combination of dark chocolate and reddish glints was striking.
The sight of it was almost enough to distract him from the icy blue gaze piercing between his shoulder blades.
Almost.
“Grayson!”
Gerard stared after his wife and tried to discern her disgruntlement. She was quite obviously put out by something he’d done, though he had no notion of what it could be. However, he was not surprised. Aside from his afternoon of wondrously satisfying bedsport, the rest of his day had been hellish.
He heaved a sigh and turned away. “Yes, Bartley?”
“It appears your brother was serious when he mentioned coming here. He arrived over an hour past and according to the footman stationed at the door, he has yet to depart.”
Looking back over the crush, Gerard failed to see Spencer anywhere, but he watched as Isabel stepped onto a crowded outer terrace with Hargreaves. He wished he could speak with her, but he’d learned it was best to tackle one problem at a time, and Spencer was the graver issue at the moment. He trusted Pel. He could not say the same for his hotheaded brother.
“I shall start with the card room,” he murmured, grateful to have run into Bartley as the man was exiting Nonnie’s Tavern. This ball was the last place he would have searched for Spencer.
“Is that not Hargreaves with Lady Grayson?” Bartley asked, scowling.
“Yes.” Gerard turned away.
“Should you not say something to him?”
“What would I say? He is a good man and Isabel a sensible woman. Nothing untoward will happen.”
“Well, even I know that,” Bartley said with a laugh. “And how like you not to pay any mind. But if you are serious about courting your wife, I would suggest at least the pretense of jealousy.”
Gerard shook his head. “Ridiculous. And I am certain Pel would say the same.”
“Women are odd creatures, Gray. Perhaps there is something about the fairer sex I know that you do not,” Bartley chortled.
“I doubt that.” Gerard moved away to find the card room. “You say my brother was only slightly out of sorts?”
“So it seemed to me. However, he is certainly aware of my frien
dship with you. That might have sufficed to keep his mouth shut on the matter.”
“One can only hope he showed such discretion all evening.”
Bartley followed fast on his heels. “What will you do when you find him?”
Gerard came to a halt, easily absorbing the impact of Bartley against his back.
“What the devil?” Bartley mumbled.
Turning, Gerard said, “The search will progress far more swiftly if we part ways.”
“Won’t be near as fun.”
“I am not here to have fun.”
“How will I find you, if I manage to find him?”
“You will manage, clever chap that you are.” Gerard continued on, leaving Bartley behind. The starch in his cravat was chafing, Pel was close and yet so far away, the upcoming confrontation with his brother weighed heavily…Altogether, his mood was not the most charitable.
And as his search lengthened, his mood only grew worse.
Isabel stepped onto the crowded balcony and attempted to ignore how Grayson’s cut had wounded her. She thought it would be a difficult task, but as she spied a familiar head of graying hair, her thoughts were immediately directed elsewhere. She sighed. Releasing Hargreaves, she said, “We should part ways now.”
Following her gaze, he nodded and quickly retreated, leaving her to make her approach to the Dowager Countess of Grayson. The older woman met her halfway and linked arms, leading her away from the other guests.
“Have you no shame?” the dowager whispered.
“Do you truly expect me to reply?” Isabel retorted. Four years and she still had not learned to tolerate the woman.
“How a woman of your breeding can show so little concern for the title she bears is beyond my collection. Grayson has always done his best to irritate me, but marriage to you is beyond the pale.”
“Can you please find something new to harp about?” Shaking her head, Isabel pulled away. Now that they were no longer in sight of anyone, the pretense of familiarity could be dropped. The dowager’s fervent desire to maintain the esteem of the Grayson name and lineage was understandable, but the manner in which she sought to achieve her aim was not one Isabel could champion.