The sound of him, the melody of his voice, hadn’t changed. Even if she were blindfolded, Honora would know the silky tone with its slight rasp of wickedness.
“I like big cats,” Honora replied, her reply more seductive than she intended. “Monkeys are also entertaining. Anacondas I find absolutely riveting.”
A deep rumble came from Southwell’s chest, vibrating down Honora’s body to the apex of her thighs.
“You find me amusing, my lord?”
“I find you intriguing,” Southwell countered.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Montieth interrupted in a bored tone. “Lord Maxwell has just arrived, and I need a word with him.” He made a short bow to both Honora and Emmie before stomping off.
Emmie gave Honora a pointed look. “I’m going for a glass of punch, though I don’t care for it at all. I’ll return momentarily.” She marched off in the direction of the refreshment table.
“Miss Stitch is—” Southwell hesitated. “—delightful.”
It was such an obvious lie Honora nearly giggled. “She doesn’t care for events such as these.”
“I don’t blame her. I don’t find them especially diverting myself.”
“I don’t mind them. I suppose balls and other amusements keep me from becoming lonely. I am a widow, after all.” Honora had used this very same bit of speech on Tarrington. He’d lapped it up like a thirsty dog.
Southwell’s lips twisted as if he was trying not to laugh. He didn’t look at all taken with her practiced words. “I doubt very much that you’re lonely, madam.”
Honora’s fingers tightened against the velvet of her gown. She was lonely. Terribly. Not one gentleman she’d met since Culpepper’s death had produced the slightest interest. Because, ironically, the man before her, the one whose heart she wanted—whether to break it or keep it—was still the only man she felt anything for. Why couldn’t she hate him? Feel the same revulsion for Southwell as she did Tarrington?
“I don’t think you know me well enough to make such an assumption, my lord.”
There it was. The challenge thrown down to know her better. Now was the moment Southwell would ask her if she wished to view the gardens. Or possibly he’d be polite and merely ask to call on her. He’d touch her arm and whisper an innuendo. It was what Tarrington had done. What countless other gentlemen had attempted. But she’d encouraged none of them, save Tarrington.
And now Southwell. Because Honora decided seducing him, then tossing him aside might finally break the strange fascination he held for her.
“I stand corrected, madam. My assumption is solely based on the attention you’ve garnered this evening.” His tone held just the slightest hint of mockery, as if he knew her game plainly but would continue to indulge her by playing along. His gaze, heated like the banked embers of a fire, trailed with agonizing slowness down the length of her form.
The ballroom grew several degrees warmer, or possibly the velvet gown was simply too heavy despite the chill in the air. Honora had assumed she could remain immune to Southwell and his bloody magnificence. The heart beating furiously in her chest told her how very wrong she’d been.
Damn it.
“A dance, Mrs. Culpepper?”
Now that was unexpected. Honora looked to the cane at his side, taking note of the tiny brackets of pain around his lovely mouth. The cane was not an affectation. He was injured. Emmie would have told her to begin the humiliation of Southwell by forcing him to dance.
“I’m afraid,” she said with a toss of her head, trying to sound flippant, “that all my dances are spoken for this evening, Lord Southwell. Another time, perhaps.”
He didn’t look the least put out, almost as if he’d known she would refuse him. “I look forward to it.” Southwell bowed. “Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Culpepper.”
“And you as well, my lord.” She kept the polite, slightly seductive smile on her face as he took his leave, even after he’d hobbled away from her in the direction of the room set aside for cards.
“There was no mistaking his interest,” Emmie said from beside her, a glass of the hated punch clasped in her hand. “Did he remember you as Miss Drevenport?”
“No.” Honora was strangely saddened by that fact. She’d wanted him to. Surely there weren’t dozens of widows roaming about spouting off about South America and cartography. But he hadn’t. After all, she hadn’t been anyone of importance to him then, only the means to win a wager.
She lifted her chin. “He’s interested in me, but I didn’t care to dance with a lame man.”
“Will you try to break his heart? Cast him aside?” A sly smile crossed Emmie’s lips.
Honora smoothed the velvet over her hips, a habit she’d never been able to break, though there were no longer mounds of excess flesh to worry her.
“Yes, Emmie, I think I might.”
