Susan snorted. “Lord Heatherbrook’s about forty years younger than that man. Maybe he’s her grandfather. Or Father Christmas, arriving a little early this year.”
Hmmm. Somehow Evangeline doubted Father Christmas shook his cane at cowering countesses while hissing heaven-knew-what under his breath.
Tugging Susan along with a gloved hand, Evangeline turned around and headed down the correct corridor, only to find another couple standing in the center. Whether they too were arguing was anyone’s guess, for their conversation died the moment they caught sight of the two young women.
The man, a rotund ruddy individual with a spotted complexion and a wan smile, melted against the wall to allow them passage. His companion, an over-rouged woman bedecked in a lime green gown, flaxen curls, and a pink plumed hat, stared at them with heavily kohled eyes.
Neither spoke.
At the last possible moment, the man inclined his head in greeting. Evangeline dipped into an awkward walking-curtsy, causing Susan to collide with her for the second time that evening. And then they were around the corner and out of both eyesight and earshot.
“The Rutherfords,” Susan murmured, answering Evangeline’s unasked question. “Benedict Rutherford is Lord Heatherbrook’s younger brother and next in line for the earldom. Francine Rutherford is his wife. Theirs is not a happy marriage.”
Whose was?Evangeline thought, but aloud she asked, “If you know them, why didn’t we stop?”
A flush crept up Susan’s neck. “Lady Rutherford despises me. She’s a petty social climber who never forgave herself for settling on second best. I’m sure Lady Heatherbrook would never have invited me if she had the slightest inkling we—”
This time, Susan was the one to come to a jarring standstill.
Evangeline, having chosen to walk alongside Susan rather than behind her, did not stop, and in fact continued another step or two forward. Until she saw the two things looming directly in front of her.
The first was the dining room. Beyond an open doorway was a long, beautifully carved table adorned with elegant bone china and sparkling crystal goblets. Evangeline had never seen such finery. And she was meant to eat and drink from them?
The second thing to catch her attention was the dark-haired, dark-eyed man lounging negligently against the dining room doorway, wide shoulders leaning against the frame, thumbs hooked casually into his waistband, one polished black boot crossed over the other.
Lioncroft.
He had not failed to notice Evangeline’s proximity, if the sudden heat darkening his eyes was any indication. His gaze slid down her body like warm oil over bare skin, gliding past her unruly mane, to the helpless widening of her eyes, to the erratic pulsing in her throat, to the odd constriction in her bodice, to the flowing silk of her borrowed gown, to the tips of her slippered feet.
And then his gaze retraced its path back up, just as slowly.
Just asinsolently, Evangeline reminded herself, for no gentleman would dare to stare so boldly. His eyebrows lifted in blatant appreciation, and his lips quirked in obvious amusement at her consternation.
The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly. He made no attempt to look away. Was the beastlaughingat her?
Vexed, Evangeline decided to give Mr. Lioncroft a taste of his own rude behavior. She arched her brows in acknowledgment of his smirk before letting her own gaze drink in every facet of his appearance.
The soft hair tumbling across his forehead and down the back of his neck was not black, as she’d first thought, but rather a rich, glossy brown, much the same shade as freshly tilled soil in springtime. Or, she corrected herself darkly, like the sinister hue of a recently dug grave.
His eyes were the same deep brown, although his long lashes and thick brows were both a shade darker. His nose was straight, his chin strong. His skin was pale and unblemished, excepting the faint shadow of hair along his jawline, not quite masking the long thin scar she’d glimpsed earlier. No doubt a memento from a duel, or some other such devilry.
A skillfully creased cravat flowed at his neckline, just above a cream-colored shirt made of a material so smooth and soft it fairly begged for her to run her bare fingertips across its surface.
Not that Evangeline wished to touch Mr. Lioncroft’s chest, to feel the beating of his heart beneath her palm. If he even had a heart.
A perfectly tailored jacket hugged his powerful form just so, emphasizing both his impressive height and the breadth of his shoulders. Breeches stretched over long limbs, outlining the strength and musculature of his legs before disappearing into spotless Hessians.
When she glanced back at his face, he lowered one eyelid in a knowing wink. His slow, lazy smile was devastating. The wicked promise in his gaze had her lungs gasping for air and her skin tingling in anticipation. Her flesh felt heated, her breasts heavy. Her stays suddenly laced too tight.
Even if he hadn’t been a murderer, Evangeline realized with an involuntary gulp, Gavin Lioncroft was exactly the sort of man from whom mamas everywhere protected their virginal young daughters. And the quirk of his full, wide lips suggested he well knew it.
“I’m not ready for a betrothal yet,” came a frantic whisper from somewhere behind Evangeline’s back.
Susan. Good heavens. For a moment, Evangeline had completely forgotten Lady Stanton’s stratagem. And, if Evangeline were honest, Susan’s presence at all.
Luckily for Susan, the rapid heartbeat raging in Evangeline’s chest prevented her from breathing properly, much less screaming like a madwoman about Susan allegedly being compromised before a dining room doorway after the bell had been twice rung. In fact, all Evangeline could do was continue staring helplessly at Mr. Lioncroft.
Who hadn’t yet ceased staring right back.
