“What an unforgiving view you take of your fellow man.”
“Come, Miss Danby.” He leaned back in his seat and cocked his head, studying her. “You run a business that you’ve told me you attend every night of the week except Mondays. You now aspire to write a book, as well. Our acquaintance has been brief, but you strike me as a woman who likes to keep herself occupied. Surely you can’t tell me you find time to keep pace with the events of the social season on top of all this?”
“Well…” Della’s face grew hot, as if she’d been caught out in a fib. “I suppose I have been forced to decline a number of invitations since we opened our doors.” She thought of how long it had been since she’d seen Miss Chatterjee, or any of her old friends. It was hard to maintain connections when she missed so many of the routs and balls they attended while she was at Bishop’s. “But I still make my morning calls whenever I can, and besides, missing a dinner party or two doesn’t mean I don’t have fun. All my endeavors are things that I love. So I’m always enjoying myself.”
He smiled at this. It was his first real smile of the evening.
“I’ve no doubt that you do.”
Might she be winning him over, at least a little? He seemed more relaxed in her presence than he had been at their Tuesday meetings. Perhaps the change in setting did him some good, notwithstanding his proclaimed aversion to fun.
Della still wasn’t persuaded he was being completely honest with her—or with himself, more likely. No one could live without some joy in their days.
“Don’t you love writing?” she asked. She took another sip of sherry cobbler and savored the feeling of citrus at the back of her cheeks. “You must, to have produced three books and be working on a fourth. And you must love seeing new places, or you wouldn’t have chosen the subject.”
Lord Ashton seemed to need a moment to consider his reply. His lips parted the barest touch, without forming words. When he spoke, Della wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to himself. “I suppose I did love traveling when I was younger. Discovering new places, as you say. But I’m not sure if I can say that Ilovewriting. More that it’s something I’m good at, and it seemed a way to make myself useful when I needed that.”
There was something like a confession in the way he presented this information, though Della felt as though she didn’t quite understand him. Why should a viscount need a hobby to feel useful? In her experience, peers usually considered themselves useful simply by virtue of being born.
And then there was the more pressing question: “But how can you spend so much time on something unless you love it?”
“I just sit down and apply myself to the task.” Ashton shrugged, as though this were perfectly ordinary and not a feat approaching sorcery.
“For three entire books? I can’t imagine working that long on something unless I feel a passion for it.”
“You’re a more passionate person than I am, perhaps.” He said the words almost affectionately. Or was that only wishful thinking on her part? She would swear that she’d caught his eyes skimming appreciatively over her gown just now.
I could teach this man a thing or two about passion if I had the chance, Della mused, eyeing him in the darkened room. She liked the way he was speaking to her this evening. His voice had a naturallycommanding quality to it. Though this had annoyed her at their first meeting, she’d soon come to enjoy it, particularly when any coldness in his tone was chased away by good humor. The gaslight above them made the gray at Lord Ashton’s temples shine with silver and set his features into stark relief. Though she had always admired his looks, he was at a particular advantage tonight. The lighting lent him an air of mystery, or perhaps that was the result of their conversation, which had begun to feel rather intimate. His perfectly tailored clothes skimmed the planes of the firm body beneath. She wanted very much to reach out and touch him. To feel the heat of his skin beneath her own.
You really shouldn’t.The more reasonable part of Della’s mind often adopted a tone that was very similar to Jane’s.You still have most of a book to write. How will you manage that if he rejects you and you’re too embarrassed to show your face again?
But the less reasonable (and far stronger) part of Della’s mind had its counterargument ready: First, she was perfectly capable of writing her guidebook without Lord Ashton’s help. If he stopped calling on her, she would simply manage on her own as she’d intended from the start. Second, it was apparent that Lord Ashton was far too proper to make any advance toward her, even if he did feel an attraction. The only way she could be sure how he felt was to signal her interest too clearly to be ignored. And third (here was the most important part), she wanted very, very much to make her cold, aloof viscount melt into a helpless puddle of desire at her feet.
In fact, she could think of nothing that would please her better this evening. The matter was decided.
Seven
The band’s song reached a crescendo and faded into silence, the last hum of the instruments soon replaced by applause. A few more people filed upstairs, and Lyman eyed them nervously. How long would it be before they encountered someone who knew him? Miss Danby’s disguise wouldn’t fool anyone who looked too closely.
Lyman wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to come here.
He also wasn’t sure why he hadn’t called Miss Annabelle back from the balcony railing, which was far too conspicuous a vantage point, except that Miss Danby had been distracting him all evening. It was altogether too easy to lose track of himself in her company.
He should call her sister back now. Before he came to regret it.
Lyman opened his mouth, then realized they hadn’t agreed on a false name for the girl beforehand. He couldn’t very well shout out “Miss Annabelle,” nor even the more masculine “Danby,” lest someone recognize it. Before he could rise from his seat to collect her in person, the conductor turned to address the crowd below in a booming voice.
“And now,” he cried, raising his arms up high, “we present to you,Madame Wharton and her tableau vivant!”
Oh no.
Lyman hadn’t thought to check the playbill for the evening. The last time he’d been here, in the first weeks of the casino’s opening, it had only been music and dancing. They must be expanding their attractions to compete with all the imitators that had sprung up to steal a share of their success.
He turned to murmur in Miss Danby’s ear and found her so close to him that he froze. Their knees were touching. “We should go,” he said.
“But I love tableaux vivants. Annabelle and I did one at our parents’ May Day party.” She didn’t seem conscious of how alluring she was in that gown. It was a struggle to keep himself from staring.
“Not like this, you didn’t,” he warned her. “I strongly suspect Madame Wharton won’t be wearing much.”
