And hadn’t Pamela claimed Lady Virtue required his presence here so she could gain suitors? It certainly didn’t appear as if she required any aid in that regard. She had been dancing with a partner since the musicians had struck up their first quadrille. And there she was still dancing now, with that mutton-headed viscount, a thin, gaunt stick of a man who appeared to believe that he could make up for what he lacked in physical attributes with fabric.
He was bloody well wrong about that.
Why was Virtue smiling at Mowbray as they whirled about just now? Was she laughing at something the young vainglorious dandy had just said? Trevor’s brow knitted together as he contemplated them, misgiving swirling in his gut. She was far too lovely and lively for a man like the viscount. He’d probably demand she stop reading books about science. Justlookat him, the self-important weasel.
“It’s a miracle he can even turn his head with those points,” Trevor grumbled.
Would it be too much to hope that a wrong movement would result in one of those shirt points landing in the blackguard’s eye?
“He seems to be turning it rather well at the moment,” the duke pointed out as Mowbray crooked his head toward Lady Virtue in an intimate fashion, allowing him to tell her something that made her smile again.
Disgusted, Trevor cast an irritated glance around the ballroom. Just where in the hell was Pamela? Some chaperone she made, allowing her charge to be flirted with in such leering fashion before everyone who had assembled.
His sister was presently nowhere to be found in the considerable crush.
Tempted to stalk through the revelers and deliver his fist to Mowbray’s eye—only fitting, if his shirt points didn’t prove accommodating enough—Trevor turned back to his host. “When is this confounded reel at an end?”
“Her Grace would know better than I,” the duke said cheerfully, grinning like a fool at a point beyond Trevor’s shoulder. “And here she comes now. My love, the Duke of Ridgely is wondering when this cursed reel will be at an end.”
The Duchess of Montrose approached, all glittering diamonds and a swirl of gossamer in celestial blue. She was dark-haired and lovely, with eyes only for her husband. The look passing between the two of them—a shared amusement, as if they alone were privy to some manner of secret joke—nettled. He couldn’t deny it. Few displays rendered him as bilious as a couple so hideously in love.
It seemed to be a catching sort of disease. His own close friend and fellow former spy, Logan Sutton, was also terribly afflicted by it.
The duchess took her place at Monty’s side, offering Trevor a welcoming smile. “How good it is of you to honor us with your presence. I was so pleased when Lady Deering said you would be present this evening. Having my husband’s friends in attendance is always a feather in my cap.”
He offered a bow in deference. “The honor is mine, Your Grace.”
In truth, he was only here because Pamela had demanded it of him. But no need to be graceless and mention that aloud. On occasion, he could be polite. A gentleman, even.
“To answer your question, I believe the reel is ending now,” the duchess said, a knowing smile on her lips. “It looks as if your lovely ward is about to part ways with Viscount Mowbray. I took note of you watching them as I approached. They make a fine couple, do they not? Young Mowbray is such a pleasant gentleman.”
Devil take it, had everyone been watching him? Did nothing go unnoticed? Clearly, his awareness and observational skills had suffered since he had left the Guild.
“If one considers insipid dandies with shirt points in their eyes pleasant,” he said, quite forgetting his intention to be a gentleman.
Already.
But the dancers were indeed dispersing, and he needed to speak with Lady Virtue. He was not about to allow her to marry herself off to a fop whose only concern was for the cut of his coat.
“Ah,” the duchess said, a wealth of meaning in her arch tone. “You do not approve of the match, then? I had understood you were hoping for Lady Virtue to wed this Season.”
Did all thetonknow his personal affairs so well, or was it merely the wives of his friends?
Yes, he would have affirmed mere days ago in answer to the Duchess of Montrose’s questions.I am indeed hoping to marry the chit off.It cannot happen soon enough!But he was willing to admit—quite grudgingly, and never to another—that over the course of the time Lady Virtue had been in residence and in his care, something had altered. He no longer thought of her as quite the towering burden he once had. The chit was intelligent and fiery and, in his estimation quite rare. He’d never met another like her. And she damned well deserved better than Viscount Mowbray as her husband.
This opinion, he told himself firmly, had absolutely nothing to do with the kisses they’d shared that morning. Nothing at all. He’d kissed dozens of women in his day, and all of them had understood what a kiss was. Never had he needed to show a woman the proper way of it.
Even if that demonstration had been the single most erotic experience of his life.
Trevor cleared his throat, his gaze shifting to the dance floor, where his ward was fast disappearing into the crush of glittering lords and ladies. “Let us say that I merely wish for her to make the best decision for a lady of her nature. She has an inquisitive mind, you see. I cannot imagine her leg-shackled to a man whose chief concern appears to be the knot on his cravat.”
“How thoughtful of you,” the Duchess of Montrose commented with politic restraint.
“Thoughtful is one word for it,” said her husband with considerably less tact, chuckling.
Where the devil had Virtue gone? A dowager’s turban had obstructed his view for one moment, and now she was gone. If she was sneaking away to further her kissing lessons with Viscount Dandy, it very well could call for fisticuffs. Soames had carefully arranged Trevor’s hair to cover the bruise on his forehead, and he was reasonably certain he wouldn’t need to fear earning more should he clash with the viscount. The only bruised and bloodied man betwixt the two of them would be Lord Foppish Shirt Points.
“If you will excuse me, Montrose, Duchess?” he asked, his gaze fixed upon the throng of guests, his ward still nowhere to be seen.
