Ah, her small insult had found its aim.
Her lips twitched. “Nor so wise, one might argue, and quite reasonably, too.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you possess the impertinence of a hundred men?”
A compliment, she was sure.
“Oddly, no.”
“Come with me, o troublesome ward.” He extended his arm to her, every bit the gentleman he looked.
She eyed him dubiously. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the ballroom. We will dance, and if my sister is correct, you will be swarmed with a host of suitors.” His tone was grim. “Suitors who are far more worthy of you than young Mowbray.”
Dancing with Ridgely sounded dangerous. She feared she would like it far too much. But she rather supposed she had begun her attack this evening. In matters of battle, it was often prudent to allow the enemy to believe he had gained the upper hand before mounting an offensive strike.
She took his arm. “If we must.”
He grumbled something unintelligible beneath his breath. “Indeed, we must.”
CHAPTER7
Trevor woke in the darkness of the early-morning hours to the softsnickof a door closing and the rustle of linen. He rose into a sitting position, searching through the darkness. His first thought was that it must be Virtue. He’d been dredged from the depths of a dream about her. He’d been chasing her in a meadow, of all places. She’d been flitting away, forever beyond his reach, the tinkling music of her laughter taunting him, her hair a dark, wispy cloud behind her as she ran, barefoot through a field of forget-me-nots.
There was an odd heaviness in his chest as he jolted from that dream, the feelings it had inspired still very much real. Longing for her, desperate longing. Love. In the dream, he’d been in love with her. The feeling had been there, sure. And he’d thought to himself that he understood why Monty had looked so mawkish when gazing upon his duchess. That it all made sense.
Christ.
“Virtue, is that you?” he demanded into the shadows, his eyes examining the muck of the night for her familiar form.
And that was when his old instincts as a spy instantly woke him up, taking the helm of the ship.
For the shadow was far too tall, moving across the chamber, into the faint glow produced by the remaining fire in the grate. Wide shoulders, the gait of a man.
The trespasser was not his ward. And there wasn’t anyone in the household sufficiently near to offer him assistance. Soames kept his own room, and the only people close enough were Pamela and Virtue. He didn’t dare alert the most vulnerable members of his household to the presence of a thief—or worse. No, he would have to defend himself and his women as well.
Fucking hell.
“Must have been a dream,” he murmured aloud, as if to himself, hoping to lull the intruder into the false hope that he wasn’t lucid.
The shadow had halted, standing as a silent sentinel halfway across the room, so still and quiet that Trevor might have believed he had imagined the bastard. But he knew better. He laid his head back upon the pillow with a sleepy yawn that was also feigned, pretending to stretch and alter his position on the bed as he made a show of pulling at the counterpane.
As he did so, he kept his eyes carefully slanted in the direction of the shadow. The nearest object to a weapon that he possessed was a candlestick on the table by his bed. He’d have to allow the villain to get close enough so that he could defend himself.
And pray the bastard didn’t have a pistol on him.
Trevor’s fingers found the cool ormolu and he grasped the thankfully substantial weight of the candlestick. Another swift movement, and he had his weapon hidden beneath the counterpane, ready.
He feigned sleep breathing, remaining still in an effort to lull the intruder into the belief that he had fallen back into slumber and would thus be vulnerable once more. But though his eyes were lightly closed, he could yet see beneath slightly raised lashes. He stared so hard into the darkness that his eyes began to twitch, his heart hammering hard, palms going damp.
How easy it was to return to the man he had once been, the man for whom danger was a common threat.
And then, at last, the shadow moved. More slowly this time, approaching with grave caution. Trevor was a serpent, coiled and prepared to strike. The fire crackled and a sudden pop of a piece of wood catching newly alight echoed, illuminating the figure for a fleeting moment.
A man for certain, the arm raised, the indistinct outline of a blade gripped in the hand. Trevor reacted, throwing back the coverlet and hitting the raised arm with his hidden candlestick. There was the thump of the dagger dropping to the carpet. The man who’d been about to stab him issued a grunt.
Trevor leapt to his feet on the opposite side of the bed. “Get the hell out of my chamber and out of my house,” he said sharply, taking care to keep his voice from carrying in the night.
