It didn’t matter that she was wearing what appeared to be a cinnamon-hued wig or that she was dressed in blue instead of her customary pink. He would know her anywhere. She was whirling about the floor in the arms of a dark-haired man, laughing at something the fellow had told her.
He took a glass of champagne from a passing servant and downed it in three gulps, watching her and trying to quell his inner urge to break another nose. Then he took a second glass and quaffed that one as well by the time the dance was done. When she and her partner were finally finished, he didn’t waste any time in striding forward.
“I believe the next dance is mine,” he said.
Her sky-blue eyes went wide behind her mask. “I’m afraid you must be mistaken, sir.”
Was the minx attempting to pretend she didn’t know him? Did she truly think he wouldn’t recognize her if she donned a disguise?
“I’m rarely mistaken,” he told her, sketching an elegant bow before offering her his arm.
Her partner had already wandered off in search of his next dance, leaving Rhiannon standing with Aubrey, clearly uncertain of what to do next.
“That is quite insufferable of you,” she said, putting on a haughty air.
He tried not to stare at the way her corset pushed up her breasts like ripe offerings, but it was difficult indeed. The gown was molded to her curves like a glove, and it was little wonder every man in the vicinity was eyeing her like lions who were searching for their prey.
Too bloody bad for the lot of them. This particular luscious lamb was his.
To protect, Aubrey reminded himself sternly. His to protect and keep from throwing herself at scoundrels.
He smiled and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Come along.”
“What if I don’t wish to dance with you, sir?”
“What is the harm in just one dance?” he countered.
“Very well,” she conceded, frowning at him as they linked hands and he pressed a palm to the small of her back. “But only one.”
The music began, and he whirled her about, thinking it a damned shame she had hidden her glorious hair beneath the monstrosity she was presently wearing. She was astoundingly lovely despite her attempt to shield her identity. But then, Rhiannon could have donned nothing more than rags and she would have been the most beautiful woman in the room.
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. He liked having her in his arms far more than he should have. They moved together well, seamlessly gliding over the polished floor. The scent of jasmine teased him, and he fought the urge to hold her even closer.
Instead, he lowered his head until his lips were near her ear. “Are you going to tell me why you’re pretending to be someone else this evening, or is this another one of your games, minx?”
Her swift inhalation revealed her surprise. “You knew it was me?”
“I would know it was you in the dark without a single lamp lit,” he said before he could think better of the statement. “You can hide in wigs and masks and gowns of every color, but you won’t fool me.”
“You scoundrel.” She tipped her head back, her eyes flashing with blue fire. “You didn’t say a word.”
She must have thought herself immensely clever.
He chuckled, amused by her outrage. “You truly believed I wouldn’t recognize you the moment I laid eyes upon you?”
“This wig is dreadfully itchy,” she muttered instead of answering him.
Aubrey cast a wry eye over it. “I would wager it is. Why did you try to disguise yourself, minx? Has Whit grown suspicious?”
“I don’t think he has. I’ve scarcely seen him. He seems to leave dinner and disappear each night.”
That was because Whit was skirt-chasing, but Aubrey kept that to himself. Riverdale and King gossiped more than a pair of dowagers.
“Hmm,” he murmured noncommittally as they spun around the floor.
“Did you know that he’s keeping a mistress here?” she asked.
Aubrey nearly tripped over his bloody feet. So much for trying to shield her from the truth.
