Her laugh—soft and genuine—warmed him from the inside out. He studied her face, closer now, and caught the small details: how the right corner of her luscious mouth lifted slightly higher when she smiled, making the expression feel both playful and somewhat hesitant. And that exquisite upper lip—marked with the faintest indent, as though designed for trouble, begging to be kissed.
“Do you not find it strange,” he said, lowering his voice, “how a single meeting can disrupt your peace of mind?”
She arched a brow. “What sort of meeting? A glance across a ballroom? A brief encounter on a garden path?”
“Or,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “in the dark hallway of a gambling den.”
Her lashes dropped. “I remember.”
“I thought you might.”
“And what, exactly, did that encounter tell you?” she asked. “Beyond the obvious?”
“It told me that I was in trouble.”
She laughed again—richer this time, but hushed. A private sound meant only for him.
“It also told me,” he continued, “that you are not at all what I expected. You blinked three times, as though weighing whether to run. You didn’t. You tilted your head—not away, but toward me. Curious. Bold. And when you smiled…it wasn’t polite. It was real.”
“And all of that led to what conclusion, my lord?”
“That in a single moment, everything I thought I wanted shifted. And I’ve not been the same since.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face, quickly masked by a practiced grace.
“Dare I ask,” she said, voice low, “if you’ve ever felt that way before?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“And yet you claim to know what it means?”
“I know what it means now.”
She studied him, a smile playing at her lips. “That’s either very poetic…or very dangerous.”
“I suspect,” he said, “it’s a little of both.”
Before she could reply, the majordomo’s voice rang out over the gentle hum of conversation.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon.”
A ripple of anticipation passed through the room as the infamous proprietress made her entrance, swathed in deep-plum satin, her presence as commanding as a queen’s. A half mask of black lace veiledher eyes, concealing her identity—as always. It added to the mystery. To the myth.
Dinner was announced, and Lex’s heart sank when he discovered he’d been seated three places down from Edwina. To make matters worse, Lord Hammond—that smug nitwit—had been seated beside her and seemed far too familiar for Lex’s liking. At least Basil was the other bookend. He caught Lex’s glance and winked, which reassured Lex enough to keep him from reaching across the table and strangling the blackguard.
He took his seat, jaw tight. The game had shifted—but he wasn’t about to fold.
Winnie had nevermet anyone like Lord Capel.
Not only was he the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on—broad shouldered, hair as dark as a raven’s wings, and wickedly self-possessed—but he was something else entirely. Intriguing. Bold. He didn’t orbit the room like the other eligible men, puffed up and preening. No—heprowled, watching everything with those sharp blue eyes that had burned into her from the moment they met.
And worse—hesawher. Not just her fortune, her lineage, or her reputation. He looked at her as though she were a puzzle he intended to solve.
She’d never fantasized about a real man before. She was not that kind of woman. But with Lord Capel, her mind had betrayed her more than once. She imagined what it would feel like to have those large hands slide down her spine, to lean into the press of his lips, to hear her name spoken in that low, velvety voice when no one else was listening…
Winnie blinked hard and sat up straighter.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Dove-Lyon had seated him several places down—across the table—where he now entertained the full, unfiltered attention of not one but two women.
