“Being married to you has given me a sweet tooth,” His Grace drawled, making Em blush.
“Chef has also prepared something special for dessert—” The opening door interrupted Marianne. Her brows lifted as Pitt, the butler, entered, his expression flustered. “What is it, Pitt?”
“Beg pardon, madam,” Pitt said, “but there’s a gentleman here to see Mr. Kent.”
“I’m not expecting any visitors.” Ambrose frowned. “What is his name?”
“He didn’t give it, sir. He did claim, however, that he is here on a matter of some urgency.”
Emma perked up. “Well, this sounds intriguing.”
Before her marriage, Em had aspired to join Ambrose’s private enquiry firm. Even now, she worked on the occasional case—with her duke’s consent (and sometimes without his knowledge).
“Do you have any idea who it is, darling?” Marianne said to Ambrose.
“No, but I’ll get rid of whoever it is.” Ambrose unfolded himself from the settee and rose. “Tonight is a time for our family celebration…” He trailed off, his gaze going to the doorway.
Where the Earl of Revelstoke stood.
Awareness tingled through Polly as she stared at the man whose presence had invaded her dreams. Memory had dulled the reality of him. Standing at the threshold of the drawing room, he was even more virile, more startlingly attractive than she remembered. There was a slight dishevelment to him, but instead of detracting from his looks, it heightened his charisma. He looked as if he’d just come from a place beyond the civilized, some exotic place of untold pleasures, and Polly’s female instincts told her why women would want to follow him there—or anywhere.
His stormy blue gaze circled the room, pausing on her. Like a captive bird, her heart dashed madly against its cage as the full impact of his presence slammed into her. Despite his controlled expression, a shield straining to hold back the emotions beneath, his aura blazed. Desperation, anger, and fear wriggled and pushed at the glowing cobalt wall like maddened worms.
Polly’s lips parted.What in God’s name has happened to him?
Rosie’s chirpy tones broke the silence. “Lord Revelstoke!” She rose, her hands clasped at her breast, her face wreathed in smiles. “You kept your promise to call after all!”
Chapter Seven
Sinjin had not come to pay a social call.
Given Miss Primrose’s welcome, however, it would have been rude to gainsay her invitation to sup. Thus, he found himself sitting beside her in the elegant dining room. The table was artfully set with a turquoise and gold Sèvres service, and he soon learned that the colorful hothouse arrangements were there to mark the occasion of Miss Polly Kent’s twenty-second birthday.
He’d interrupted a family celebration. How bloody awkward.
Mrs. Kent was on his other side, at the hostess’ end of the table, keeping a watchful eye on him. The subject of the fete was across the way, doing the opposite. Miss Polly avoided looking at him as if he sported a Gorgon’s head and was capable of turning her to stone if she so much as glanced his way. Her posture was stiffer than one of Brummell’s cravats.
What does she think I’m about to do—open my trousers and give her another display?
While he understood her antipathy, he didn’t know why it bothered him. Usually he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him, yet, for some reason, the judgmental little prude had attracted his notice from the start. He’d grant that she had her attractions—she was lovely in a quiet, unusual sort of way—but he’d been around plenty of beautiful women, and none of them had held onto his attention once he was out of their bed (and sometimes not even during).
He chalked it up to the novelty of encountering a female who wanted nothing to do with him. Who seemed wholly unimpressed by his looks, money, and title. Even if he didn’t like her judgement, he supposed he couldn’t fault it. Hell, she probably saw him more clearly than most.
At any rate, he had more important business to contend with than the offended sensibilities of some chit. Fortifying himself with a drink of wine, he remembered to smile at Miss Primrose, who was regaling him with witty anecdotes. He listened with half an ear, his mind whirling.
Do they know where I am? Will they track me down here?
It had been two days since he’d made his escape from Mrs. Barlow’s. Since he’d fled that serene, soul-crushing hell. Although they hadn’t dared to inflict physical abuses upon him, the deprivation of his personal liberty had been enough to trigger memories of Creavey. His black devil had awakened to a battle cry.
Never surrender.
He’d escaped with the clothes he was wearing and the coins that he’d found in the pockets of the two guards he’d knocked unconscious to make his escape. He’d made it back to London, half on foot, half as a stowaway on a farmer’s cart. All the while, he’d kept a vigilant watch—every shadow, every flicker a potential threat to his freedom.
His father might think him delusional, but his suspicions had saved him. He’d sensed Mrs. Barlow’s guardseverywhere: following him, waiting to pounce and return him to that despicable prison. He’d gone to his townhouse first, but he’d waited outside. Waited and watched until he’d glimpsed shadows moving behind drawn shades. He’d been right all along. They were inside his home, readying to spring a trap.
He’d taken off, pulling his hat down low, disappearing into the crowded street.
He hadn’t known where to go. They were after him, hunting him, and his family believed him mad. His so-called friends were out of the question. They might be good for a drunken escapade, but he wouldn’t trust any of them farther than he could toss them. The ladies were no better, any help he received from them certain to come with unwanted strings. He didn’t have enough money in his pockets to stay the night with a whore… and, after wat happened at Corbett’s, the last place he wanted to go to was a bawdy house.
