Vi hopped up, as did Polly.
“Thank you for your time,” Vi said gratefully, “and for your excellent advice.”
“Tout le plaisir était pour moi.” Monique’s lips curled up at the corners.“I look forward to furthering our acquaintance over supper,ma chère. A performer must know her audience, after all.”
Chapter Nine
The pungent odor tickled Richard’s nose, and, before he could stop it, he sneezed.
For the third bloody time.
“Bless you. Er, again.” Seated to his left at the head of the table, Miss Billings paused in her monologue about bonnets long enough to remark, “I hope you haven’t contracted an ailment, my lord?”
“I’m fine.”Or I would be—if someone wasn’t wearing that blasted perfume.He didn’t know where the noxious scent was coming from, but every now and again, it wafted over to him, irritating his nostrils. “Thank you for your concern,” he said curtly.
His hostess launched into chatter again. About gloves this time. Egad.
Suppressing a sigh, he listened with half an ear. He’d been on edge all evening, and one reason for his disquiet was sitting directly across the table. Miss Kent was acting as if he didn’t exist. When he’d tried to approach her in the drawing room before supper, she’d been as slippery as a lamprey, wriggling her way through the guests, eluding him at every turn. At present, she was polishing off her fish course with gusto, and he’d have found her hearty appetite endearing if she wasn’t simultaneously presenting him with a cold shoulder.
That said shoulder was left bare did not improve his mood. The neckline of her daffodil satin frock invited far too much attention, and he had to quell the urge to rip off his jacket and throw it over her. His grip tightened on his knife as Goggston, sitting to her left, snuck yet another look at the exposed swells of her bosom. Richard wanted to strangle the prat… even if he couldn’t precisely blame him.
Because it was taking all of Richard’s willpower not to join in the ogling like some randy schoolboy. His only excuse was that he knew first-hand how soft and firm those breasts were, how perfectly they’d fit in his palms. His skin slickened beneath his cravat; he tried not to think about how her nipples had budded so sweetly at his touch, not to wonder at their color, if they were the same berry pink as her lips…
Her eyes suddenly met his. The impact of that tawny gaze was like a blow to the gut during a practice round at Gentleman Jackson’s. Her throat rippled, and she quickly looked away.
He became aware of the hot, thick throbbing in his groin, and he wanted to groan in frustration. God’s wounds, what was the matter with him? Why did one look from the little baggage affect him this way? He didn’t have time for this nonsense; he had more pressing concerns.
He looked around the dining hall, its dark paneled walls hung with portraits of the aristocracy. Billings had undoubtedly purchased some impoverished peer’s ancestors to decorate his house, and now they looked down their noble noses at the motley guests supping at banquet tables set with gleaming silverware and hothouse arrangements. A quick survey revealed that Wickham still hadn’t shown. Richard had no idea where his sibling was—but he had a good idea why the other had absented himself.
Richard looked to the foot of his table. Billings occupied the end seat, the Duchess of Strathaven to his right. But it was the man across from her, dark-haired and ruthlessly elegant, who held Richard’s attention.
What is that bastard doing here?
Turning to Miss Billings, he said, “Are you acquainted with the man talking to your father?”
“Mr. Garrity, you mean?” she replied without missing a beat. “Actually, I only met him today. He wasn’t precisely invited, you see, but he is one of Father’s business associates, and Father says we must do everything to make his visit a pleasant one.”
“What does Mr. Garrity do, precisely?” This came from Miss Kent, whose brow was furrowed.
“He supplies funds to those in need,” Miss Billings said guilelessly. “Father says he’s an important man.”
Billings wasn’t wrong. Garrity was one of the most powerful cutthroats in London. He’d built a thriving empire from moneylending at an outrageous margin. Any sod stupid enough to take a loan from Garrity was putting his neck on a bloody chopping block.
God’s blood, why were you so stupid, Wick?
A footman placed the next dish in front of him, and Richard sliced hisroulade de boeufwith a savage stroke, guts of asparagus and leek spilling out against the Sèvres china. He told himself Wick still had three months to pay off the debt. As dangerous as Garrity was, the moneylender was known to be a man of his word. He wouldn’t come after Wick… yet.
“Has anyone seen Mr. Murray?” Miss Kent ventured.
The worry in her voice made Richard wonder if she knew about Wick’s connection to Garrity. He shook his head, answered gruffly, “Not since this afternoon.”
“Maybe the old boy’s taking a nap and slept through supper.” Goggs slurped at his wine.
“When have you known our Wick to nap?” The scoffing reply came from Parnell, sitting two chairs down from Richard. They were separated by Mrs. Sumner, an auburn-haired, voluptuous widow whose crimson dress left little to the imagination.
“Once he and I wagered on who could stay up the longest,” Parnell continued, his pale features smirking, “and Wick managed to go three days and nights without sleep.”
As if Wick wasn’t addled enough, he had a friend who encouraged sleep deprivation. Just bloody perfect.
