She headed over to investigate. Entering the ferny grove, she discovered that the spire was in fact the top of a champagne fountain that rose some twelve feet tall. A red-tinted beverage frothed from its three gold-plated tiers, and the bottom reservoir was wide enough to take a bath in.
Impressed, she went to the side table, exchanging her empty plate for a champagne flute. She was approaching the fountain to fill her glass when a deep masculine voice caused the hairs to prickle on her nape.
“Miss Kent, I’d like a word.”
She pivoted, her eyes narrowing when she saw who’d joined her. As usual, Viscount Carlisle emanated an aura of arrogant authority, his booted stance quietly aggressive. Not for the first time, she was struck by the differences between the Murray brothers.
Whereas Wick resembled a gleaming young Apollo, Carlisle wore his coal-black hair short and possessed a swarthy and rugged mien. Topping six feet, the viscount was far taller than his younger brother and at least three stone heavier, all of it heaped on in uncompromising muscle. And while Wick had a charismatic smile, entertaining all with his rapier wit, Carlisle was more apt to hammer one down with a glowering look.
He bent at the waist; she returned the courtesy, matching her brusque motion to his.
“Lord Carlisle.” The syllables rolled off her tongue like an epithet. “Hasn’t anyone told you it isn’t polite to sneak up on others?”
“Being neither a thief nor a highwayman, Miss Kent, I do not make a practice of sneaking up on anyone. I cannot be blamed if the other is simply not paying attention.”
Her cheeks heated. It was just like Carlisle to make note of one of her lifelong faults.
To cover up her embarrassment, she said coldly, “I was about to get something to drink.”
“I wouldn’t get it there if I were you.”
Her teeth ground together. She didn’t like being told what to do—and least of all by some pompousprig. Turning her back to him, she marched to the fountain. Just as she held the flute out toward a stream of liquid, a loud belch rumbled from the fountain’s depths. She looked up… and saw a red wave spewing directly over her head. Before she could react, a muscled arm hooked her around the waist, hauling her backward. Champagne splattered on the parqueted floor where she’d been standing but an instant earlier.
Shock sizzled through her. From the near escape, yes, but more so from the intimate contact with a man’s physique. Although she’d done her fair share of dancing, none of her partners had ever touched her this way before. With her back molded against Carlisle’s front, she felt every inch of his disciplined form: it was like being trapped against a wall of ridged iron.
She became aware of the warm brush of his breath against her ear, the heat of his surrounding strength. His scent entered her nose, clean and ineffably masculine. Simultaneously, she registered his steely thigh wedged against her bottom. Despite the layers between them, she shivered, a strange hot pulsing at her core. Even though she’d just eaten, pangs gnawed at her lower belly.
“Let me go,” she managed.
He released her so quickly that she tottered before catching her balance.
“Gladly.” His derisive tone wiped any gratitude for the rescue from her mind. He snatched the glass she’d forgotten she was holding and strode to the side table, taking undue time setting it down. When he returned, he said with a scowl, “I wish to speak to you.”
“About what?”Why do I sound so breathless?
“About the fact that you are monopolizing Wickham’s time.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, she glared at him and said, “I’m doing no such thing.”
“I saw you dancing with him. Flirting with him.” Carlisle’s lips flattened into a hard line. “Leave him be, Miss Kent, for he has bigger fish to fry.”
He thought she wasflirting… and withWick?
She said incredulously, “He’s like a brother to me.”
“Well, heismy brother, and I’m telling you to leave him alone. He needs his focus.”
“You mean he has to clean up the messyoumade,” she retorted without thinking.
“I beg your pardon?”
His blistering tone would have incinerated a lesser miss on the spot. For some reason, it just angered her more. “You’re not being fair to Wick.” She crossed her arms. “He has the right to make his own decisions.”
Hostility smoldered in Carlisle’s eyes. They were the color of scorched earth: black with glints of bronze ore. His hands fisted at his sides, muscles bunching beneath the sleek skin of his jacket as if he were struggling to hold onto his self-control.
“My family is my business,” he stated with grim finality. “Stay away from my brother.”
“Wick is my friend, and I’ll spend time with him if I wish. What do you have against me, anyway?” Her resentment broke free. “Why did you spread such vile rumors about me?”
