He lowered his mouth to hers. At the contact, he felt a tremble of awareness pass through her and, damn, if he didn't feel a jolt himself. Her lips were as soft and full as they looked; she tasted of honey and lemon drops and a unique tart-sweetness that was hers alone. Flames ignited from their single point of connection, spreading through his veins. He could feel her responding to the fire, too. On a tremulous sigh, her lips parted, and if he wanted to, he could slip inside, show her the kiss that burned in his dreams...
He lifted his head. Managed to master his breath and the hot swell of desire.
Her eyelashes fluttered open to reveal dazed, sapphire eyes.
"That was edifying, to say the least," he murmured. "Thank you."
"I—I don't know what..." She took a stumbling step backward.
He made her a leg. "I bid you good day, Miss Fines." Reaching to his pocket, he withdrew a key and went to unlock the door.
"You had the key all along?" she burst out from behind him.
He bowed to her again. Stepping out into the arcade, he realized he was smiling. Because though the stakes were high and Percy was more worthy an opponent than he'd first suspected, he could not deny the simple truth.
Bloody hell, he enjoyed the games they played.
7
Miss Farnham gazedat the giant cake upon the table. She'd sworn to abstain from sweets. Yet bursting with marzipan and jeweled fruits, the kingly confection seemed to call to her in a seductive whisper.
"You know you want me..."
—fromThe Perils of Priscilla, a manuscript that ought to be finished by P. R. Fines
Two nights later, Percy stood poised at the top of the staircase leading down into the bustling ballroom. A bittersweet pang struck her.
If only Papa could be here. If only he could see me now.
Given his origins, Papa had always dreamed of hobnobbing with high society, and she was certain he'd be tickled at Lady Stanhope's overblown event. Indulging in her latest craze for antiquities, the hostess had decked out the ballroom of her grand Mayfair townhouse in the Egyptian mode. A pair of plaster sphinxes greeted guests at the stairwell, and giant palms in golden urns surrounded the dance floor. Overhead, colorful streamers of Pharaoh blue were festooned between glittering chandeliers.
Descending the steps, Percy managed to find a quiet spot next to a pair of upright sarcophagi. She'd taken Charity's advice and sent a letter off to Mama and Nick; now she was at one of the premier events of the Season, trying to act as if things were normal. Trying not to think about Paul—or the fact that Hunt's proposition expired on the morrow.
The memory of the haberdashery gripped her. She still couldn't believe Hunt had gone to such lengths to see her. He'd eyed her with suchhungryintent. And then the kiss... Her pulse quickened. She'd been kissed twice before, by friends of her brother's. The pecks had been sweet and harmless. On the surface, her kiss with Hunt had been equally innocent, yet she'd felt something... new. Different. Unbidden, his darkly masculine flavor permeated her senses, a hot promise rushing through her blood. That strange throbbing began deep inside again, the flutter of wings beating for release...
Stop it! You'renota wicked girl. You slapped Hunt, put him in his place. The only reason you allowed the kiss was to get rid of him. And now you have.
Heart thudding, she told herself she'd never succumb to a villain's temptations. She was only interested in a prince. In Lord Charles. Scanning the room, she spotted her beloved conversing with a circle of Corinthians. Her heart calmed at the sight of him. With his dark auburn curls coiffedà la Titusand his slim form showcased in black and white, he embodied elegance. They'd exchanged a brief greeting earlier in the evening, and he'd requested the favor of a dance later on.
Asifhe'd had to ask. She'd come for the sole purpose of furthering their acquaintance, and he was the very thing she needed to get her mind off that bounder Hunt. If she was lucky, she and Lord Charles might even have a waltz. In fact, she ought to find Tottie, whose permission would be required for the dance. She hadn't seen her chaperone for ages and hoped the dear was not lying sauced beneath a table somewhere. Before she could start her search, high, cultured accents drifted from behind her.
"Fine party, what," said a gentleman's voice. "Plenty of prime quality here tonight."
"I'd say it's not so much prime as overdone," a female drawled in reply. "Lydia's done up the place like a stage… and not Theatre Royal, either. Our hostess has a taste for Haymarket."
Another lady giggled in response.
Now Percy knew it was impolite to listen in on another's conversation (Mama always said that eavesdroppers deserved what they overheard), yet she couldn't help but peek through the narrow space between the sarcophagi. She saw the three speakers consisted of a rail-thin redhead with a haughty expression, a plump blonde dressed in debutante's white, and a gentleman whose curled, windswept coiffure likely required more time to style than Percy's own simple coronet.
"Lady Eleanor, surely you are not implying that the Stanhope soiree is in poor taste?" The gentleman raised thin eyebrows.
"I don't bother to imply anything, Lord Carlton. I simply say it as it is." The redheaded Eleanor sniffed. "One need only have eyes to see that the guest list is hardlycrème de la crème."
With afrissonof unease, Percy knew she should stop spying on the trio. Instead, she leaned closer to the gap.
"You are absolutely right as usual, my lady," the blonde said in a simpering voice. "Why, I do believe I saw a barrister by the punch table."
"That is not the worst of it. The place has been overrun by Cits. Did you not see who Lord Gregory was dancing with earlier?"
