“Helen, my dearest, have I told you yet how absolutely divine you look tonight?”
Helen smiled shyly, running her hand lovingly over the fine fabric of her dress. “Yes, Madame Blanchet certainly outdid herself, don’t you think?”
The gown was made up of rich red tissue, overlaid over gold silk and gathered at the sleeves with a spray of artfully worked flowers. The bodice hugged her generous bosom before the skirts flared out to waft around her like a cloud as she walked, outlining the length of her thighs quite shockingly.
It was the most gorgeous gown Helen had ever owned.
“Not your usual striking red, but I think it complements you all the better for it. I know a certain pair of eyes has not been ableto look away all evening,” said Amelia with a knowing sparkle in her eye.
Helen blushed, and, as if fate was laughing at her for her boldness, the men chose that very moment to enter the room.
Captain Starling was last to step through the door, but as soon as he did, his eyes scanned the room until they found her in the corner.
His heated gaze ate her up from across the crowded space, and Helen resisted the urge to press a gloved hand to her cheek.
“My, my. Speak of the devil,” murmured Amelia, watching avidly as the man started to make his way towards them through the crush.
He looked…God, what was that he was wearing?
Helen felt a snicker of disbelief lodge in her throat.
His jacket was a suitably refined black wool superfine, the perfectly tied cravat and high pointed collar a starched snowy white. But his waistcoat…
It was red, embroidered all over with a riot of flourishes and golden embellishments. Totally at odds with the other gentlemen in their staid grey or cream silks.
The man looked like a bloody pirate.
Amelia glanced between them, amusement sparkling in her gaze as she sipped her sherry blithely beside Helen.
“Does he… match you?” Amelia asked with bemusement.
Oh heavens. Please, no, thought Helen desperately.
She turned herself away, working her fan frantically over her cheeks as she stared at Amelia incredulously. Her friend merely smirked, then, pretending to see someone behind Helen, she moved away.
“Traitor,” murmured Helen as her friend retreated, steeling herself against the moment she would have to acknowledge him.
“Mrs Montrose,” came a low, smooth as velvet voice from behind her.
Helen turned with a disapproving frown. “Captain Starling,” she murmured, desperate for her host to call them into the card room.
Anything to get away from this man.
His eyes lingered on her face as he made an elegant bow in her direction. “Howfortuitousto see you here.”
Helen resisted the urge to pull a face at the incorrigible man.
Instead, she smiled politely, flashing her teeth in a most unladylike manner. “And just how did you acquire an invitation to this particular event? It is almost as if you are following me.”
“Perhaps I am,” he quipped in reply, turning his back to the room and dropping her that signature wink. He pressed a hand to his heart. “Although I am quite wounded at the thought that you imagine me out of place at such a lofty gathering.”
Helen tipped her head, interested despite herself. “What could you mean?”
Captain Starling smirked. “I am often invited to such events to add a frisson of scandal to the atmosphere, being the notorious bastard son of an earl has that effect.”
Helen frowned, looking the man up and down with fresh eyes. Yes, there was that entitled attitude that often hovered around a member of the upper crust, but it was tempered with a heavy dose of disillusioned sarcasm. Captain Starling was telling the truth.
“You are the firstborn, but not the heir,” she said without thinking.
