Finishing her meal, she pressed the pads of her fingers to her throbbing temple. “I have never felt so confused in my life. You are a gentleman who lived a commoner’s life—”
“Lower than commoner,” he corrected her. “Have you ever been to the stews? St. Giles Rookery? Devil’s Acre? Whitechapel?”
Her look was flat. “If you know who I am, you should know that I have never stepped a foot past Mayfair.”
“The Temple of the Muses at Finsbury Square is past Mayfair.” He laced his hands on his midsection, his tone still teasing. “That should count.”
Ellie felt tempted to throw something at him—so she did. She balled up the serviette and lobbed it at him. He didn’t flinch when it hit him square in the face. “I know the word I want to say. You are a scoundrel!”
Shrugging, he said, “I have been called worse.”
Pushing away from the table, she huffed, “Excuse me.”
While walking to rest her plates in a sink, she felt his heated gaze on the back of her neck. Her heart thudded as the polarizing sensations he’d elicited in her still made her feel unsteady.
She headed to her doorway when his words halted her. “You can call me Dorian Beaumont,” he paused. “Or, as you want to be formal,Duke Wolfthorne.”
For the umpteenth time that night, her jaw dropped.
By the time he arrived at the club, Dorian’s blood was thrumming with a vigor he had not felt in a long while. His lips twitched while recalling the shock on her face at knowing he was a Duke. Having a competitive nature himself, he had to admit he found their tête-à-têtedevilishly entertaining.
He prided himself on pulling out a range of emotions from her that he suspected—no, that heknew—she had never allowed herself to feel before.
“I should probably apologize to her for the lie of using her against Sterling…” he muttered while perching himself on the upper-railing. “But not yet. She does not need to know that yet. What I need to do is keep her second-guessing herself.”
Tonight wasmasquerade night, and he gazed down at the floor below, at the dark, rich paneled woods, the deep purple drapes and gold ornaments, and the Aubusson runners under his guest’s feet.
Warm light from dozens of glittering chandeliers danced off the hundreds of men and women in their finery. The ladies wore exotic gowns that matched their masks—from goldfish to peacocks— while the men were in dark suits and simple demi-masks.
The ballroom part of his club was open, and couples swirled around in the fast-paced Viennesewaltz. He could picture little Miss Evelina in his arms as they swirled to the slower version, how her body would feel against him.
He knew he would have a problem if they did dance—his hands tended to wander.
But what I’d pay to see her face.
Everyone looked so refined and glamorous. Away from the scrutiny of formal ton social engagements, couples embraced publicly on chaise-longues, and those who danced were certainly closer than what was appropriate.
I wonder what little Miss Evelina is doing tonight?
He pictured her with her head tilted and lips pursed; she looked like the token innocent bluestocking.
Thinking of her full lips and delicate bone structure, he had to shift his hips. She didn’t know it, but god, she wasdelectable. If she were any other woman, he would have had her in his bed already.
Perish the thought.
Despite his worldly attitude about sexual matters, his honor would never permit him to seduce a virgin.
Toying with her, however, was another matter.
“Sir,” Lloyd bowed, while holding out his coat. “It is time. Your party sent word to where he will be.”
Turning, Dorian nodded, “The hackney is ready then.”
“And waiting in the alley behind the club, sir,” Lloyd replied as Dorian took the coat.
At midnight, the moon’s spectral glow clashed with the sickly yellow fog that always slithered boot-high on the ground. He hopped into the vehicle bound for Whitechapel to a tavern where a snoop he had hired to find his uncle frequented.
Before he had found the snoop, he’d employed legitimate investigators who had bled him like a leech while giving Dorian the run-around, feeding him crumbs, telling Dorian they’d tracked Edgar to Manchester, then somewhere in Oxford, even to a village in Ireland.
