She had caused a minor fiasco by attending his depraved masquerade, but he needn’t be rude about it. “You have nothing to fear, as I want no part of Derbyshire’s wilds. Or you, beyond what we can offer one another. I keep my secrets. You keep yours.”
He let out a slow breath. “One inane tea, a tiresome musicale, a dull procession through Hyde Park. As you can see, I’ve survived worse.”
She suppressed a grimace. Even if she didn’t want them, Isabellahadsuitors. A dishwater-dull marquess, a baron two inches shorter than her, even the Duke of Marlington had been circling until she made that remark about women attending university. She didn’t negotiate for a living as Merevale did, his profession requiring a fabricated identity, but she had leverage. Some, at least.
And, if she was going to endure this farce, she might as well satisfy her curiosity. “Three kisses. We can add that to this lifeless roster.”
Ever opened his eyes and blinked twice. “Kisses.”
“To give the arrangement substance. We want it tolookreal.”
His mouth curved, relaxed and knowing. “Careful, sprite,” he said softly. “You’re tempting a man who’s desired you quite madly since the moment you crept into his ballroom.” His gaze lingered on her, hazed by the laudanum yet unwavering all the same. “Though I’ll deny that tomorrow. Convincingly.”
Isabella said nothing more as he slipped into sleep.
Because she feared she desired him quite madly, too.
Chapter Four
Where a rake quiets the skeptics.
Ever woke the next morning with a bruising headache and the distinct impression he had said something to Isabella Anstruther-Colbrook that he ought not to have.
The wordsmadly desiretolled faintly in his mind, a phrase he fervently hoped had been nothing more than a dream.
It was the image of those damned embroidered garters he could not dislodge.
Later that afternoon, not quite steady on his feet but respectable enough to feign it, he paid a call on Weston Whitaker under the pretense of business. He could not allow Madam Mischief to drift without direction. Discussion of the future of the steam industry gave way to brandy, then cigars, then billiards. Ever’s side ached, his head still faintly fogged, but he meant to last long enough to broach a subject he’d avoided his entire life.
Matrimony.
Even spurious, it made his pulse kick hard against his throat.
His fear sharpened because he could imagine it. Her. His signet ring on her finger, her body stretched across his silken counterpane, those amber eyes glowing with impudence he would put to excellent use in the proper setting. Her generous curves his—and only his. He liked that she was intelligent. And courageous. She had handled an unexpected robbery and a subsequent visit to one of London’s underground surgeons with admirable composure.
Brick said he’d never seen a chit less given to tears.
The Duke of Mercer, Weston’s half-brother and another guest that afternoon, tapped him on the elbow with the cue stick. Ever took it and, since both Isabella’s brothers were present, decided this was as good a moment as any to broach the matter of courtship.
To spare his stitched side, Ever didn’t lean into the shot and drove the ball too hard, sending it wide. He shrugged, long accustomed to looking the fool, and passed the cue to Weston.
“I heard you were a beast at this game, Merevale,” the Duke of Mercer murmured from his spot by the sideboard. “An off day, I guess.”
Refusing to rise to the bait, Ever leaned his hip against the scrolled edge of the table. He was the best player in England when it mattered. Weston lined up a shot that was never going to work and took it without a second glance. Young men in love—Weston was twenty-seven at most, and married barely a year—believed everything was possible.
“I have something I’d like to discuss with you aside from business,” he finally said.
The brothers turned in unison, their identical indigo eyessettling on him. Whatever doubt there might have been about their shared blood was erased in that glance.
Ever took his turn without another word, pocketing two balls in quick succession and, perhaps showing off just a little, ending a match he could have finished half an hour earlier. It required more finesse than he had energy for, but he needed Agent Trentham and that idiot Tipsy in the same room. He could not stray too far from either role. Not yet.
“It’s about Lady Isabella,” he said, straightening as he set the cue in its rack.
Mercer set the brandy bottle on the sideboard with a dull thump. “What’s she done now?”
Weston dropped his cue on the felt and leaned back against the table. “Here we go again.”
It was hardly the moment for Ever to feel sympathy for this unruly chit.
