Well, there was only one other thing men had ever wanted from her—and he wasn’t about to get that.
A sensation rippled through her, as if her body was holding onto sense memories of him—of his skill at dancing…of the feel of him, all masculine muscle and strength…and the feel of herself in his arms—warm…tingly…lit up from the inside… And a stray thought wandered into her mind, and she wondered if, perhaps, he was the sort who could get something else from her.
Something that involved more privacy than was afforded on a dancing floor.
She shook her head free of that stray thought, and her smile returned. There had been a hairy moment, for certain, but it had turned out all right, hadn’t it?
Better than all right.
She was the possessor of one hundred and thirty-four pounds and a ring she could sell in London.
She’d wanted a little wild night in Brighton, and hadn’t she gotten one?
As her feet pointed in the direction of the hotel, the giggle that floated in her wake could’ve been heard all the way down to the sea.
4
London, A month later
“In my experience of matters such as yours, Osborne,” said Lord Percival Bretagne, rising to his feet, “dead ends never stay dead for long.”
Rhys reluctantly unfurled his long body and followed his host by coming to a stand, understanding two things at once.
Bretagne had just told him to be patient—and their meeting had reached its conclusion.
Frustration cascaded through Rhys. It had been a month—a month—since the night of the masquerade. A month since he’d come this close to winning Papa’s signet ring back—and lost it…again.
And here he was being told to be patient.
He had been patient. This last month he’d waited patiently for this quarter-hour meeting—only to be told to be more patient.
A quarter of an hour ago, he’d walked into Bretagne’s residence, confident the man would have usable information for him. But, no, nothing. He’d essentially told Rhys in indifferently polite terms that when he learned anything new he would contact him, which was a thinly veiled way of telling Rhys to stop sending notes every week asking if he’d happened across any intelligence.
Fair play.
Rhys could accept he’d made a minor nuisance of himself.
It was a different sort of acceptance, however, he’d been dodging.
Papa’s signet ring was hopelessly lost.
He needed to accept that.
Except, he couldn’t quite.
It could yet turn up at a pawnbroker.
Surely, it would, eventually, for what would the blonde want with it, anyway?
She couldn’t wear it.
It was too big.
She’d want the money for it.
Christmas was only a few weeks away. Wouldn’t she want the money for a gift?
So, here was hope creeping in again and the inability to accept the loss.
