“How do you suggest I do that?” she asked, surprised by her curiosity. She had a vision of taking a whip to a panther and almost giggled.
“You allow him to hope you will invite him into your bed. And you play him like a salmon on a hook. For a clever woman like you that shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“It sounds downright dishonest, Aunt!”
“Don’t be so naïve. Look around you. Thetonthrives on deceitfulness and game playing! And you will deliver on that promise. Eventually. Not to do so would be unsporting. And gazing at Montsimon, I would consider it foolish.” Her aunt’s cheeks flushed, and she vigorously applied her fan. “At first let him get to know you. Let him begin to want more from you than merely someone to warm his bed. When he can’t live without you, then…”
Althea gasped. Perhaps she’d misjudged her relative. “Aunt…”
Her aunt laughed. “You’re surprised?”
“I knew you to be wise, but I never suspected you capable of such…” Failing to find a polite word, she fell silent.
“Cunning?” Her aunt snapped her fan shut and smiled like a cat caught climbing the dove cote. No doubt pleased to have stunned her. “You are of my blood, and just as smart yourself. You just need practice.” She gazed over Althea’s shoulder and opened her fan to cover her mouth. “Montsimon comes to ask you to dance. I would advise you not to shun him. It would be badtonand such a dreadful waste!”
To refuse Montsimon would be wrong when she’d been dancing earlier. He advanced on her decidedly panther-like through the crush. Could she keep a man such as him on a loose leash? He had all the charm of the Irish in his soft burr and the looks to go with it, a kind of loose-limbed grace and elegance. Althea flicked her fan, refusing to ogle him like the women around her, including, she feared, her aunt. Only when a pair of darkly clad legs of supreme length and shape stood before her, did she look up. His unusual, smoky gray eyes held a spark of humor. She admitted to not being entirely resistant to his élan, which she suspected came as easily to him as breathing. Humor was attractive in a man. That was why she’d been avoiding him.
But there was no avoiding him now. He bowed over her aunt’s hand and then hers. “Might I have the pleasure of this dance, Lady Brookwood?”
His eyes held a gleam which defied her to refuse as she had snubbed him in the past. She had to admire his persistence. She nodded with a polite but distant smile. “Yes, my lord.”
If he were surprised she’d accepted him so readily, he had the grace not to show it. Leading her onto the floor, he clasped a hand at her waist as the musicians began to play. Althea marveled that in spite of his long list of lovers, no serious scandal had attached itself to him. In the ladies’ withdrawing room, women did talk, but only praise and regret had reached her ears. Silver-tongued, he bewitched them. The Irish were known for it. She needed to develop some sort of armor against him, for they met often during the season. She’d become a challenge she suspected, for few women would refuse him and she’d quite deliberately done so. To keep a grip on her emotions, she settled her gaze on the surrounding dancers and imagined she danced with the king who held no attraction for her. It proved to be difficult; Montsimon’s shoulder felt hard beneath her gloved hand. She gazed at his wide chest encased in a silver waistcoat. He was lean, but she guessed his body would be strong. Her eyes drifted downward. She felt her cheeks heat. Aunt Catherine had lowered the standard of her thoughts.
When she looked up again, the invitation in his gray eyes almost robbed her of breath. A smile lurked on his handsome mouth.
“You don’t wish to talk, Lady Brookwood?” He swept her expertly around the floor. “The last time we danced you took exception to something about me. Was it the management of my neckcloth, perhaps? Or is it my dancing which displeases you?”
“Not at all, my lord. I’m a trifle breathless,” she said as he deftly turned them. “You dance extremely well.” As she supposed he did most things.
“An accomplished partner makes a man look good.”
“You are too gracious.”
His hand holding her gloved one tightened, settling her closer. “Too gracious? Would you prefer me not to be? I am of a versatile nature. I can be whatever you wish.”
She glanced up through her lashes. “I am gratified, my lord, that you desire to please me.”
“You have only to tell me what it is you wish of me,” he said, his tone persuasive, while his eyes held a wicked twinkle.
The music ended, and couples began to leave the floor. Unaccountably hot, she rested her hand on his arm. “My wish is for you to return me to my aunt, my lord.” How smug he looked. She would love to take men like him down a peg or two. She would never embark on such a scheme as her aunt suggested. It was too devious, even though she liked few men, and as for rakes, they deserved all they got.
“Ah, Lady Brookwood, you disappoint me. Here I was thinking there was more to you than being content with the quiet life you appear to lead.” He offered her his arm as they joined the rest to leave the floor. “I sensed a desire for adventure, romance. I’m sure I glimpsed it in your lovely eyes.”
She rested her gloved fingers lightly on his silk-clad arm. “I am most concerned for your sight, Lord Montsimon. Perhaps a physician?” she said crisply, annoyed by his assumption that she had nothing in her life. It would appear dull to such as him, she supposed, but that was how she preferred it.
He grinned and the glance he gave her caused her to lose her breath. “You look as pretty as a garden tonight in that gown adorned with roses and bluebells. But a man might be in danger of being stung by a wasp if he ventures too close.”
“You have the right of it, Lord Montsimon.”
He chuckled as he deposited her with her aunt. Without further ado, he bowed and left them.
“Well?” Aunt Catherine leaned toward her.
“Well, what?”
“Did you arrange an assignation?”
Althea took up her fan and waved it before her hot face. “Of course not. It would be most improper.”
