As one, Kenneth and Remmy twisted in their seats to stare through the door that opened into the ballroom, a sliver of the seats visible along the wall. Sitting alone, dressed in the blandest of a debutante’s pastels—was that gray or pink?—was a blonde woman.
Sittingwas one way of describing what she was doing, but to call it that would mean passing up the opportunity to use descriptions such aswaving a fan listlesslyorstudying the ceiling frescos with dull eyesorlooking utterly bored and wishing she were anyplace else but here.
Och aye, a wallflower indeed.
Kenneth had little use for virgins, and even less for ladies who didn’t know what they liked.
Usually me.
But beside him, Remmy sucked in a breath. “Fokette? Isn’t she the Earl of Standish’s cousin?”
Merevale hummed. “His cousin’s daughter, actually.”
And suddenly, it all made sense.
Standish was hosting a ball despite the rumors swirling in certain circles about his treasonous activities. Every good agent knew that the key to a successful infiltration was distraction; keep the mark looking elsewhere while you searched. If Standish was close to his cousin’s family—was this the same cousin whose husband he’d been discussing that wet-jet amulet thingy with earlier?—then he too would be affected by Miss Barbara’s seduction.
“And I need to seduce hercompletely?” Kenneth pressed, still studying the young lady. She was quite pretty, in a washed-out, bland sort of way. “Will ye take my word on it?”
Before Remmy could answer—because this had never been about the wager, never been abouthisparameters, had it?—Merevale cut in, his tone sharpening. “Whatever game we’re playing, Miss Fokette leaves it standing. I won’t see her crushed.” His gaze was hard. “Not even for youramusement.”
His message was clear; the purpose of this campaign was to distract Standish just enough to make investigating him easier, not to actually ruin the poor lass.
Of course, if Kenneth was busy charming Miss Fokette, then another agent would be sent to infiltrate the earl’s study…but that was fine by him. He was going to use his God-given talents of seduction to serve his country.
What more could a man wish for?
Slowly, Kenneth’s mouth curled into a grin. A charming one. A smile known and loved by the ladies of theTon.
When he turned back to the table, Remmy groaned and rolled his eyes. “I’m going to lose, aren’t I?” he mumbled.
“Ye have yerself a wager.” Kenneth stood and straightened his jacket. “May the best rake win.”
Chapter Two
One of the past Earls of Standish must have had a naughty sense of humor, Barbara decided, studying the delicate cornices running along the edges of the ballroom’s ceiling. It was subtle; she doubted few people ever looked at them long enough, but once you knew what to look for, it was obvious.
That satyr was chasing that nymph.Thatsatyr had caught a nymph—the artist had been quite keen on nipples, judging by the number he’d given her. Andthatsatyr appeared to be holding a jug of wine, but examination proved it was something else entirely…which was long and thick and dripping liquid.
Barbara was quite certain the artist had been a male; she only knew her father and younger brother—and now her new brother-in-law—but one didn’t study ancient antiquities without realizing the male of the species was ridiculously obsessed with his protrusible copulatory organ, irrespective of true size. In fact, if she had to guess, she’d wager the artist was poorly endowed?—
A throat cleared nearby, and Barbara dragged her attention unwillingly away from the phallic architecture to the gangly young man hovering near her. Since he was blushing red enoughto match his hair, she supposed he was preparing himself to talk to her: a woman! Practically a foreign species.
Wasn’t she related to him? “Good evening.”
He cleared his throat again. “Miss Fokette, would you care to dance?”
Her eyes narrowed in what Mother called her Ill-Advised Thinking Face. “Daniel, yes?”
The young man beamed and bowed low at the waist. “I’m honored to be remembered!” He was the Earl of Standish’s youngest son, which made him her second cousin. She’d met him briefly a time or two at social events, likely why he felt brave enough to approach her without a chaperone or introduction. “I am available for the next dance.”
She’d wager he was available formostof the dances, despite his family hosting the ball. Poor lad, that pimple looked quite painful. Still, she settled her expression into one of genuine regret—she’d become quite good at pretending—and extended her left foot just enough for the toe of her leather boot to peek from the hem of her skirt.
“Unfortunately, Cousin Daniel,Iam not available. I do not dance.”
She couldseethe moment he remembered about herUnfortunate Circumstance. His expression fell from hopefulness to pity, his expression a replica of the same way so many other young men had. Her older sister Margaret had been a real beauty, but now she was married—and so scandalously!—more than one young buck expected the younger Miss Fokette to begin flirting and smiling and generally enjoying events like this one.
No thank you.
