A male guest snorted.“No worries, Marsdale.Your intentions could not be much clearer.”
Someone snickered.
“Too bad the screen was not made of sturdier stuff,” another man shouted, his comment resulting in wild hoots of laughter.
Samantha finally looked at Harlowe, unsurprised to find his expression tight with rage.“It appears we got slightly carried away.”
“You were supposed to have gone to bed.”Every word Harlowe spoke was sharp enough to cut steel.
“As you can see,” Samantha murmured, “I had more important matters to deal with.”
“Isn’t she being courted by Croft?”an elderly woman asked.It sounded like Lady Heathbrooke.“Where is he, by the way?”
“His whereabouts are inconsequential.”The masculine voice that spoke carried vast amounts of authority.Even Harlowe turned to see who’d made the remark.The Duke of Eldridge stepped forward, his lean figure conveying both power and confidence.“The only question of interest is what happens next?”
“I…” Marsdale cleared his throat.He turned to Samantha, his green eyes holding an unspoken promise to follow her lead.
She raised her chin.“Nothing.The earl and I had a brief lapse in judgement.That is all.”
The resulting murmurs were in disagreement.
Harlowe stepped right up to her.His hand caught her arm in a hold so tight she knew it would bruise.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at,” he hissed, “but rest assured I will find out.”
“Two angles.One goal.I told you that already.”
“And I told you to abandon that plan.”
“While I understand your anger, Harlowe,” said Eldridge, “rough handling your charge doesn’t paint you in a positive light.”
“Release her,” Marsdale told him with an added touch of firmness.
Harlowe loosened his hold and let his hand drop.He gave Marsdale a hard look.“You’re a scoundrel.Had she been a gentleman’s daughter, you’d never have done this.Not without making an offer of marriage.”
Marsdale flinched but swiftly recovered.He straightened his spine and seemed to grow a few inches taller.Hands clenched with such force his knuckles turned white, he leaned toward Harlowe, a deadly gleam in his emerald-green eyes.“You forget yourself, sir.”
Samantha clasped her hands together and prayed her next words wouldn’t be a colossal mistake.“Has it not occurred to anyone yet that I might have a prior attachment?”
The room went entirely still, like a memory frozen in time.
She shrugged one shoulder, a careless gesture she hoped would incite the right person.“Croft proposed to me earlier this evening and I accepted.We’re to be married.”
* * *
The Mayfair Murderer, as he’d most recently been dubbed by the papers, considered the scene playing out before him.It was hard to believe Miss Carmichael could be so careless with Mr.Croft’s feelings.Not that the man seemed the least bit sensitive, but he had looked fairly enamored with her this evening.He’d looked like he cared.
Which he probably did if he’d asked her to be his wife.
Yet here she was, throwing herself at his friend.
Outrage on Croft’s behalf – that long-detested taste of betrayal – gripped him once more.It burned through his veins, sank its claws deep, and awakened his hunger.
She’d humiliated Croft this evening, had left a stain on his reputation.Whatever happened from this point onward, whether he cast her aside or not, that stain would remain.And yet, she seemed not to give it much thought, her blasé manner showing no sign of remorse.
There was no regret there, no sense of wrongdoing, just an almost callous degree of entitlement that was destined to touch Marsdale too.The poor fop would likely wind up at the wrong end of Croft’s dueling pistols for this.
Shoving his hand in his pocket, the murderer stroked his thumb over the watch he kept there – a soothing exercise keeping his lethal compulsions in check.For the moment.
