“No. Lady Tilbury is unobjectionable enough, but how in the world am I meant to manage Lady Wylde?”
“I daresay you won’t have to speak to her much. You might also want to see what you can find out about the Duchess of Kenilworth while you’re at the ball, my love. Balls are wonderful for gathering gossip, and I think we both can agree there are a few gaps in the duchess’s story.”
“Yes.” Georgiana slumped on the settee. “That’s easily done, my lady, but Lady Wylde! How does one even approachsuch a woman?”
Lady Clifford chuckled. “Why, just as you would a rabid dog, my love.Carefully.”
Chapter Four
Benedict sprawled on the silk settee in Lady Wylde’s dressing room, one leg balanced on his knee and his arm flung over the back, watching as she dabbed powder on her décolletage.
Her eyes found his in the looking glass, and she cast him a flirtatious glance, eyelashes batting over her sleepy dark eyes. “Such an intense gaze, my lord. Do you see something that pleases you?”
She shifted, turning toward him, and the lace sleeve of her dressing gown slipped obligingly off her shoulder, exposing her smooth, creamy skin. Benedict’s gaze roved over her, lingering on the luscious curves of her breasts. “Quite fetching indeed, my lady.”
Shewasfetching. No doubt she’d invited him to her boudoir hoping he’d fall upon her like a ravaging animal, but despite all that lovely skin she was flaunting, he couldn’t conjure even a twitch of interest from hisnether regions.
“If I’m so fetching, then come here, my lord, and lay claim to me.” Lady Wylde’s red lips curved as she beckoned to him with one delicate finger, the other trailing from the hollow of her throat down to the bare skin between her breasts.
Benedict stifled a sigh. It was a damnable time for his cock to be so stubborn, but it did tend to be right about these sorts of things. “There’s no time, I’m afraid. Your guests have arrived and await your presence inthe ballroom.”
But Lady Wylde wasn’t one to easily relinquish her prey. “My guests?” She threw her head back in a throaty laugh. “Let them wait.”
Benedict arched an eyebrow as she rose from her chair. She sauntered toward the settee, pushed his leg aside, and sank downonto his lap.
No. Stillnary a twitch.
Lady Wylde wasn’t the first woman who’d attempted to ensnare him with her seductive wiles. Benedict had been chased many times, and it had never dampened his arousal before. Quite the opposite. He was an indolent creature, and he’d always been rather grateful to his paramours for saving him the effort of a pursuit.
She wriggled her round bottom against him, her warm breath caressing his cheek. His hand landed her thigh, more from habit than anything else. He gave it a hopeful squeeze—he was aman, after all—and eyed the pale, full globes of her breasts spilling from her bodice.
Nothing. His cock was staging a rebellion.
He couldn’t make sense of it. He hadn’t come to London for a dalliance with Lady Wylde, but he’d been eager enough to bed her last season. At the moment, however, he couldn’t recall why she’d caught his attention in the first place.
Troubling, really. He hadn’t bedded a woman in months. Now here he was with an obliging lady perched on his lap, and she was just the sort of lush, dark beauty he favored. If his cock refused to stand for a siren like Lady Wylde, he might as well give up on being a wicked rake and return to Surrey now—take up angling, or bird watching, or whatever it was gentlemen did when they declined into their dotage.
“May I offer you morewine, my lord?”
Benedict turned his attention to his wine glass, which had remained untouched since he’d arrived. “Later, perhaps.”
“You’re somber this evening. Is there nothing I can do to cheer you?” Lady Wylde’s red lips curved in an inviting smile, and one slim hand landed on his knee. “There must besomethingthat will restore you to your customary good humor.”
Her hand inched up Benedict’s thigh. Given how determined she was to lift his, er…spirits, she’d take a refusal on his part as a grievous insult, indeed, but he couldn’t make himself give a damn.
“No, thank you, my lady.” Benedict caught her wrist and removed her hand from his thigh. “I believe I’ll make an appearance in the ballroom, and leave you to complete your toilette. Perhaps you’ll favor me with your firstdance tonight?”
Lady Wylde wasn’t accustomed to being rejected. Her cheeks reddened with anger, and her full, pouting lips pressed into a tight line. “No, I’m afraid not. I’ve promised my first dance to Lord Harrington.”
She tossed her head, but she didn’t relinquish her place on his lap. Instead she clung to him like a burr, as if she were expecting him to leap to his feet in a fit of jealous rage at the mention of Lord Harrington.
Benedict remained where he was. The idea of such a scene exhausted him, and before he knew what he was doing, he raised his fingers to his mouthto hide a yawn.
“Am Iboringyou, Lord Haslemere?” Lady Wylde had been toying with his hair, but now she sank her claws into the back of his neck.
“Ouch! Er, I mean, no, of course not.” He winced as he traced a finger over the long, deep scratch she’d carved into his flesh. “You’re uniformly charming—”
But it was too late to soothe her ruffled feelings. She leapt free of his lap and flounced back to her dressing table. Her face was mottled with fury, and the eyes that met his in the glass glittered with temper.
