“You’ll need to swim across. And in order to swim with the crocodiles, one must become a crocodile. Or at least don a convincing crocodile disguise. And everyone in there, Keating”—he jerked his chin in the direction of the ballroom—“is a crocodile. Particularly during mating season.”
She was speechless. And fascinated.
“Speaking of which. What are you doing wandering about, without your”—he spiraled a finger in the air, as if paging through an invisible dictionary for a word—“minder?”
“Myminder?” She was startled. As if she were a donkey.
“Usually some formidable woman of middle years charged with trailing young women to protect them from straying into the hinterlands of houses and launching into conversations with scandalous personages like me. Your chaperone. Your companion. Your Reputation Protector. Whatever the ton has decided to call it this year. Who is she, where is she, and why are you alone?”
This sudden transition from riddle to inquisition rattled her. She thought of Lady Wisterberg. She couldn’t bring herself to say she was at the gaming table.
“Are you scandalous?” she whispered finally. Her heart sank.
He flicked his eyes skyward briefly. “Crocodile food,” he muttered, to no one specifically.
He reached into his coat and produced what appeared to be a cheroot, which he idly rolled between his fingers.
He didn’t light it. His expression had gone serious.
“Or...” He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Perhaps, whoever she is sent you out here hoping to orchestrate a compromising situation, the sort that would make me, through misguided honor, fall upon that sword known as matrimony. Perhaps she thought I’d be reflecting upon my mortality after having been hit in the face, and eager for a life of quiet domesticity. It’s been tried more than once, Keating, and all have failed,” he warned darkly. “It can’t be done.”
She was once again speechless. She clamped her teeth to keep her jaw from dropping.
The astounding cheek of him!
Or... was he teasing her again?
This seemed likely. But now she was curious. What would this entrapment entail? A swoon in his proximity, a spy waiting in the wings to dart out to catch him with a woman in his arms and threaten ruination? What kind of woman would lay a trap for such a man? Did people actually do that sort of thing?
Perhaps a crocodile would.
She could well imagine the covetousness he inspired—all beautiful things, from dresses to people—seemed to stir varying degrees of turmoil in onlookers. But for heaven’s sake. He seemed such a difficult man. Half imp, half satyr. All wrapped up in an intimidating mantel of notoriety. He’d be no more appropriate as a husband than the King of the Fairies would be.
She suspected being married to him would belike forever yearning for something even while it was clutched in your fist.
“Well. That is disappointing to hear, indeed,” she humored gently. Ever so slightly dryly.
He didn’t reply. But after a moment the corners of his mouth deepened, and a devastatingly soft, wholly unguarded amused warmth gathered in his eyes. She could feel that warmth in her solar plexus; it spread softly through her limbs. And then he gave his head a slight, wondering shake.
For one mad instant she felt as though she’d been given a peek beyond his drawbridge right into the burning heart of the man.
The moment was over too soon, and left her breathless and restless.
“It’s Lady Wisterberg,” she confessed. Her voice was faint. “My aunt turned her ankle and couldn’t come to London.”
She did not like one bit the cynical, knowing light that flashed in his eyes when he heard the name.
But he said nothing. He pushed himself away from the wall briskly. “I’m going to do you a favor and vanish like an apparition because heaven forfend you’re seen chatting merrily and alone with the likes of me. But I’ll leave you with a bit of wisdom. If someone spent a precious breath insulting your sleeves, it likely meant she perceived you as a rival, which is useful to know. Sometimes insults are more valuable than compliments, and sometimes what seems like kindness is a sort of chess move. Good luck with your season.”
His bow was swift and graceful, and just before he vanished around the corner he turned around and walked backward two steps and flashed a finalgrin. “And by the way, Keating, blue is, indeed, your color.”
Lady Wisterberg, he thought wryly.Thatwas almost funny. God help the girl.
Confident Farquar would have been piled into a carriage by now, Kirke strode back the way he’d come up the stairs, past all those Clayton ancestral portraits, their chins engulfed in ruffs, their hairlines plucked so that their foreheads looked vast. All, no doubt, wearing the correct, stylish sleeves for the era.Imaginewanting to decorate your walls with your relatives, he thought. Apart from his great-uncle—who’d had money and had seen something in young Dominic, and had sent him to school—his own would be a gallery of rogues, ruffians, and ne’er-do-wells. A row of proud sneers and square chins.
The only painted image he had of any relative was Leo.
The thought of him made Kirke tense as if he’d brushed up against a wound.
