Page 2 of Too Wicked for Heaven

Him. Oh, merciful heavens, why him?

She hadn’t seen him in seven years, ever since she’d gone to live with Uncle Winston, but that made no difference. She had never forgotten those laughing green eyes or the dimple in only one cheek that gave him an utterly charming, lopsided grin.

Nev. Or rather, Neville Blakely, the Marquess of Foxworth, the brother of her best friend from years ago. The Blakely’s town house had been next to her parents’ then. During her childhood, she’d spent a great deal of time there and at Foxworth with Isabella Blakely.

He wore no costume—just the typical attire of a man attending a ball—and his gorgeous walnut-brown hair lay in its usual wild curls about his ears.

How many times had she sighed over those curls? How often had she worshipped Nev’s features, the dark, slashing brows and the lips full enough to be indecently sensuous? How frequently had she lain in bed, wondering what it would be like to caress that handsome face?

Now she was close enough to do so. What’s more, he was staring at her far differently than he had at the foolish girl whom he’d teased and mostly ignored.

Indeed, he seemed amused by her scrutiny. His smile brought forth that fatal dimple once more, making her heart flutter with a troublesome ease.

“Have I met with your approval, my curious beauty?” he asked in a husky voice. “Or must I perform another service to gain your good will? Challenge the rose bush to a duel, perhaps?”

“Only if you plan to lose, sir,” she snapped. “Because I can attest that this particular rose bush is positively dangerous. Now, please go away before someone finds me in this scandalous situation.” Like my uncle.

Thank heavens he hadn’t recognized her. But he wouldn’t have. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been rake-thin and short, with eyes too big for her face.

He tugged on her skirts only to find them still tangled in the thorns of the bushes. “Ah, but you’re not free yet. It would be rude to abandon you in your hour of need.” With one finger, he traced the line of her jaw. “Besides, I won’t go until I at least know your name.”

Oh, what a coil. If Uncle Winston ever found out she’d been alone on a balcony with the Marquess of Foxworth . . .

It didn’t bear thinking on. Uncle had forbidden her to socialize with either Isabella or Neville.

It was probably because of Nev’s reputation. She’d heard a great deal about his exploits, and not only from his sister’s clandestine letters. Even before the years when she and Isabella had trailed after him and his dashing friends, he’d cut quite a figure in London.

Society called him “The Fox.” Like his father before him, he was the kind of notorious blade whom matrons feared and eligible maidens sighed after. Not that it did the maidens any good. The Prince of Wales himself, one of Nev’s intimates, had once described him in rhyme:

The Fox will never take a wife,

He’ll be a rakehell all his life.

Though many a woman grace his bed

The Fox will never lose his head.

It was said that Nev didn’t care who inherited his title. The gossips claimed he preferred bedding the most influential women in London to being leg-shackled, that he didn’t care who inherited his title.

But more telling for Althea’s situation was the rumor that he never touched a woman without stealing her honor. And judging from the arm he slid about her waist, he seemed bent on stealing hers. Or at least tarnishing it.

She tried to wriggle out of his grasp. “I’d thank you to release me, my lord.” She steeled her voice with a haughty manner foreign to her. After he’d seen her sprawled on the floor like an unruly child, she must correct his assumption that she was a foolish chit who’d be flattered by his affections.

Even if it was true.

He raised both eyebrows, though he ignored her request. “‘My lord’? Do you know me?”

Her demeanor slipped a notch as she cursed her unthinking tongue. Oh, well, it wasn’t as if it mattered that she knew who he was. Everyone did. “I know of you. Who doesn’t? You’re Lord Foxworth.”

That one-sided dimple of his appeared once more, determined to charm her again. “You have the advantage of me, for you know my name, but I don’t know yours. Won’t you enlighten me?”

“I’m not that much of a fool,” she quipped.

He merely grinned. “Your distrust pains me to the heart, madam.” He lifted his hands to clasp her shoulders, and she could feel the warmth of them even through her gown. “Perhaps my intentions are honorable. Perhaps I merely want your name, so I’ll know whom to approach with an offer.”

Her inelegant snort only seemed to deepen his amusement.

“Don’t you believe me?” he asked with a mock expression of wounded pride. He slid his hands along her shoulders toward her neck.