Page 10 of The Luckiest Lady in London

But how could she expect him to go away when she was in such delectable ferment? Were she to rip apart her bodice, she could not be more conspicuous. Her sweet breasts rose and fell agitatedly, she had a death grip on her knife and fork, and from time to time she exhaled audibly, unsteadily, as if she’d been holding her breath for far too long.

It dawned on him that she was rather pretty after all, her skin fine and luminous, her chin a delightful shape and angle. And her eyes…

She was trying her best not to look at him. But he forced her hand here, pausing in the middle of his sentences, making it plain that he expected due attention, giving her no choice but to meet his eyes.

Every time their gaze held, he could sense the shock in her, as if he had reached under her skirts. Then a shadow of resentment deep in her irises, that he had this effect on her, that he could manipulate her reaction with nothing more than a desire to do so.

And he would experience a frisson unlike anything he’d ever known, a jolt of pleasure and of power.

Everything he did in life—with the exception of his astronomical interests, perhaps—was in the pursuit of power. Personal power, the ability to hold others in his thrall while he himself remained serenely unaffected.

And they had come willingly, surrendering their approval without a second thought, allowing him to retain the position of superiority in just about every friendship or affair.

He’d never known anyone who actively resisted. Or rather, who was torn about him.

Miss Cantwell was single-handedly introducing him to power of a different flavor altogether, as she struggled between her visceral need to escape him and her equally visceral attraction toward him.

So much so that after the ladies withdrew, he, who usually enjoyed his after-dinner port and cigar with the gentlemen, chomped at the bit to be finished. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, he did not go to her—that would be far too obvious. But he did let her know that he was watching her.

And with relish.

* * *

It was another overcast, starless night.

Felix stood before his window, gazing out. He had returned home in an exuberant mood, feeling more alive than he had in a long time. But now that headlong rush of euphoria was beginning to wear off; the street below seemed deserted as the sky above. His bedroom, as he turned around and walk across to the bath, practically echoed.

He wanted something, something he could not quite grasp or name.

He turned on the light in the bath and came face-to-face with a framed piece of the late marchioness’s needlework. Such pieces were scattered throughout both his town house and his country house—what devoted son would seek to remove such beautiful mementos left behind by his beloved mother?

He recalled many of the pieces from his daily allotment of time beside her, watching her embroider. In the beginning, they had served as reminders that he should be ever vigilant, lest he again taste the bitterness of love thrown back into his face. But it had been years now since he last paid attention to any of them; they had melted into the background and were no more likely to catch his eye than the pattern on the wallpaper.

But now he examined the tiny, meticulous stitches before him, a wine-red dahlia in bloom. One of his mother’s later efforts. He remembered walking by her, a cigarette in hand, feeling sophisticated and grown-up because he could irritate her with a habit she despised.

Feeling well beyond the heartache and yearnings of his childhood.

Only to learn at her deathbed not a year later how deluded he had been. How little removed from the heartache and yearnings he thought he’d left far behind.

Was this the universe sending him a signal, telling him that he ought to be as wary of Miss Cantwell as she was of him? That perhaps there was something suspect about the delights he derived from her company?

He turned and walked out of the bath.

He knew what love was. What Miss Cantwell inspired in him was no more love than a random clump of clay was Venus de Milo. Love gave; he wanted only to take. Love ennobled—or at least it should; he was fairly certain his desire for Miss Cantwell was about to make him a far worse man than he had ever been.

She would cause him no discomfort or anxiety. He would not give her up to avoid some imaginary future disaster. It remained to be seen only how he would go about gratifying himself, where she was concerned.

Of course he would not marry her. He was a man who respected tradition. and what was a good, solid, traditional marriage without a certain amount of hypocrisy? He would be The Ideal Gentleman in his marriage, but with Miss Cantwell…

He hoped she already thought very, very ill of him, or she would have quite a shock coming.

Chapter 3

The ballroom at Fielding House boasted of bold crimson curtains, a deep blue ceiling, and a smooth marble floor, brilliant under three chandeliers afire with nine hundred candles. Moody, gilt-framed canvases by Flemish masters crowded the walls. A trickle of dark-clad gentlemen and pastel-hued ladies descended the staircase, flanked on either side by symmetrically arranged tubs of fronds.

It was yet early, the bulk of the invited still at the opera or various late dinner engagements. The orchestra played softly behind a Japanese silk screen, conserving its strength for the small hours of the night. But Lady Balfour always left her box after the first act of La Traviata. Therefore, Louisa found herself at Fielding House at a relatively unfashionable hour.

Sitting next to a window that rose twenty-five feet to the ceiling, her hands folded demurely on the apple-green skirt of her borrowed ball gown, she reviewed her plan of attack for the evening.