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Searching the room for a servant bearing more spirits, he tried to ignore the tittering debutantes and their match-making mamas vying for his attention. He supposed he was ripe for the Marriage Mart now—rather like a piece of prime horseflesh at Tattersalls. Everyone present knew he recently came into his title.

More than one affronted dame glared at him. He’d bet his favorite hunting hound they were more vexed with him for ignoring their transparent attempts to parade their calf-eyed daughters before him than his blatant disregard for mourning customs.

He cared not. Not tonight, leastways.

This evening, Miss Caruthers commandeered his attention. Drawing his eyebrows together and flattening his lips, Ian considered her. Adorned in a shimmering white gown, with some sort of filmy silvery overskirt, she was—he grudgingly admitted—exquisite. A tiara entwined with a filigree circlet adorned her raven hair piled atop her head. The gems twinkled mischievously each time she moved.

She appeared angelic.

He knew better.

Her alluring eyes and seductive smile couldn’t gull him. Miss Caruthers might be a diamond of the first water, but he knew the truth concerning her. He was immune to her charms. His gaze sharp, he cocked his head. She appeared regal, poised, accepting dance request after dance request. A demure, almost shy, smile curved her rosy lips.

Did she rouge them?

He curled his lip in derision. Likely.

Arms folded, languidly holding his glass, he relaxed against the wall. The young bloods buzzing ’round her like bees to golden honey only confirmed what he’d been told.

His sister, Charlotte, eyes red-rimmed from crying, had wailed, “Miss Caruthers collects men like souvenirs.”

Ian grimaced again, his attention never straying from Miss Caruthers as she stepped and dipped to the music. Oh, yes, he knew her kind.

She epitomized the type of women he disdained. Fast women, who bewitched unsuspecting swains, like Geoff, and who stole beaus from innocents like Charlotte. Sirenswho cast their admirers off with the same regard as a soiled serviette or used tea leaves. Seductresses ever intent on pursuing their new conquests, uncaring of the hearts they crushed or lives they left in ruins as a consequence of their Jezebel triumphs.

Jezebel triumphs.

A familiar twinge stung his heart—or mayhap it was only his pride. Amelia was such a woman, though he hadn’t known it until she’d tossed him aside for a bigger prize. Why settle for him, the heir to a mere viscountcy, when there was a duke to be seduced? Ironically, the same duke who now lay dead from the lead ball Geoff had planted in his chest.

Exchanging his empty glass for a full one offered by a passing servant, Ian suppressed a sigh. He didn’t want to be here—loathed being here. He’d only come on his brother’s and sister’s behalf, to set things to right. In one quaff, he polished off the weak wine, barely suppressing a shudder.

Vile stuff, that.

Scowling as Miss Caruthers maneuvered the steps of the lively country-dance, he clamped his lips so hard, a muscle spasmed in his jaw. He trailed her movements, ever closer, across the sanded parquet floor. The dance steps brought her within a few feet of where he stood. Skipping past him, she laughed at something her partner said.

A jolt slammed into Ian’s gut.

God’s blood! She was laughing, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. His breath hissed from between clenched teeth. Under his breath he vowed, “By all that is holy, by evening’s end, I’ll put a stop to your dalliances—once and for all.”

Precisely how he would go about curbing her, he hadn’t yet determined.

Someone jabbed his shoulder.

“Nephew?”

He stiffened at the familiar feminine voice.

“Heard tell you were here. Didn’t believe it at first.” His aunt poked him again, harder this time. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”

Dash it all, he had been.

He sucked in a calming breath before turning around and smiling down into the face of his maternal aunt, Lady Fitzgibbons. Barely reaching his shoulder, Aunt Edith was a formidable dowager in her own right. Tonight, she was attired in a vivid crimson dress. A colorful ostrich feather waved flirtatiously in her silver-streaked hair. Her familiar, cloying violet perfume wafted upward, tickling his nostrils.

Ian bowed over her outstretched hand. “Aunt Edith, you know I always delight in your company.”

“Pshaw. Don’t try your charming tricks on me, young scamp.” She cast a quick look around the room. “Gads, Ian, you’re in mourning. Whatever are you thinking, putting in an appearance here?”

He arched a brow, but remained silent.