Page 6

She gripped the fan tighter, pressing her fingers against its scalloped edges. She dreaded further snubbing, though her concern was not for herself. From the corner of her eye, she considered the noxious lord mincing his way to her. No, she cared not a groat what these people thought of her. But if Vangie exposed the powerful peers, the scandal would surely spoil Yvette’s first Season.

Unclenching her hands, Vangie smoothed the fragile fabric of her gown. She laid her fingers on the rigid length of the blade beneath her skirts. Since a girl of twelve, she’d worn the dagger tied to her thigh. Yvette thought it daring and romantic, and though at first, Aunt Adélaid had been thoroughly shocked, she had grown to understand Vangie’s need to wear the concealed weapon.

Truth be told, the fickleness of Polite Society troubled her. If these were London’s finest, she could do without them, their affected superiority, and their snobbery.

They’d made it perfectly clear how they felt about her. She’d also heard the spiteful whispers about Uncle Gideon acquiring his fortune through trade, and of the Stapleton’s smelling of the shop. The aristocrats spat the words as if they were offal. No, she quite preferred the sincerity of the gypsy travelers and the simplicity of country life. Though even there, her people were persecuted.

Lord Pickles slithered nearer, waving his podgy fingers at her. She pretended not to see him and snapped her fan open, wrinkling her nose behind it. Gracious, did the man never bathe? Glancing past the other preening lords, she spied Yvette—a flaxen-haired, sapphire-eyed vision, floating in a cloud of pink and white silk—headed her way.

Vangie smiled in relief. Thank goodness.

Though supper had yet to be served, she prayed Uncle Gideon was ready to leave. If they hurried, they could escape before the musicians resumed playing.

Lord Pickles sidled near her chair and reached for her hand, snuffling, “My dear Miss Caruthers.”

Angling her fan, Vangie fluttered it before her like an infuriated rooster flapping its wings. Lord Pickles was forced to retreat a step, else he find himself thwacked on his prominent nose. He started to make a leg, but she suddenly stood. Without looking at him, she continued waving her fan about as if warding off a pesky insect.

A large, annoying, smelly insect.

Lord Pickles stumbled backward.

“Please excuse me, my lord.” She moved past him to embrace Yvette. While they were entwined, Vangie murmured, “Are we leaving?”

Yvette chuckled and shook her head. “Not yet, dear cousin. It’s not yet half-past ten, and Father and Belle-mere are engaged in a game of loo. I fear it will not be ending anytime soon. Aren’t you enjoying yourself?” She peered around the small crowd encircling them.

Vangie hugged Yvette to her again and took several deliberate steps away from Lord Pickles, drawing Yvette with her. “Of course I am. I have a touch of a headache. That’s all.”

Her cousin must not know how much these affairs distressed her. Yvette had been so hopeful Vangie would make a match this Season, and she’d be horrified at the lewd propositions her cousin received almost nightly.

Yvette searched her face, before sweeping her gaze around the assembled beaus. Upon spying Lord Pickles, her eyes flexed wide in apparent comprehension. Looping her arm through Vangie’s, Yvette said, “Perhaps some ratafia and fresh air will help. Come along. Let’s find the refreshments.”

They turned as one. However, Vangie stopped short as the object of her prior musings approached with the dignified Lady Fitzwilly on his arm.

Faith, he’s even handsomer up close.

Startled at her thoughts, she bit her lip, a hot flush of awareness burning from her soles to the tiara atop her hair. She glimpsed his serious face before ducking her head. What a goosecap. Now she was blushing like a bumpkin.

Yvette sank into a curtsy. “Good evening, Lady Fitzgibbons, my lord.”

Fitzgibbons? Drat it all. Vangie had forgotten yet another name.

Momentarily incapable of speech, she kept her head lowered, hiding her rosy face. She sank into a reasonable semblance of a curtsy. At least she hoped it was reasonable. She hadn’t wobbled again, had she?

Be mindful of the solemn one, tikna.

Her Romani grandmother’s words intruded into her already muddled thoughts. Vangie had thought it odd advice at the time. Now, staring at the panther lord’s shiny black shoes while he towered over her, Puri Daj’s warning almost made sense.

Smiling, Lady Fitzgibbons lifted her hand from his arm. “Ian, may I present Miss Yvette Stapleton, and her cousin, Miss Evangeline Caruthers? Miss Stapleton, Miss Caruthers, please allow me to present my nephew, Ian, the Viscount Warrick.”

Yvette dimpled, offering her gloved hand. Lord Warrick bowed over it, a rakish grin on his lips. “Delighted, Miss Stapleton.”

He turned his gaze on Vangie. His full lips curved into a slow enigmatic smile, revealing a row of strong white teeth against his tanned face.

She inhaled sharply, the air lodging peculiarly in her lungs.

His eyes glinted silver-gray, the color of honed steel. There was no other way to describe them. Raising her hand to his mouth, she swore she felt his lips brush her fingertips. Twice. It was most inappropriate. Why wasn’t she shocked or annoyed? Perhaps because the warmth vibrating the length of her arm, when his firm mouth grazed her, still tingled.

“Enchanted, Miss Caruthers.”