Lord Libertine. Gail Ranstrom

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СКАЧАТЬ hand tightened around his glass as he watched Lady Lace wind through the crowds when she returned to the ballroom. He wished he could call her graceless or gauche, but she held her own with a quiet dignity that belied her apparent purpose—to kiss every eligible male in society. He eased his grip on the glass before he could break the stem, but his stomach began to tighten.

      How many times had he pitied men who’d fallen victim to Cupid’s arrow? Who followed their ladylove’s every move and sigh? God save him that indignity. Lace was a slow burn in his blood, and as soon as he satisfied his need, he would be himself again. And now, to make matters worse, he’d have to find McPherson and make amends. He’d be damned if he’d lose a friend over a skirt.

      “My! Such a dark look, Hunter.”

      He turned and found Viscount Bryon Daschel and Percy Throckmorton standing behind him. “Then my look matches my thoughts.”

      Daschel, whose good looks accounted for his nickname, “Dash,” followed the line of his gaze and nodded. “Ah, yes. Lady Lace. Quite the comer, that one.”

      “You do not seriously believe she will be a force in society?”

      “Male society, at least.” Daschel grinned. Throckmorton sniggered and nudged him.

      For some unaccountable reason, Drew wanted to put his fist down Daschel’s throat. Lace was his new obsession, and his interest had become proprietary. He took a deep breath and assumed a look of unconcern. “She is trouble, Dash. You’d do well to stay away from her.”

      “No doubt.” Daschel gave him a rakish grin. “But when has that ever stopped me? And why do I have the feeling that you intend to disregard your own advice?”

      “You know me, Dash. As a…connoisseur of beautiful women, I am immune to her charms. My interest in the woman is…shall we say, more cerebral.”

      Daschel laughed. “And here I was thinking it was located in another region entirely.”

      Again Throckmorton sniggered. “I say, Hunter, we all ought to have a go at her. Only fair, wouldn’t you think?”

      “No. I wouldn’t.” In fact, if Throckmorton wanted to have a go at Lace, he’d have to “go” through Drew.

      “Come, now. Let’s not quarrel,” Daschel soothed. “Let Hunter indulge his fascination.’ Tisn’t as if the chit is in danger of losing her reputation, is it? That, I gather, is too far gone for retrieval, though I haven’t spoken to anyone who has made her a conquest yet. Give Hunter a chance to break her in for the rest of us, eh? I warrant he’ll do as good a job of it as he always does.”

      Break her in? Lace might be unfettered, but he was beginning to suspect she was not quite a tart. There’d be no profit in debating the fine points with Daschel and Throckmorton, however. He decided a change of subject was the safest course of action. “Did you come to discuss the woman in question, or did you have other business with me?”

      “Thought you might like to come along on a jaunt tonight,” Daschel said.

      Jaunt. That was the word Daschel always used for an excursion into the opium dens near the wharves. Last year, when Drew had been searching for a solution to his ennui, and for a way to feel anything at all, he’d spent a considerable amount of time and money as a lotus eater. The only thing he’d gained was the knowledge that he did not like being in a helpless state and at the mercy of others.

      “Thank you, but no, Dash. Not for me.”

      “Last year—”

      “Was last year. This year I prefer a different poison.”

      “Do tell.”

      Drew lifted his glass with a self-mocking smile. “Mundane, perhaps, but steadier. Easier to control.”

      Daschel nodded. “As you will. But you must come with us tomorrow. Throckmorton has arranged a private tour of Bedlam. Should be quite amusing.”

      “Amusing?” Drew doubted observing the unfortunate inmates of an asylum could provide entertainment. He shrugged. “Perhaps. Where and when?”

      “Outside the entrance at midnight. Bring your ready. There’s bound to be wagering.”

      “If I’m not there, do not wait for me.”

      Daschel gave him a puzzled smile. “Sooner or later, Hunter, I shall think of something to pique your interest.”

      “I hope you will, Dash,” he said honestly. “It is a sorry state of affairs when there is nothing remaining to engage my notice.”

      Gazing at Lace, Daschel murmured, “I would not call her ‘nothing,’ Hunter. Finish with her quickly, will you? I fancy I’m next.”

      Drew gave his friend a rueful smile. He doubted there’d be anything quick about Lace and, unless he was wrong, she’d be worth the wait.

      He left Daschel and Throckmorton and moved to the perimeter of the room, keeping Lace in view. She wandered slowly through the crowds, and he saw her decline an invitation to dance with Lord Entwhistle, then move on. After a short conversation, she took the arm of a man Drew did not know and strolled toward an alcove. He knew what would happen there and fought the urge to interrupt them. And failed.

      As it happened, he did not have time to interrupt. As soon as he edged closer, Lace pushed past the column and drapery that shielded the alcove from view. She passed him without realizing he was there, her head down and a dark look of consternation furrowing her brow.

      Again he followed her through the crowds, to the foyer and down the steps to the street. He was surprised to see that no carriage or coach awaited her and that she simply drew her shawl up around her shoulders and turned toward the Mall.

      The Mall? The bridle path after dark? Alone? That was foolhardy at best. At this time of night she could run afoul of brigands of all sorts—cutpurses, cutthroats, debauchers…. Satanists?

      She’d just made a deucedly bad decision. He hurried after her, keeping at a distance. She had made it clear that she did not desire his company tonight but, to be perfectly honest, he was curious to see where she would go. Odd that he hadn’t wondered before where she lived, or how. This might well be an opportunity to discover her background. Heaven—or maybe hell—knew Drew was never one to pass up an opportunity.

      Bella wrestled with her self-contempt as she turned into the Mall and hurried toward Wards Row. The evening had turned chilly and mist swirled around the hem of her gown, just beginning to rise. Fog would not be far behind.

      Her evening had been a complete waste. Even Mr. McPherson’s behavior had been boorish, though she had to accept part of the blame for that. Had she never kissed him to begin with… And then she’d gone on to kiss yet another man. To no avail. All for naught.

      No, that was not entirely true. There had been Mr. Andrew Hunter to teach her what a kiss should be. And to remind her of what she was becoming. She pushed that unhappy thought aside and took note of her surroundings.

      Lamplight made her feel exposed in the middle of the inky night. Tall trees lined the bridle path and stirred in the light breeze. Shadows shifted through the leaves. A hint of malice pervaded СКАЧАТЬ