by Tanya Wilde
And yet . . .
It was silk.
It was honey.
It was addictive.
He turned away from Lady Theodosia in search of the source of the melodious regalement, but it had already retreated among the throng of dancers.
“My lord?” Lady Bridgeley prompted, drawing Harry’s attention back to the trio.
“I . . .” He shook his head. “If you will excuse me, I have a matter I must see to straightaway.” He bowed and left the two women frowning after him, vaguely aware of Saville apologizing and excusing himself as well.
“What matter would that be, Avondale?” Saville asked as he fell into step beside Harry. “Retrieving your manners?”
“Why the devil did you do that?” Harry snapped in response.
“Thrust Lady Theodosia upon you?”
“Please do not put it like that.”
Saville shrugged. “I’m helping you.”
“Don’t,” Harry said, circling the dance floor, searching the faces of the dancers to find the woman to whom the laughter belonged. An unworldly urge drove him. He did not know why it felt imperative that he find the woman behind the laughter, but it did.
“Lady Theodosia is on the list,” Saville drawled. “You should have conversed with her to see if you suit.”
“We don’t suit.”
“How can you be sure? You barely spoke to her.”
“I’m sure.” His gaze lingered on a woman dancing with the Earl of Rochester. Delicate and fine-boned, her face was flushed with a rosy hue that matched the color of her silk gown. He blinked and they were gone.
“You could tell by looking at her?” Saville pressed.
“No,” Harry answered, searching the line of dancers once more. Laugh again, I beg of you. “I could tell by the shudder of my shoulders as her eyes met mine.”
“Ah,” Saville drawled, amused. “You received The Look.”
Again, silky laughter reached across the dance floor to prickle his spine. This time, he was ready. His gaze darted to the rosy-hued goddess. He was rewarded with the flash of her teeth as the sweet sound fluttered from her lips. He stared, awestruck.
It was her.
“Who is that?” he asked Saville, whose gaze followed Harry’s to the dancers.
“The woman dancing with Rochester?” Saville arched an incredulous brow. “You don’t know?”
“Would I ask if I did?”
Saville chuckled. “That, old chap, is Lady Ophelia Thornton.”
Harry’s gaze jumped to Saville. The man resembled a fox, so sly was his grin.
“That is Lady Ophelia?”
A knot of heat coiled in his chest.
“The very one.”
Harry’s gaze tracked the path Lady Ophelia and Rochester blazed with the waltz. She moved with elegance and grace. Beautiful. A goddess. He could not look away. Spellbound. His gaze traveled over her comely features as he breathed in every small nuance of her expression.
Harry shut his eyes at the dizzy change of his pulse.
“Something wrong, Avondale?”
Harry turned to Saville. “Wrong?”
Saville motioned to Harry’s chest, where Harry clutched his hand to his heart. He dropped his arm as if he had burned himself.
“The air is stifling.”
Saville sent him a speculative glance before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s these events—too many mother hens clucking about.”
“Must be.”
“You seem rather taken with Lady Ophelia.”
Harry’s denial was instant. “Merely indulging my mother and assessing her list.”
He hadn’t fully surrendered himself to the fate of wedding to fill the family coffers. He didn’t know if he could. It felt wrong given that only six weeks had passed since they had buried his father. It felt wrong even beyond that. So he found himself warring with the discovery that she, the woman with the sweet laughter responsible for his puzzling pull to her, claimed the top of his mother’s list.
Harry watched her interactions with Rochester. Their easy banter suggested they were familiar with each other. Perhaps they did have an understanding. A sharp pang of jealousy—foreign and strange—tightened his gut.
“Be careful with that one,” Savile drawled, his grin widening. “Her nose rivals that of any bloodhound.”
Harry frowned. “Your meaning?”
Saville clapped Harry on the back and leaned toward him, lowering his voice to a whisper. “She can smell a predator from miles away. Many have tried to win her. All have failed.” He leaned back and brought his voice to a normal volume once again. “Lucky for you, Avondale, you have only been in that category for two days, so the stench has not covered you yet.”
Harry shot his friend an annoyed glance. “I’m not a bloody predator.”
“Of course not.”
“What are you doing here? It’s not your style to venture willingly into these shark-infested waters.”
Saville lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I humble myself, from time to time, with a glimpse of how the respectable half lives.”
“You are amusing yourself on my behalf.”
“That too.” Saville’s gaze flicked to the dance floor. “Dare I ask whether you have taken an interest in Lady Ophelia?”
“No,” Harry declared, averting his gaze from his friend. For all Saville’s nonchalant air, the man saw more than most. And Harry did not want his friend to read more into Harry’s curiosity other than exactly that—curiosity. “What can you tell me about her?”
Saville shrugged. “Not much. Only that she has a deep aversion to leeches and has rejected nineteen offers of marriage.”
“Nineteen?”
Saville nodded. “That’s the rumored estimate, at least.”
Harry studied Lady Ophelia. She was laughing again. When she laughed, every last one of her features glowed with happiness. She transformed from a goddess to a deity beyond.
Nineteen offers of marriage. Nineteen rejections. That alone should have inspired Harry to sprout wings and fly off. But curiosity was a powerful chain. He peered at the dancing couple more closely.
Could Rochester be the reason she had declined that impressive amount of offers? And why the hell this sudden spirit of inquiry? Harry did not plan to entangle himself with any woman, much less one on his mother’s list. And especially not a woman whose heart might be engaged elsewhere. He was indulging his mother until he retrieved his father’s lost art. Nothing more.
Still, the question turned over in his mind. If he did marry to restore his family’s wealth, would she be at the top of his list? Would Rochester be his greatest obstacle, or would it be Harry’s lack of wealth?
Most men would not even bother to try.
Harry would not either.
Yet there was something about Lady Ophelia that held him riveted. Entranced. A current of undeniable attraction surged inside him. Harry wasn’t sure what to do about it, so he dismissed the feeling altogether. Other more pressing matters must take sole focus in his life.
Then, as Harry turned away from the couple, her eyes lifted and collided with his.
The room tilted, wholly upended, and the blood rushed from Harry’s head. He almost staggered and, fully aware of Saville beside him, clenched his fists to keep from snatching his friend’s arm for support.
Harry was no expert at this sort of thing, but given the peculiar jolt of awareness that had just arrowed down his spine, he had the distinct impression that looking into Ophelia Thornton’s eyes ensured that his world would never flip right again.
***
Find a gentleman you fancy and pursue him.
Spoken like a true visionary.
Also the worst advice Ophelia had ever nearly considered following. Mere hours had passed since Rochester’s bizarre suggestion, and already Ophelia found herself disillusioned with the concept.
In a moment of sheer weakness, she’d convinced herself the ridiculous idea was worth a
try—at least the first part: find a gentleman she fancied. How hard could that be?
Ophelia gave an unladylike snort, drawing the gazes of two ladies off to her left. She ignored their titters. Having danced with gentleman after gentleman, she had kept an open mind, all in hopes of finding one—one—man worthy of her attention.
Not a single gentleman had caught her interest.
Lord Grump’s stomach kept grumbling.
Lord Chatty would not let her get a word in edgewise.
Lord Feline only talked about his cats.
Sir Ogle kept stealing not-so-sly glances at her bosom.
Ophelia sighed.
Tonight had been no exception to any other night. Rochester’s “advice” had changed nothing. The only thing that had been different was how much the seed of that ludicrous idea had blossomed in her mind. Disheartening, that. Which was why she was presently indulging in a ridiculous amount of confections at the sweets table.
Lord Dare passed her just as she stuffed another cream pastry between her lips, a giggling miss on his arm. His mouth curved into a wolfish grin, and he winked at her—the devil. Far from a fortune hunter, Thaddeus Sloane, Marquis of Dare, belonged to a different breed of male altogether. A libertine—a devastatingly handsome one, to be certain, but a libertine nonetheless—and Ophelia had no desire to try her hand at reforming a rake. Nor did she wish to be saddled with a fortune hunter. Or a tedious bore who conversed in cat references.
In summation: No rakes. No fortune hunters. No bores.
How she wished that her preferences didn’t leave precious little options for her to choose from.
“Ophelia!”
Ophelia turned to find Lady Leonora rushing up to her.
“I thought it was you,” she breathed out in a rush. “Your mother is looking everywhere for you.”
“She has not looked at the refreshment table.” Ophelia smiled. Her mother would have the vapors if she saw Ophelia wolfing down éclairs like an uncultured animal. According to her mother (and society at large), a lady should pick at her food like a bird. Ophelia crammed another pastry into her mouth. She was not a bird.
“That’s only because she believes you know better than to overindulge on sweets.”
“What can I say? I eat when I am burdened by annoyance.”
“Which is more often than not these days.”
“I might as well enjoy a few treats before my mother finds me,” Ophelia said.
She and Leonora were both on their third season and both plagued by the same wave of fortune hunters descending the ranks of the marriage mart each year. Naturally, they’d been instant friends. Leonora, perhaps better than anyone, knew how it felt to be treated as nothing more than a vehicle for someone else’s financial relief. More than that, she knew the pain that accompanied making the wrong choice: Leonora had married the wrong man in her first season, and though the marriage had been annulled shortly thereafter, the scandal still followed her.
“Better hurry, then.”
Ophelia felt a now-familiar burning sensation flare in the spot between her shoulders and tried not to stiffen. The feeling had first started when she had danced with Rochester. In search of its source, her eyes had collided with a startlingly handsome gentleman. Ophelia recalled those dark eyes staring at her. The heat in them had been overwhelming. . . . Had felt as if she were an éclair and the man had wanted to sink his teeth into her.
Yet even as she’d turned over the thought, she’d instantly dismissed the impression. The only thing men ever wanted to bite into was her dowry.
She ducked behind the broad back of a tall gentleman standing off to her side. Her gaze searched the crowd for the source; sure she would find those dark eyes seeking her again. She found him almost instantly, his gaze scanning the line at the refreshment table.
“Who is that?” Ophelia asked Leonora, discreetly pointing to the gentleman she’d caught staring at her.
Leonora followed her finger and quirked her lips. “That is the new Earl of Avondale. Quite the catch, though still in mourning.” Leonora cut her a look. “Handsome, is he not?”
“I suppose,” Ophelia replied, her voice trailing off. He was no Lord Dare, who was hard to look at with his perfectly chiseled jaw and godlike beauty. No, the Earl of Avondale possessed a more subtle handsomeness. He laughed a lot, one could tell. He was laughing at that moment, his brown hair glistening beneath the candlelight.
“Why have I never seen him before?”
Leonora shrugged. “He must be in search of a wife now that he has inherited.”
“But he is in mourning.”
“Exactly.”
Ophelia started to frown, then caught Lord Dare raking his eyes over her friend. “Do not look now, but Lord Dare is sneaking glances at you.”
Leonora groaned. “The man is a hound dog.”
“Has he set his sights on you? He ought to know better.”
“I agree,” Leonora said. “He accidentally overheard me proclaim to Phaedra how grand it would be to skip the marriage mart and take a lover. A jest, naturally. Apparently, the words are irresistible to a rake. He has been skirting around me ever since.”
Ophelia laughed. “It seems you can do with some cake yourself.”
“Do not tempt me,” Leonora muttered on a heartfelt sigh. “But truly, the man is relentless.”
“He is not a bad catch for that purpose.”
“Of course, I’m not actually considering taking a lover.” Her lips curved up at the corners, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Unless, perhaps, by my fourth or fifth season I still haven’t secured a husband.”
Ophelia shook her head in amusement. “What an idea.”
Leonora’s face lost all humor then. “At least we would be certain the affection is not for our fortunes.”
Yes, at least we’d know that.
The music struck up, and Lord Dare appeared before Leonora with a crooked grin. “I believe this is my dance.”
Leonora raised a brow and offered Lord Dare her hand. Before she turned away, she winked at Ophelia.
Ophelia chuckled as her friend sauntered off on the rogue’s arm, her eyes drawn back to the mysterious Lord Avondale. He stood, posture relaxed, in conversation with a man she recognized as the Earl of Saville. Another rake.
What did they say about the company a man kept?
“Lady Ophelia.” Rochester materialized at her side, stealing her attention away from Avondale. “Have you met the esteemed William Cale, Marquis of Kirkwood?”
Ophelia curtsied. “I believe we were introduced at the Lyon’s soiree last season.” A pure bluff. They had been introduced, she knew, but Ophelia had not a whit where. The introduction had not been a memorable one, though to be fair to the young marquis, these days not many were noteworthy.
The marquis bowed over her hand. “Just so, Lady Ophelia. It is a pleasure to meet you again.”
Ophelia offered him a faint smile. “How do you know my dear friend Rochester?” She glanced at the empty spot beside Kirkwood and frowned. “Where did he go?”
“Rochester?” The marquis glanced around. “I believe he snuck off the moment we took our eyes off him.”
She was going to kill her friend.
“Forgive him,” Ophelia said, smile apologetic. “He forgets his manners at the most inopportune times.”
“Nothing to forgive, my lady.” He smiled, his gaze flicking to the confections table. “You seem to be enjoying the treats.”
Ophelia’s face flushed. Had he witnessed her attack on the pastries? It was one thing to rebel against her mother’s expectations—quite another for a gentleman to witness the event.
Lud, how humiliating. Rochester better not tow more gentlemen her way, or he’d find himself at the receiving end of a stick.
“I admit to having a sweet tooth, my lord, but please do not tell my mother. She will perish on the spot.”
Kirkwood laughed, and Ophelia’s muscles unclenched. Perhaps the situation was sa
lvageable. Perhaps Kirkwood was not as colorless as his first impression.
A brush of awareness kissed down the column of her neck, and gooseflesh spread over her arms in response. The burning sensation from earlier flared to life, this time not on her back but in the center of her chest. Ophelia lifted her lashes to the source, and her eyes locked with pure bronze. Her pulse quickened, and a curious quiver fluttered in her belly.
Again, Ophelia was struck by the lunacy of Rochester’s idea. He had suggested finding a man that attracted her attention. There was no denying the handsome earl commanded hers. But even if she was inclined to give Rochester’s idea a try—and she wasn’t—Avondale would be out of the question.
Yes, she hadn’t ever felt so pulled toward a gentleman, but the look in his eyes was ravenous. Downright predatory. As if a kind of hunt had already begun. As though he saw no one else but her. She felt a flush spread over her skin at the thought and tore her eyes away from his.
Ophelia forced her attention back to the safe and unmemorable Marquis of Kirkwood.
Yes, Rochester’s plan was quite mad, indeed.
Simply imagining pursuing a man like the Earl of Avondale gave her the hives.
Chapter 4
“I cannot believe you did that!” Ophelia chastened Rochester, swatting him on the arm. He had rejoined her the moment Kirkwood politely excused himself to fulfill a promised dance to Lady Amelia Chesterton. “You left me alone with Kirkwood!”
“You were hardly alone,” Rochester proclaimed, nodding to the sea of guests congregating in the room. “Was he not to your liking?”
“He was perfectly fine.”
“But you did not feel a spark?”
“How could I? You made the situation deuced awkward by disappearing.” A few ladies who made their way to the confections table turned their heads at her word choice, and Ophelia lowered her voice. “I also did not agree to your madcap idea, so stop forcing gentlemen to converse with me. It’s humiliating and annoying.”
“I did no such thing.”
Ophelia raised an incredulous brow. “You disappeared the moment we weren’t looking. The poor man felt compelled to stay with me a full quarter of an hour—hence, you forced his hand.”
