A Breach of Promise (The Rules of Engagement #1)(9)

“Don’t be so damned cocksure, Marcus! You take too much for granted, but I suppose I am to blame in having made life far too easy for you.”

“You can’t help yourself, Mama. You’ve always doted on me.” Marcus flashed a devilish grin.

“And you’re abominable for all my efforts!”

“Don’t fret, Mama. All shall be smoothed over anon. I’ll humble myself and charm her. She’ll be beside herself with all the attention I flourish upon her.”

“Marcus. You don’t understand. The girl has character.”

“Character?” Marcus winced. “Is it as bad as all that? Why is it all girls with no claim to pulchritude positively brim with character?”

Lady Russell stared at him for a moment. “You are monstrous!” Marcus warily watched the fan, but she flipped it open only to cool herself. “In no way does Lydia want for looks. She is an exceedingly handsome girl.”

“Of course she is.” His expression belied his words.

“I doubt she’ll have you now anyway. And it serves you right.” The ubiquitous fan snapped shut in emphasis.

Marcus gave a condescending smirk. “Mama, she’ll be eating out of my hand before the night is over.”

*



“No, no.” Mariah waved away the floral-sprigged, sacque gown. “That print is too matronly and the neckline far too demure. You should wear the canary silk mantua instead. It sets you off to best advantage. You must make a statement, Lydia.”

Lydia protested. “But the canary is cut scandalously low. What manner of statement would that make? That I long for him to ogle my breasts?”

“Precisely.” Mariah winked.

“Why on earth would I want that?”

Mariah gave an impish grin. “I think it would be perfect justice to make him pine for what he has lost.”

“Don’t be scandalous!” Lydia chided. “I shan’t wear the canary. I thought to save it for a special occasion.”

“You would not call your first true dinner with your affianced a special occasion?”

“Correction, Mariah. My former affianced. And I really don’t know why you are troubling yourself so over my wardrobe selection. It’s not as if I wish to impress the man.”

“But why not? You must wear your best; flirt with every other man at the table, and save that haughty chin tilt of yours especially for Marcus. Make him suffer.”

Remembering her humiliation at her betrothal party, she considered her cousin’s suggestion. “You’re right, Mariah. I must dress to devastate. I’ll wear the canary and I’ll add the stomacher with the seed pearls and the Mechlin lace.”

“You will be a vision, Lyddie! And remember, no matter how he should beg or cajole you to change your mind, you must not be moved.”

*



Marcus glanced up at the grand staircase for the umpteenth time. “Bloody hell! Is she intentionally making me wait just to draw out the awkwardness?”

“It would serve you right after six years waiting on her side,” Nicholas drawled.

Marcus scowled and beckoned the footman for a refill. He already met the evening ahead with dread, certain it would stretch out painfully, interminably. Although fortified with several glasses of Madeira—that magical blend of wine and distilled alcohol that normally shifted him quickly into a happy haze—he found his irritation only increasing by the minute.

When his eyes next darted to the top of the stairs, two colorful, silk-clad figures were descending arm in arm. His attention shifted to the taller of the pair with a jolt. Under the candlelight, auburn highlights glinted in her chestnut hair. Though a fan sheltered the lower part of her face, he glimpsed clear, wide-set blue eyes under delicately arched brows. His tactile gaze tracked lower, noting the fine column of her neck meeting shapely shoulders. His gaze lingered longer than gentlemanly along the tops of milky-white breasts—exquisite breasts really—displayed to full advantage in her low-cut gown. His cock stirred with decided interest.

“Who is she?” Nicholas read his thoughts.

“Lydia’s cousin, Lady Morehaven, I presume.” Marcus resisted the powerful urge to raise his quizzing glass, but his eyes still devoured her. “Damn but that one’s a veritable Venus Rising.”

His stare lingered with fascination on the soft white mounds of her breasts. He wondered at their softness, how their supple weight would balance in his hands…how they would taste in his mouth. He had become quite a connoisseur of them actually—women’s breasts—as well as boasting of a certain expertise of other…more functional and fascinating female parts. Over the past few years, he’d sampled many women of beauty, intellect, and style that only the Continent seemed to breed. One of the chief perquisites of the Foreign Service was consummate access such voluptuous delights often paid by their governments to entertain foreign diplomats. By consequence, blushing English roses like Lydia no longer held any appeal.

At great reluctance, he shook himself out of his dark fantasy to force his attention back to his betrothed. “Ah, Lydia, just as bland as I recall.” Lord Russell took a final swallow from his glass, handed it to a footman and advanced toward the stairs with indifference, thinking everything about Lydia still appeared some middling shade—neither tall nor short, hair neither light nor dark, and eyes neither blue nor gray.