The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(135)

In truth, she would probably accomplish both.

She issued a long and practiced sigh. “I hear the music has started up, and I think I see my partner for the first dance all the way across the room.” She didn’t actually have a promised partner, but it seemed a likely reason for her to depart the old man’s company. “It was delightful speaking with you, Lord Seymour.”

She stepped around his chair as she spoke, smiling down at him. He made a point to be looking elsewhere, of course. This worked into her plan, since at that moment, she intentionally caught her foot against the wheel of his chair, which sent her tumbling forward. She executed a swift twisting of her body, and a moment later, she was sprawled across his lap.

She wasn’t sure how she had expected him to react to her physical blunder, other than hoping he would do something to reveal the strength and reflexes of a much-younger man. She thought perhaps he would reach out swiftly to stop her fall, or mutter something in surprise that would give him away.

What actually happened was so much better.

She should have known someone of Nightshade’s skill would not be so easily shaken out of character. Turner likely had infinite experience with handling unexpected surprises. Her falling quite literally into his lap proved to be no exception.

As the feeble old Lord Seymour, of course he would have no way to stop a woman, even one as petite as Portia, from falling rather roughly across his legs. However, once she landed there, he was also helpless against removing her, though he made a good show of huffing incoherent words of indignation at her supreme faux pas.

It gave her plenty of time to note the bright flash of anger that flared beneath thick white brows as he looked directly at her for the first time since the start of their encounter. She realized with amazement that his eyes were a lovely hazel color: deep gold with a dark-blue ring around the outer edge and flecks of brown and green throughout the rest. She also noted that his legs were well formed and dense with muscle beneath her buttocks. His hand—which she doubted he even realized had fallen onto her knee—radiated heat. And the shape of his lips beneath his mustache was firm and sensual.

Then, there was the fact that Portia’s entire body ignited with a thousand tiny sparks, instantly heating her blood and turning her thoughts inside out.

While they continued to stare at each other, neither of them willing to do what was necessary to right her again, others in their vicinity began to notice their predicament.

Portia was grateful for the sudden attention. It allowed her to play off the heated blush on her cheeks as being from embarrassment, when she knew it was due to something else entirely.

“I knew it was you,” she whispered with a tight little smirk just before a conscientious bystander stepped forward to offer her a hand in rising to her feet.

Turner narrowed his gaze, and those masculine lips of his thinned with tension, but he said nothing.

She gave a wonderful performance, muttering her apologies and claiming to be notoriously clumsy. She brushed out her skirts as others stepped forward to ensure that she and her hapless counterpart were none the worse for the unfortunate accident.

As Portia leaned toward him again to offer her apologies, he met her gaze. The irritation she saw there nearly had her grinning, but she held herself back. “I am so very sorry, my lord. Please forgive my clumsiness. It shall not happen again.”

He gave a rough grunt. “See that it doesn’t.”

She curtsied and walked away, biting her cheek to keep from grinning widely at the elation running through her.

She had done it. Not only had she confirmed Turner’s identity, but he knew she knew, which made it all the more satisfying. And she had done it without revealing his disguise to anyone else.

It felt amazing to have accomplished something so tricky, and Turner’s annoyance over her achievement was a delightful bonus.

Portia spent the rest of the evening stealthily observing the aged and surly Lord Seymour in an attempt to determine if he was directing his attention to any particular gentleman in the crowd. After a few hours, she had to admit that Turner was very good at his job. Though he always seemed to be in view of Lily, she had not been able to discern through expression or action if there was anyone else he might be watching.

When she saw a footman pushing his chair out into the hall and he failed to return, her interest in remaining at the party went right out the door with him.





Eleven


Dell waited in the comfortable darkness of his carriage. He had long ago taken advantage of the vehicle’s privacy to remove his white wig and mustache and had wiped away most of the makeup that had been caked on his face to suggest the aged skin of Lord Seymour.

The disguise was no longer needed, as he had no intention of interacting with anyone for the rest of the night. His next few hours would be strictly surveillance.

Watching Lily Chadwick all evening had revealed very little. The woman had proven to be somewhat difficult to read. She looked much like her younger sister in her general features, including her smaller stature and gray eyes. But her hair was lighter than Portia Chadwick’s dark-sable tresses, and her figure more rounded around the bust and hips.

Not to mention, Lily Chadwick carried herself with a sort of serenity his impertinent client was simply incapable of. If he had not known the young lady had gone through a rather harrowing series of events just two nights prior, he never would have suspected she was anything other than completely composed and perfectly content.