A Lily Among Thorns(81)

She brought her feathered fan up in front of her face. “Naughty boy,” she scolded huskily.

“Oh, I’m not a boy.”

“I’m immortal, you all look like boys to me.”

He stepped closer. “You’re not an angel either.”

“Don’t you find my costume convincing?”

“Perhaps I would find it more convincing”—he took another step—“at closer quarters.”

She rapped his knuckles with her fan—but very lightly, no doubt out of concern for the tray of champagne. “I ought to report you to your mistress.”

Solomon couldn’t keep a straight face anymore. “Please don’t. She’s a regular harpy.”

Serena gave a little satisfied sigh and gestured to the champagne tray. Solomon held out a glass. She made no move to take it. “Thank you,” she murmured, and he was about to nod, but she continued meaningfully, “for—” and tilted her head slightly to point toward the balcony. She trailed her feathered fan up his wrist. He shivered violently, sloshing the champagne, but thankfully it did not spill. “You were splendid.”

Now she reached to take the glass, but he didn’t quite release it, brushing their fingers together and stepping closer to whisper in her ear, “I’m sure you’re dying to give me a frank critique of my methods.”

She hummed low in her throat and tilted her head so that his lips almost brushed the magnolia line of her throat. “Cynical child! You were perfect.”

He was bored suddenly. Bored and dying with impatience to hear Serena’s real opinion, expressed in her ordinary voice. He wanted to see her face, see her birthmark creep upward and her lips curve sarcastically. He wanted to hear her laugh, her real laughter and not this husky kittenish purr. He could not quite credit that any man would prefer this. How could you be comfortable with a woman who told you only what you wanted to hear?

Well, she would tell him what she really thought later. He kissed her neck lightly—because who could resist?—let go of the glass, and stepped back. “I should get back to my duties. As for that—I assume you do know what kind of viper you’re nursing in your bosom?”

“I always do.”

He felt her quicksilver eyes on his back as he walked toward the buffet table, passing the marquis and Jenny Pursleigh on his way.

From the gestures Sacreval was making, he appeared to have just finished describing the latest Parisian sleeve as Solomon drew within hearing range. “—would look lovely in Paris styles. In France, you know, the women wear only one petticoat.”

“Really?” She smiled mischievously. “I think Pursleigh would like that. It would be so much cheaper, and he is always complaining about how much I cost. His tenants are not at all industrious.”

The marquis looked rather sardonic. If this was all a cover, it really was a good one. Solomon’s money was still on the viscount.

Lady Pursleigh looked at her cards. “I think it is my trick again, René!”

The marquis sighed and passed over a sovereign. “At this rate you will have enough for a dozen petticoats, my dear. And that would be a shame.”

She giggled. There was silence, and then Lady Pursleigh reached out and put a hand on Sacreval’s arm. “You—you do think it’s all a sham about Boney putting our troops to flight? You do think Wellington will thrash him, don’t you?”

Sacreval covered her hand with his own, and she looked thrilled. “Of course, my dear. You must be brave.”

After that, the evening dragged. Solomon and Elijah flanked the buffet table, too far apart to carry on a conversation. Elijah watched Sacreval and Lady Pursleigh like a hawk, as if he suspected that at any moment Sacreval might bolt, or perhaps begin communicating with one or the other of the Pursleighs using secret hand gestures, Solomon wasn’t sure.

Serena seemed to be having a good time, or else she feigned it beautifully. She didn’t dance much. Solomon wondered if she had ever learned any of the newer dances. But she flirted madly with one enchanted gentleman after another, fluttering her fan and dipping her blond head and, if Solomon could judge from across the room, laughing that soft, husky little laugh. She sent them to fetch her things from the buffet table every so often—lobster patties and strawberries, mostly. It made him jealous as hell, but—it was nice, too. As herself, she would have been the subject of leers and snubs and speculations. As an anonymous angel, she could have fun—so long as she refrained from being herself. He wondered how she felt about that. Was she grateful for the reprieve, or did she feel stifled by it?