As the Devil Dares (Capturing the Carlisles #3)(37)
“Yes,” she mumbled stoically, yet was unable to keep the wry tone from her voice, “I’m certain you do.”
Her cheeks were on the verge of breaking from the unceasing smile she’d worn on her face all evening. And now, so was her patience.
Oh, she’d had a simply marvelous time earlier, listening to the Italian opera singer perform. She was so grateful to Elizabeth for allowing her and Evie to accompany the duchess to Lady Gantry’s annual musicale tonight, and when the woman sang, her voice was so beautiful that it nearly brought Mariah to tears.
But now, she was surrounded by nearly a dozen young men, all finely educated at Oxford and Cambridge, whose conversation sparked not one bit of interest from her. All they wanted to talk about was who belonged to which clubs, who raced the fastest carriages, who owned the best hunting packs—as if the ability to simply buy things proved anyone’s merit. Of course, she hadn’t expected profound debate on opera or philosophy, yet not one of them thought to bring up topics that really mattered, such as charity work, politics, the plight of the poor, or the changes to England during the past few tumultuous years. Which left her wondering…did they think she was too dimwitted to carry off those kinds of topics, or were they?
In fact, all the polite conversations she’d been forced into this evening had bored her stiff, when what she really wanted was to dive into the kinds of verbal sparring that she always fell into with Carlisle. That type of conversation she thoroughly enjoyed, and she didn’t let herself ponder what it meant that it was that aggravating devil, of all the gentlemen here tonight, who was the only one capable of holding her interest. It pained her to admit it, but in comparison, the gentlemen around her simply couldn’t keep up with Carlisle’s skill for debate, and none of them possessed the sharp wit that he wielded in spades, matching her own, barb for barb.
Robert Carlisle. The man was a menace. Yet she had to give him credit for his mind.
And for his control. After all, he’d barely flinched when she’d inaugurated the start of her season by spilling her champagne on him.
“Do you ride, Miss Winslow?” one of the sons of the Duke of Heatherton asked.
“Not at all, I’m afraid,” she answered, taking another sip of champagne. Drink might be the only thing that saved her sanity this evening. God help her—she had the rest of a very long season ahead of her of equally superficial, painfully polite conversations that characterized society events. At this rate, she wouldn’t have to worry about avoiding marriage proposals. She was certain to be dead of boredom by March. “I’ve never liked horses.”
He puffed out his chest like a strutting peacock. “Only because you’ve never been riding with me.”
And never will. She smiled politely, then took another sip of champagne.
“A turn about the room, Miss Winslow?” From behind her, the deep voice twined down her spine and hummed through her blood. She didn’t have to look to know—
“Carlisle,” she whispered.
Finally the evening had taken a turn toward the interesting.
She casually glanced over her shoulder at him, as if he were simply another one of the men flocking around her tonight, when in reality his appearance at her side sent her pulse spiking. “I’m terribly sorry, but Lord Gregory was in the middle of a story about horses.” She turned her attention back to the dandy and smiled at him to continue. After all, if Carlisle was set on subjecting her to such dull conversations this season, then he could suffer right along with her. “Lord Gregory, you were saying?”
“I’d asked if you—”
“A turn about the room.” His hand clasped her elbow from behind. “Please.”
“Come now, Carlisle,” Lawton interjected good-naturedly, but with a prick of annoyance in his voice. “You’ve already had Miss Winslow to yourself enough this season. The rest of us would like more time in her delightful company.”
She glanced over her shoulder just in time to see a dark look flash across Carlisle’s face.
Her heart skipped. Oh, that was not a happy mood! Good. The blasted devil deserved every prick he received for parading her through society like this.
He ignored the men around her and fixed her beneath his gaze. “Now.”
The anger seething behind the single word sent an ice-cold warning slithering through her, and she knew not to press her luck by refusing. She might be willing to cast caution to the winds, but she was no fool.
“Of course, Lord Robert.” She placed her hand on his arm, ignoring his narrowed eyes as she pretended that nothing was wrong. “I’d be honored to take a turn with you.” With an apologetic smile for the group, she slowly dropped into a curtsy. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.”
Carlisle nodded coldly to the others and led her away, ostensibly for a slow stroll around the room. He steered her toward the open French doors that let in the cool night air and eased the stifling heat of the crush of bodies and lamps blazing throughout the room.
When they were just out of earshot of the other guests, she muttered, “So our truce is over, then?” A part of her was sad to see it go. A very small part, because the rest of her burned to give him the thrashing he deserved.
He slid a sideways glance at her. “Oh, I think that truce ended the moment you decided to serve me champagne, don’t you?”