The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(62)

So, he thought her desire to escape the festivities had to do with her frustration at her wallflower status. Content to let him keep to that erroneous belief, preferring it to the more dangerous truth that she, who’d prided herself on her strength, was terrified at the prospect of making a match. She angled her head, looking up at him. “One of these days, Adair Thorne, I’m going to prove how wrong you are about a waltz.”

He offered his usual cocksure half grin. “I’m not even sure you’d be able to convince me of that, love,” he said with a wink.

He stepped away, and she mourned the loss of his nearness, and just like that, reality intruded once more.

This time, however, there were no urgings or questions about her reservations. Rather, a companionable silence, a patience, and his meaning was clear. He’d wait until she was ready. And where his presence at those staid affairs had always been reassuring, now it only served to highlight the misery of her circumstances.

For she, who’d sworn to never turn her fate and future over to a husband, could see herself with a man like Adair Thorne.





Chapter 17

Having had most of the Marquess and Marchioness of Beaufort’s male guests as patrons at his club through the years, Adair knew firsthand with their vices and pomposity, the lot of them were fools.

Never before had he appreciated just how much, until this night. With Cleopatra seated on the fringe of yet another ballroom, and gentlemen stepping past her like she carried the damned plague, those noblemen proved the depth of their vanity.

Was it a wonder she hadn’t wanted to suffer through another infernal affair? Or . . . waltz with a single gent here.

Shuddering in horror, he eyed Lady Beaufort’s guests as they completed the intricate steps of some dance or another. His brother Niall and sister-in-law shifted into his line of vision, momentarily diverting his attention.

Well, I’ll be the Devil in church on Sunday . . .

He didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or compose a list of insults to eventually heap upon his brother’s head. For Niall Marksman, one of the most ruthless kingpins of London’s underbelly, a man who as a child had killed at command, now performed those mincing steps. Where the other guests, Niall’s wife, Diana, included, moved with an effortless grace, the partial owner of the Hell and Sin’s dancing was at best lively, and at worst, horrifyingly awkward.

Only . . . as Adair studied the pairing, he saw how the two were lost in only each other; there may as well not have been another soul present. With his flushed cheeks and the smile on his scarred visage, Niall exuded a softness Adair had believed him incapable of. He’d never been a man to waste time with inane pursuits, and yet, here he stood . . . dancing with his wife.

Adair himself had never given much thought to marriage. Since he’d contributed all his stolen and then saved coins for the purchase of a share in the Hell and Sin, that club had been his everything. It had represented security and safety, and the time that went into the running of it hadn’t allowed for a wife. But for the first time, he allowed himself for a brief instance the possibility of what that would be if he were married to a woman who was a partner in life.

Unbidden, his gaze traveled to the bespectacled miss glowering about the crowded ballroom. He’d never known a woman like her. Her clever mind and endless skill set in the overall running of a club had held him enthralled these past weeks . . . and God help him, if he didn’t hunger for her still.

He froze as the full ramifications of his ponderings gripped him.

A servant sailed past with a tray in hand, and Adair instantly plucked a desperately needed flute of champagne from the unsuspecting footman. Nay, I need something far stronger. Mooning over Killoran’s sister. He finished the drink in several long gulps.

Over the rim of the delicate glass, his gaze collided with Cleopatra’s.

She tipped her head in the direction of the dance floor and pointed her eyes skyward. He’d come to know her well . . . too well. So much so that he could identify when she was putting on a false show about ton functions. He also knew her enough to have found she was even more proud than any of the people Adair called family.

“Bored?” he mouthed.

Cleopatra feigned a wide yawn, patting her lips with her palm.

That public display earned several censorious looks from ladies seated nearby. Again, Adair was reminded of just how different Cleopatra was from all the women he’d witnessed, known, or been forced to brush shoulders with because of his siblings’ spouses. Raw in her every reaction and response, she earned the condemnation of the same people whose approval she sought, but he appreciated her all the more for it.

Adair shook his head. “Don’t believe you,” he slowly mouthed.

Cleopatra flared her eyes through the crystal lenses of her spectacles to reveal a look of mock outrage, and with a furtive movement, she lifted a finger in a crude gesture that would have escaped most of the fancy toffs present.

A sharp bark of laughter escaped him.

“Never thought I’d see the day you were enjoying yourself at an event thrown by a peer.”

Adair cursed, and he spun about. Bloody hell. Caught unawares not for the first time since she’d entered his household.

Calum stared, triumphantly grinning. “And I especially never expected you’d find such pleasure at one of them that you’d fail to hear a person’s approach,” his brother goaded.