Someone to Watch Over Me (Bow Street Runners #1)(6)

The private ballroom, with its elaborate plasterwork scenes of Neptune, mermaids, porpoises, and fish, was a perfect backdrop for Vivien. She resembled a mermaid herself, wearing a green silk gown that clung to every curve of her body. The deep neckline and hem of the gown were trimmed with ruchings of white satin and dark green gauze, and the sleeves were mere wisps of gauze at the shoulders. It did not escape Grant's or any other man's attention that Vivien had dampened her skirts to cling more closely to her legs and hips, heedless of the bitter clime outside.

That first sight of her was like a blow to the stomach. She wasn't classically beautiful, but she was as vibrant as a flame, with an intriguing combination of sweetness and witchery in her face. Her mouth was a fantasy come true, tender, full, and unmistakably carnal. The mass of her sunset-red curls had been pinned at the crown of her head, exposing a vulnerable neck and the most beautiful ivory shoulders Grant had ever seen.

Becoming aware of his intent stare, Vivien looked back at him, her red lips curved in a smile that invited and taunted at the same time.

"Ah, you've noticed Miss Duvall, I see." Lord Wentworth appeared at Grant's side, a wry expression settling on his wrinkle-scored face. "I warn you, my friend, Vivien Duvall has left a trail of broken hearts in her wake."

"Whom does she belong to?" Grant murmured, knowing that a woman of her beauty would not be unattached.

"Lord Gerard, until quite recently. He was invited to attend the ball, but declined without giving an explanation. It is my belief that he's licking his wounds in private while Vivien searches for a new protector." Wentworth chuckled at Grant's speculative expression. "Don't even consider it, man."

"Why not?"

"To begin with, she'll demand a fortune."

"And if I can afford her?" Grant asked.

Wentworth tugged idly at a lock of his gray hair. "She likes her men titled and married, and...well, a trifle more refined than you, my friend. No offense intended, of course."

"None taken," Grant murmured automatically. He had never tried to conceal his rough background, had even made use of it on occasion. Many women were actually excited by his occupation and his lack of pedigree. It was possible that Vivien Duvall would enjoy a change from her aristocratic protectors with their manicured hands and self-important demeanors.

"She's dangerous, you know," Wentworth persisted. "They say she drove one poor forlorn bastard to suicide just a fortnight ago."

Grant smiled cynically. "I'm hardly the kind to expire for the love of a woman, my lord."

He continued to watch Vivien, who had extracted a jeweled patch box from her beaded reticule. Flipping the box open, she beheld her reflection in a tiny looking glass fitted behind the lid. Carefully she touched the tip of a gloved finger to the heart-shaped patch that had been strategically glued near the corner of her delectable mouth. It was clear she only half heard the nearby gentleman who was trying earnestly to engage her in conversation. Seeming annoyed by his attentions, she gestured toward the long refreshment tables. He left at once to fetch her a plate, and she continued to study her reflection intently.

Seeing his opportunity, Grant snatched a glass of wine from a tray carried by a passing waiter. He approached Vivien, who closed the patch box with a snap and slipped it back into her reticule.

"Back so soon?" she asked without looking at him, her tone languid and bored.

"Your companion should know better than to leave a beautiful woman unattended."

Surprise flickered in Vivien's midnight-blue eyes. Her gaze dropped to the proferred glass in his hand. She took the artfully twisted stem of the trumpet-shaped glass and sipped delicately. "He's not my companion." Her voice fell on his ears like a stroke of velvet. "Thank you. I am parched." She drank again, her gaze lifting to his. Like most successful courtesans, she had a flattering way of looking at a man as if he were the only one in the room.

"You were staring at me earlier," she remarked.

"I didn't mean to be rude."

"Oh, I'm accustomed to such stares," she said.

"I'm sure you are."

She smiled, revealing a flash of pearly white teeth. "We haven't been introduced." Grant smiled back at her. "Shall I go find someone to do the honors?"

"No need." Her soft pink mouth pressed against the rim of the wineglass. "You're Mr. Morgan, the Bow Street Runner. That's only a guess, but I'm sure I'm right."

"Why do you think so?"

"You fit the description. Your height and your green eyes are quite distinctive." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "But there's something else about you...a sense that you're not quite comfortable in these surroundings. I suspect you would rather be doing anything but stand here in a stuffy room making small talk. And your cravat is too tight."

Grant smiled as he tugged at the white starched linen that bound his neck with an artful knot. The civilized confinement of high collars and stiff cravats was more than he could bear at times. "You're wrong about one thing, Miss Duvall--there's nothing I'd rather be doing than talking with you."

"How do you know my name, sir? Has someone told you about me? I insist on knowing what was said."

"I was told that you've broken many hearts."