Angel in Scarlet (Bound and Determined #4)(4)

Chapter 2


Lord Colton drew in a deep breath, the brisk air of autumn filling his lungs. God, that felt good after the stifling heat of the ballroom. He pulled a cheroot from his inner pocket—the one Anders, his valet, detested because it marred the line of his coat—walked to one of the oil lamps adorning either side of the terrace door, and opened the glass and lit it.

Turning, he walked a little way, into the first dark of the shadows, and settled, leaning against the cold stones of the low wall. He lifted the cheroot to his lips and pulled in the bitter smoke.

He should have brought out a glass of brandy as well, but his only thought had been to escape the clamor and heat of the ballroom. He leaned his head back, staring up at the stars.

Why had he even come to the blasted affair? He hated these things, hated being watched—and watching. They were always the same, the same food, the same music, the same people—the same young ladies.

Always the same young ladies. Even when they were different, they were all the same, pale and sweet, agreeing with his every suggestion, not a bit of fire or personality among them. Even when he’d thought he’d seen a flash of something special, seen the burn of flame and fire, it had vanished as if it had never been. The memory of a sweet laugh and gentle eyes came to him, eyes that were filled with kindness but also with that surprising flash of spirit. The softest lips he had ever tasted. He pushed the memory away, forced himself back to the sameness. He must remember that: Even she had been no different from all the others in the end.

And yet he was expected to find a wife somewhere in that crowd.

He couldn’t even say it was like looking for a needle in a haystack, because he had no faith the needle was even there. It was like looking for a piece of hay in a haystack.

He dropped his chin and stared at the bright light shining out through the doors. They were sheep—sweet, tender young sucklings—and he the wolf, only a wolf who had as little taste for lamb as for the toughest of mutton.

He crooked his lips at his poor attempt at humor.

Finding a wife among them seemed an impossible task, despite his mother’s promptings.

And he had tried, on several occasions; when he’d seen that hint of a spark, he’d pursued it wholeheartedly—only to again find himself gazing into the wide eyes of an innocent lamb, a lamb who’d probably faint dead away if he gave any hint of what he really wanted.

Maybe he should show his wolf’s teeth sometime; that would have them all running away bleating instead of rubbing about his ankles like kittens.

And now he was mixing his metaphors.

He was tired of it all, tired of the whole game.

A light feminine laugh echoed from inside. He turned—but, no, it was not the right laugh, not her laugh. And even if it had been, it did not matter, because she was not who he thought she was, not who he had hoped. His angel was merely one more lamb.

He should probably just leave. He’d spent the season surveying the new crop of lambs and there was nothing new about them. It was good the season was over and soon he could put away all social niceties.

He stared down at his evening slippers. Anders had outdone himself. He could see the reflection of the lighted doors as clearly as if he gazed up at them.

Perhaps he should head off to some gambling den and risk a small fortune. That might get his blood flowing again. Or perhaps he’d go to Ruby’s, where there was always a willing partner ready to supply just what he needed, just what was so lacking in the ballroom full of lambs.

A shadow moved across the reflection of his footwear.

He raised his head. His breath caught.

An angel.

A bright halo of light surrounded the shadow figure.

He swallowed.

The figure moved, stepped closer, bright flames surrounding her.

No, not flames—a gown.

A gown of deepest crimson…no, scarlet.

An angel in scarlet.

Only, only—he shook his head. No angel, merely a woman. Although he doubted there was anything mere about this woman.

She took another step. It was impossible to see her clearly, as the bright light of the dance floor left her features shrouded in darkness. It was equally impossible to miss the soft, lush curves of her figure, the rounded hips, the full breasts, the slender waist hinted at but not quite revealed.

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

This time he was the one to take a step forward.

He needed to see her face, needed to know if it truly was his angel.

She turned slightly, her gown shimmering like a candle in the darkness.

“Colton?” Her face turned as she spoke, low and deep, her chin angling up, the light hitting her delicate features, highlighting the soft cheeks and plump lips. “Colton?”

He knew that voice. He knew that face.

Miss Ripon. Angela. His angel.

His groin tightened, even as he forced himself to relax.

A sweet lamb. Tender and innocent.

Not at all to his taste.

Only in that dress, she looked anything but innocent. She looked like a woman he could want, a woman he could have.

But he knew better, didn’t he…?

—

Angela paused, peering out into the darkness. She’d seen Colton come out. She was sure of it. But the heavy dark of the evening hid everything once one was beyond the light spilling from the house.

He had to be here. It would be the perfect place to begin her game, to begin her vengeance.