One Night With You (The Derrings #3)(4)

"I'm afraid I cannot linger in Town. I've an errand to dispense and then I'm off." Errand. An adequate description of his task.

"To rusticate in the wilds?" She made a pffting sound. "You mean you're not interested in renewing old friendships?" Her eyes shimmered with a wicked light. Only five years older than himself, she had aged remarkably well. Although her hair was an improbable shade of red, her face and body were as tight and smooth as the first day they met. "I'm confident I can provide you with a reason to linger." Her eyes locked with his, hot with promise, gleaming with a desire that had quite undone him as a lad. Him and Albert both.

And yet little moved him now.

"It's been a long time, mon cher," she continued, "and you've grown into quite the man." Her heavy-lidded gaze held his eyes, hot with promise.

"I'm ugly as sin and you know it." If she didn't make her living stroking the egos of gentlemen, she'd react as all other women did and steer clear of his menacing mien. Her plump, bejeweled hand brushed the front of his trousers, challenging his words.

"What are we waiting for, then?" he asked.

Determination had brought him to her. Determination to feel something, anything. He may want nothing to do with tender sentiments, but sex was something else entirely. Especially with a partner who did not have to close her eyes as he leaned over her.

Sex could make him forget. Make him feel again. Even if only for a short while. His gaze flicked to the many alcoves surrounding the ballroom. Moans and cries floated from behind the scarlet damask drapes, mingling with the music of the orchestra. He doubted there was a room in the house not already occupied. Even the dancing couples appeared to be more in the midst of fornication than a waltz. Distaste filled him at the dissolute scene, oddly echoing the feelings he had after a battle, standing aboard ship and looking out over the carnage.

" Mon cher, give me but a moment." Her eyes raked him hungrily. Seth's lips twisted in a smile. The scar at his lip tightened and pulled, and he quickly released the smile, letting his mouth fall into a mild line. Grasping her fingers, he raised them to his lips, watching for a sign of revulsion to cross her face. Fleur lifted herself eagerly toward his hand.

"It would be a delight," he murmured, aggravated at the desultory tone of his voice. Here stood a woman ready and willing. Why did he not feel excitement, desire? Something. Anything. Why did he not feel?

"You remember the lavender salon? It is for my use alone." Her tongue slowly traced her rouged lips. "I shall be along shortly. A few matters require my attention before I can claim the long, uninterrupted hours I require with you." Her kohl-lined eyes slid over him in heated perusal. He kissed the back of her hand. "It will be my pleasure."

Anything to put off returning to the thick silence of his house across Town, to keep from staring into the dark and thinking about the unrelenting night that ruled his sister—the darkness that he had forced on her in the reckless days of his youth. But that was his cross to bear. One of many. Taking a wife was the least he owed Julianne. And it wasn't as if marriage would affect him to any great degree. It was not as if he were holding out for someone special, someone to love. He simply required a bride with similarly low expectations.

His hand lifted to stroke the scar splitting his top lip, fingering the skin-puckered tear as he contemplated the nameless, faceless female with a heart as remote as his own.





Chapter 3


The iridescent gold gown was a far cry from the modest blue she had worn at the start of the evening. Jane tugged at the bodice, hoping to pull it higher. Her face burned from the way the men ogled her. Not only her, but every woman in the room. They assessed and surveyed like hawks searching the horizon for the choicest morsel.

Costumed gentlemen lurked everywhere: Cupids, Caesars, pirates. They ogled every woman in attendance as if they had the God-given right, as if every female in the room were present for their pleasure, to be touched and fondled at whim. And perhaps they were. None appeared to be ladies overly concerned with their virtue.

The gold diamonds warmed the flesh of Jane's bosom. Her hand brushed the stones every so often, taking comfort in their presence—the only extravagance, the only item of value someone thought her worthy to possess. They fed her courage in the face of so many wolves. Not for the first time, she wondered if she had made a mistake in coming here.

"Taste this," Astrid said, offering a lobster pasty. "They're divine." Shaking her head, Jane tugged on the dress again. "It doesn't fit," she grumbled.

"It fits." Astrid announced blithely, chewing with an intense look of appreciation, oblivious to the admiring stares sent her way. With her fair skin and honey hair, she looked like a sun-kissed peach in her apricot gown. Hardly the coldly reserved duchess most of the ton knew her to be—

that even Jane had first thought her to be.

Astrid held up another pasty. "What about this one?" She squinted at it, her dark brows dipping.

"Appears to be stuffed with spinach. And perhaps artichoke, um, no, truffles…" Biting into it, she moaned with approval, the uninhibited sound rather odd coming from such an austere woman.

Jane raised her voice to be heard over the din. "No, thank you." Somewhere on the dance floor, a woman squealed in loud delight. Jane looked up, watching as a gentleman tossed the lady over his shoulder and carried her off into one of the curtained alcoves edging the ballroom.