Page 48 of Rakes & Reticules
“Be careful, won’t you Fletcher? I’m not convinced that her ladyship isn’t capable of great deception. I do not trust her.”
Siobhan cared about him.
His heart swelled near to bursting at what she’d unintentionally revealed.
“We are of the same mind there.” Fletcher rotated them toward the dancers. “Do you want to return to where you were sitting? It seems Mrs. Partridge has left.”
The dame seldom stayed past eleven.
Siobhan shook her head. “No, that bench just there is fine.”
She pointed to a tufted gold and royal blue bench between two more potted plants.
After seeing her settled, Fletcher braced his hands on his hips. “Would you like anything before I go? Lemonade? Ratafia?”
A kiss?
Her comfort, safety, and happiness had become paramount to him these past days. It wasn’t wise, of course, but this feeling prompting Fletcher—almost against his will and logic—to pursue and care for Siobhan was unlike anything he—a practiced rake—had ever experienced.
Even he recognized the rarity and need to treasure whatever this thing was blossoming between them. It was almost as disturbing as the threat to his establishment but in an exhilarating, anticipatory way rather than dread and apprehension. Self-derision tried to skew his mouth upward, but fearing Siobhan would misinterpret, he kept his face neutral.
“No. I am fine. Oh.” She looked beyond him, her expressive eyes telling him who was there before she spoke the words. “Lady Huxley approaches.”
“Remember what I said, Siobhan.”
“I shall.”
Fletcher pivoted and crossed to meet her ladyship. He didn’t want her near Siobhan, not that he believed she’d recognize the refined young woman as the ragamuffin to which she’d given a note.
Hecould scarcely see the resemblance any longer.
“My lady. It is wonderful to see you.” He bent into a toady’s bow. “I missed your company.”
Always one to love attention, Viscountess Huxley preened at his fawning.
Fletcher swore she’d dampened her crimson gown, leaving little to the imagination. Rubies and diamonds glittered at her throat and ears, complimented by dual bracelets at her wrists. A velvet, fringed reticule also hung from her wrist.
“Dance with me?” He extended his elbow.
Lady Huxley wasn’t of a mind to cooperate.
“Mr. Westbrook,” she murmured in greeting as she continued past Fletcher, straight toward Siobhan.
Bloody, deuced perfect.
Fletcher had no choice but to fall in step beside her. He wasn’t leaving Siobhan to the woman’s viperish tongue or mean-spirited antics.
Forming a moue with her rouged mouth, Lady Huxley turned her pouting gaze on him.
“Introduce us, Fletcher darling, won’t you?”
He’d rather eat boiled slugs. Centipedes. Scorpions.
Still, what choice had he?
He must have Lady Huxley’s cooperation.
“Mrs. McKinney, may I introduce Samantha Fogwell, Viscountess Huxley? Your ladyship, Mrs. Siobhan McKinney.”
