Page 2 of A Devil in Silk
Yet something tugged at her attention. Her gaze drifted, almost of its own accord, to the man standing near the marble fireplace. He wore a dark velvet coat, and his black-and-silver harlequin mask shimmered in the candlelight as he watched her intently.
She would know that confident stance anywhere. But her body’s reaction to finding the viscount proved alarming. It made no sense. He always treated her as Daniel’s little sister, protective and fond, but nothing more. So why did her pulse flutter in her throat like a trapped bird? Why did heat surge through her veins as if he were a stranger who might ruin her with a single look?
His grin said he knew what kind of reaction he stirred. With languid grace, he pushed away from the wall and moved to the edge of the dance floor.
Damn the man. He could affect her with nothing more than his potent gaze. He couldn’t know it was her, yet he looked at her like she was the only woman who deserved his attention.
The scoundrel.
Had he forgotten he was to announce his betrothal in a fortnight? It was a match made for duty, not desire, a union neither party wanted. If he resented the prospect, he never showed it. He wore obligation as easily as his harlequin mask—a flawless facade hiding whatever truths lay beneath.
Did that not prove how cold he truly was?
She turned her focus back to the dance, but her steps faltered. His presence pressed against her like a storm front, invisible yet impossible to ignore.
Fool! He’s merely searching for his next mistress.
But that wasn’t true.
When he married, he’d made it clear no woman but his wife would share his bed. But he disliked Miss Woodall, and by his own account, the lady would sooner suffer a painful death by poison than marry him. It was so confounding.
Not that Clara cared who he married or bedded. By the night of his betrothal ball, she would have completed her tasks and be on the road to Henley.
She turned with her partner in the final chassé-croisé, but her slipper caught on the hem of her gown. Her balance faltered and she stumbled. Before she could fall, a firm hand closed around her elbow.
It didn’t belong to her dance partner.
She looked up and met Lord Rutland’s arresting blue gaze. Oh, those eyes. A lady could drown in them or bathe until her skin turned wrinkly.
“A slip of the foot, Contessa?” he uttered in a warm, teasing tone. “You’ll find I’m a much steadier partner, should you wish to continue the dance.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. Thank heavens she wore a mask. At least a blush blended nicely with her costume. And who’d told him she went by the name The Crimson Contessa?
“Ah,mio signore,” she said, adopting the lilting accent of her Italian housekeeper. “I am quite out of breath. Though I daresay other ladies would be delighted to benefit from your skill.”
Though she smiled, she silently cursed. The brief touch of his hand on her elbow had her heart racing like a skittish colt. Dancing with him now would be pure folly.
“Share a drink with me. A glass of champagne,” he pressed, leading her off the floor towards an alcove, quite certain she would accept.
“King Henry has already secured my refreshment,” she said with a graceful tilt of her lips. “You are most gallant, signore, but I would not dream of keeping you from more willing company.Buona notte. Do try not to break too many hearts before dawn.”
His smile lit his eyes, and for a moment she forgot to breathe.
Foolish heart. The organ fluttered like a debutante’s fan.
“The night is still young,” he said, his voice rich with suggestion. “The garden is enchanting in the moonlight. I’d be happy to escort you, Contessa. I imagine you might prefer fresh air to the suffocating company of the ballroom.”
Such a scintillating invitation would have most women darting for the French doors before he’d finished the sentence.
“Sì, the night air, it does hold a certain allure. But I take my walks alone,signore. A lady must be careful, even in charming company.” Her gaze lingered on his harlequin mask. “And I know better than to follow a man who wears the face of mischief.”
“What do you know of mischief?”
Clara laughed as if she were a woman of experience, not one forced to confront harsh realities. “I know it always begins with a bold question like that.”
He leaned in slightly. He might look the picture of devilish temptation, but she knew the truth. Duty tethered him in heavychains. A man about to marry for obligation, not love, had no business toying with women behind a mask.
“Tell me, Contessa. Has a man led you down a reckless path before?” He narrowed his gaze as though trying to decipher who she was beneath her poised exterior. “Perhaps what I offer is more intriguing than anything you’ve encountered.”
