Page 27 of Thief of the Ton
Was this what Lady Betty meant when she spoke of the desires of the flesh—the intensity of pleasure that could only be achieved at the hands of a true master of seduction? Was this what a man could do to her with a single glance? If Aunt Edna was aware of the wicked sensations rippling through her, she’d have her thrashed—or exiled to a nunnery to scrub her mind of such unsavory ideas.
But as he strode across the room, Lady Francis on his arm, the turmoil of longing in Lavinia’s heart morphed into a stab of envy. The lady clung to his arm, her elegant curls shifting in the candlelight, the diamond necklace glittering at her throat, then they laughed together, as if they were the best of friends.
Perhaps they were. Lady Francis—the same woman Lavinia had caught debauching herself with Heath Moss. An elegant creature, always dressed in the finest silks, who always knew the right thing to say in a social situation, and had men flocking around her like flies round a sweetmeat.
Curse her!
The party filed into the dining room, and Lavinia’s envy heightened as the man pulled out a chair for Lady Francis, then took the space beside her.
During dinner, while Lavinia was stuck at one end of the table, subjected to Lord Foxwell’s accounts of how many birds he’d blown out of the sky at a house party—“Much as I’m loath to speak of my prowess, Miss De Grande, the regent himself has remarked on my superior marksmanship”—Lady Francis bathed in the demigod’s presence, while he tended to her with the diligence of a lover. Each time she held up her empty wineglass, he gestured to a footman for it to be filled. When she gestured toward the salt cellar, he passed it with a warm expression in his eyes. And when her napkin fluttered to the floor, he reached down for it, then placed it on her lap with a smile, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’d dropped it on purpose.
Could the woman be any more obvious?
And could he be any more attentive?
As Lord Foxwell droned on about his shooting prowess, the servants cleared the plates, then placed tall, thin-stemmed glasses etched with a delicate pattern in front of each guest. They contained what could only be described as a pale pink snowball.
“Sorbet!” Aunt Edna cried. “Sucha rare treat this time of year. My son’s icehouse was depleted last month. What do you think, child?”
Lavinia picked up the long-handled silver spoon beside the glass, dipped it into the sorbet, and took a taste.
Ugh.
Why did everyone feel the need to smother everything in sugar? Strawberries, in particular, tasted foul when overly sweetened.
She wrinkled her nose and forced a smile.
“I’ve never tasted anything the like,” she said. “Most…extraordinary.”
Which—as Aunt knew full well—was how Lavinia described anything she loathed.
“Lavinia, my dear…” Aunt Edna began, but she was interrupted by a shrill voice from the opposite end of the table.
“Don’t berate your niece, Lady Edna, I beseech you,” a female voice said. “Given her circumstances, she’s unlikely to have tasted it before.”
The young woman who’d spoken leaned forward and smiled at Lavinia, her eyes glittering with cold superiority. “We must always be more…charitableto those among us who are unused to luxuries.”
It was Lady Irma Fairchild, the Season’s premier debutante.
Irma’s beauty was undeniable, and her appeal on the Marriage Mart came from her title and fortune. It certainly wasn’t due to her character—both Henrietta and Eleanor loathed her, and though Lavinia preferred to make up her own mind about a person rather than be persuaded by the views of others, she had yet to witness any redeeming qualities in Lady Irma Fairchild—nor, for that matter, Irma’s equally loathsome friends, Lady Arabella Ponsford and Miss Juliette Howard. How Lavinia’s dear friend Eleanor could have a sister such as Juliette was a mystery. Eleanor was all sweetness and humility, painfully shy, yet with a loving heart unmatched by anyone of Lavinia’s acquaintance. Juliette was the exact opposite of her elder sister.
“I trust you’ll enjoy the sorbet,” Lady Irma continued. “You must savor every spoonful, in case the opportunity does not come your way again.”
Lavinia fixed her gaze on Lady Irma, took another spoonful, then wrinkled her nose.
“I find it overly sweet,” she said. “Not to my taste…” She glanced toward their hostess. “I mean no disrespect, Lady Foxwell. I’m afraid my tastes would be considered somewhat outré in a Society where most young ladies prefer to overindulge in sweetness.”
“Not at all,” their hostess replied. “I’ll always value honesty over flattery, particularly when communicated with such civility.”
“Well, Ilovethe sorbet, Lady Foxwell,” Irma said. “Your cook is a marvel. When I’ve secured a home of my own, the one element I shall not compromise on will be the quality of my cook.” She glanced up and down the table, and Lavinia suppressed a smile at the uncomfortable expressions in the eyes of the single men, as if they feared that they were in danger of being singled out by Lady Irma as the man to provide her with the home of which she spoke.
“An abundance of sugar is never to be sneered at,” Irma continued. “The sweeter the dessert, the better, in my opinion, even ifcertain individualswould disagree with me.”
“I’m not so uncharitable as to refuse to acknowledge that there are those who benefit from an excess of sweetness in their diets, Lady Irma,” Lavinia said. “Some individuals are in far greater need of sweetening than others in order to render themselves palatable.”
Lady Irma’s brow furrowed, and confusion clouded her expression. Aunt Edna—and one or two others who’d caught her meaning—drew in a sharp breath. But Lavinia was safe from public admonishment that would, if delivered, only advertise the insult.
Ignoring Aunt Edna’s glare, Lavinia took another spoonful of the sorbet, then she heard a noise at the opposite end of the table that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh, followed by a low cough. She glanced up to see a pair of clear hazel eyes trained on her.
