Page 28 of Thief of the Ton
Once again, that unfathomable sense of recognition rippled through her body. Then he lifted his hand and dragged it through the mane of thick honey-blond hair that framed his face—a firm, square jaw, cheekbones that could have been chiseled by Michelangelo himself, and lips…
Sweet Lord!Lips, full and sensual, curved into a smile of seduction. The corners of his mouth puckered as his smile broadened. Then he dipped his spoon into the sorbet and lifted it to his mouth. A moist pink tongue flicked out and curled around the tip of the spoon before he slipped it between his lips. His eyes darkened, then he closed them for a moment, his nostrils flaring. When his eyes opened, they sparkled with need. Slowly, he withdrew the spoon, his gaze fixed on her. As the tip of the spoon emerged, a bead of sorbet glistened in the corner of his mouth. He ran the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, which glistened in the candlelight. Then he licked the edge of the spoon, caressing it lovingly with his tongue, narrowing his eyes as if he fought to control the raw pleasure of such an act. A low rumble reverberated in the air, the almost primal growl of a ravenous beast enjoying his first taste of his prey, ready to devour the rest.
“Are you enjoying the sorbet, Lord Marlow?” Lady Francis’s voice cut through Lavinia’s fog of need.
“Ohyes,” he replied in a deep baritone, his gaze fixed on Lavinia.
His voice, warm and rich, resonated in Lavinia’s bones, and heat swelled within her, giving rise to unfathomable, and positivelywicked, sensations.
“I’ve never sampled anything more delicious, Lady Francis,” he continued, maintaining his gaze on Lavinia. “Every connoisseur will tell you that we feast with our eyes first and foremost, all the more to heighten the pleasure when we come to taste, and devour, the delicious dessert presented before us.”
“And how does the sorbet taste?” Lady Francis asked.
A sparkle of mischief shone in his eyes. “A little sweet for my taste,” he said. “However, I’m sure there are other delights that would taste better than anticipated.”
Lavinia drew in a sharp breath, then looked away. The expression in his eyes was that of a ravenous beast, and though a wicked voice whispered in her mind of the pleasurable prospect of being devoured by him, her head told her that he was her superior in the game of seduction, and would leave her tattered and broken once he’d taken his fill.
But a part of her yearned to be seduced—to betaken—by him.
With a combination of relief and loss, she heard Lord Foxwell declare the meal concluded, then he invited the men to join him for port and brandy. Only when the men had risen and taken their leave did she dare look up to see the object of her desires as he bowed gallantly over Lady Francis’s hand, then followed the rest of the men out of the dining room. Lady Francis lifted her hand to her lips and gave a smile of triumph, and a ripple of jealousy through Lavinia threatened to expel the sickly-sweet sorbet.
He had been toying with her, enjoying her discomfort, while also, presumably, adding his name to the list of Lady Francis’s conquests.
He was a rogue. All Society gentlemen were rogues. But her disappointment would fuel her resolve to continue her quest for vengeance against the unfeeling Society responsible for Papa’s downfall.
Let them all think her an insignificant chit—it would make her task all the easier. For who would suspect that the Phoenix was a woman?
She would teach them a lesson—including the man who stirred her senses and ignited unwanted desires in her body with a single glance.
Chapter Nine
Peregrine usually relishedthe moment, during a dinner party, when the men separated themselves from the women. Tonight, however, was the exception.
Who was she?
Her remarks disparaging the sorbet had been refreshing in their frankness, but such an explicit declaration wasn’t generally regarded as appropriate. Certainly not when coming from the lips of a young woman.
No matter how lush and delectable those lips were.
What might they taste like?
As a rule, women’s lips tasted of strawberries and honey—a delicate sweetness with a promise of greater depth elsewhere. But the young woman at the opposite end of the dining table, subjected to Lord Foxwell’s boasts about his prowess with a gun, could not be described as sweet. There was a determined sharpness to her demeanor, visible even to the untrained eye.
And Peregrine’s eye was decidedlynotuntrained. Since entering manhood, he’d gained an understanding of women. They might say one thing, but their bodies often conveyed something else entirely. A courtesan, for example, to heighten a man’s desire, might speak of her disapproval of his attempts to seduce her, while at the same time shifting her thighs to part them—not enough to be an overt offer of the goods she had to sell, but enough to heighten a man’s need.
He sipped his brandy, savoring the sweet, sharp taste on his tongue, and his mind wandered to the sweet, sharp taste he might encounter elsewhere…
“Gentlemen,” Lord Foxwell declared, “it’s time we graced the ladies with our presence. It doesn’t do to leave women to themselves for too long.” He chuckled at his weak little joke, then led the company into the drawing room to join the ladies.
Peregrine caught his host’s sleeve and gestured toward the purple-clad matriarch and her charge.
“I say, Foxwell, who’s the formidable-looking creature in the purple? I don’t believe I’ve seen her before.”
“That’s Lady Edna Yates—the dowager countess from Springfield. Have you heard of it? Charming little estate. She’s here with her niece, who I hear is something of a handful. Lady Edna has a task on her hands. Miss de Grande, for all her charms, is severely lacking in propriety.”
Peregrine drew in a sharp breath.
Miss…de Grande?
