Page 30 of Thief of the Ton
“Do you suspect any of the guests?”
“Good heavens, no!” Lord Francis cried. “Not even that young whippersnapper Mr. Moss would behave so badly.”
Lady Francis colored and looked away. Peregrine made a mental note of her discomfort.
“Is there anything remarkable about the vase?” he asked.
Francis shook his head. “That’s the thing, Marlow—it’s practically worthless. The pater said he’d picked it up for next to nothing. A shilling—no, two, if I recall. Anyway, the wife took a fancy to it. I wouldn’t normally bother with it, but she made quite a fuss when she discovered it was missing.”
“Can you describe it?” Peregrine asked. “The color—the pattern?”
“Damned if I can remember,” Lord Francis said.
Lady Francis shot her husband a look of irritation. “It’s a charming little piece,” she said. “A ginger jar—thirteenth century, I believe. It has a beautiful image of a dragon painted in blue on the belly—and the lid has flowers painted along the rim. I quite adore it.”
Thirteenth century? That didn’t sound right, if the vase had only cost a shilling or two at auction. Unless it was a fake, in which case, the Phoenix wasn’t as clever as the rumormongers believed.
“For my wife’s sake,” Lord Francis said, “I would see the villainous Phoenix brought to justice.”
A low cry made Peregrine look up, and he drew in a sharp breath.
Miss de Grande stood before him, flanked by Lady Foxwell and her chaperone.
“Lord Marlow,” Lady Foxwell said, “might I introduce you to Lady Edna Yates and her niece, Miss de Grande?”
Peregrine clicked his heels together and bowed. “Lady Edna.”
The matriarch offered her hand, and Peregrine took it. Bony fingers enclosed his in a tight grip as he bowed over her hand. Then she released him and fixed her yellowing eyes on him.
The young woman beside her seemed to have paled, and the earlier defiance in her eyes was gone, replaced by vulnerability. Then she glanced toward Lord Francis.
Something about the man discomposed her. Though what, Peregrine couldn’t fathom. The man was as dull as a bucket of wet earth. Rumor had it that on his wedding night, Lady Francis had to show himwhat went where—and after having performed his duty of siring an heir and a spare, he devoted his time to polishing his shotguns and re-enacting the Battle of Trafalgar with his collection of toy ships. He was, among the predatory males of Society, the very last man who could ever be considered a threat to a woman’s virtue or person. So what did Miss de Grande have to fear from the man?
“Miss de Grande—Lord and Lady Francis you know, of course,” Lady Foxwell said. She gestured toward Peregrine. “This is Lord Peregrine Marlow.”
Miss de Grande paused, then she dipped into a curtsey. Peregrine offered his hand, and she stared at it.
“Lavinia…” the matriarch said.
She took his hand and stiffened. A crackle of need ignited where their palms touched, and Peregrine’s breath hitched. He glanced at her neckline, and a pulse of fire throbbed in his groin as he spotted two little peaks straining against the smooth silk of her gown. Her chest rose and fell as her breathing quickened. She parted her lips, and her eyes widened.
Sweet Lord, she was aroused! And there was nothing more delectable than an innocent experiencing the first flush of arousal. Her body might know what was happening, but her mind had yet to be opened to pleasure. A courtesan, practiced in the art of seduction, knew how to use her body to invite a man to claim her. But even the most skilled courtesan paled into insignificance next to a young woman whose body responded, by instinct, to the pure, primal need that lay deep within every creature.
The need to be thoroughly pleasured.
Chapter Ten
Sweet heaven—what washappening to her?
One moment, Lavinia had been listening to unintelligible talk about how the width of the ribbon in a young woman’s hair indicated her superiority of taste, then she’d found herself steered by Aunt Edna and Lady Foxwell across the drawing room, toward the very man who’d addled her senses at the dining table.
But she composed herself, recalling Aunt Edna’s instructions.
Stature, Lavinia, dear. Stature. Glide across the room as if you were a swan—silent and poised. In a woman, silence is always to be applauded.
If only Aunt knew! Lavinia had already perfected the art of creeping about in silence—or, at least, the Phoenix had.
Then a male voice spoke, and her gut twisted in horror.
