Page 68 of Thief of the Ton
“So you can distract yourself by eating?” she asked.
“So I can stuff it into my ears.”
She let out a snort, caught sight of Aunt Edna glowering at her from across the drawing room, then turned it into a cough.
“Miss de Grande, are you well?” he asked in mock concern. “A most unusual cough.”
Torn between the urge to laugh and the desire to slap him on the arm for his impertinence, she shook her head. “I’m in need of a little fresh air. The balcony beckons.”
“Quite so—Lady Hythe’s particular form of torture cannot pass through closed doors. But perhaps you’d like a brandy, to dull the senses further, as a precaution?”
“Thank you, sir.”
He bowed, then approached a footman, weaving his way around the dancers. He paused beside Aunt Edna, obscuring her from view for a moment, at which point Lavinia slipped outside through the balcony doors. She closed them behind her, then approached the edge of the balcony and leaned over, surveying the landscape bathed in moonlight.
The sounds of the night overcame the strains of music and idle chatter. An owl hooted in the distance, and she caught sight of a ghostly form gliding through the air. Then it swerved and dived toward the ground. Shortly after, a squeal rose up.
She shivered—some poor creature had met its end. But the difference between the owl and a man was that the owl knew no different—he hunted his prey in order to survive. Whereas a predatory man…
The door opened and closed, and soft footsteps approached from behind.
Aunt Edna would most likely admonish her for yet anotherfaux pas, but the prospect of being in Lord Marlow’s arms was worth any punishment her aunt would mete out. Though she struggled to reconcile him with the boy she’d known fourteen years ago, the admiration in his gaze that afternoon in the forest, and the mischief in his eyes tonight, elicited the same sensation of friendship. Only now she was a grown woman, and those sensations had developed from a childhood fancy to something more…
Something morevisceral.
She closed her eyes, her mind searching for the familiar scent of him—the aroma of wood and spices.
But instead, a different scent assaulted her senses.
The sickly-sweet odor of cologne.
She turned, and the newcomer approached, a lazy smile on his lips, cold blue eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
“Miss de Grande.”
His tongue rolled over her name as if he were devouring it. She stepped away until her back hit the balcony railings.
“Mr. Moss,” she said, keeping her voice even. “Are you taking the air?”
He shook his head slowly and took another step forward, and she wrinkled her nose at the onslaught of cologne. Did he think the stench attracted women like flies? Or, perhaps, he sprayed himself with it to disguise other, unsavory odors.
“I’m most disappointed in you, Miss de Grande,” he said. “Such a lack of decorum—what would your chaperone say?”
“Very little, I suspect, given that I’ve not acted untoward,” she said. “Whereasyou—”
She stopped herself. This was not the time to taunt him about his affair with Lady Francis.
“Whereas I what?” he sneered. “I’mthe injured party here, Miss de Grande.”
“In what way have I injured you?”
“Don’t be a simpleton!” he scoffed. “Did you mean to insult me so publicly tonight?”
So, that was it. She’d pricked his pride by accepting Marlow’s offer to dance.
“I had already promised the first dance to Lord Marlow,” she said tartly. “Therefore, I committed no transgression in refusing your offer.”
He shook his head. “In an impromptu dance after dinner, there’s no prior claim.”
