Page 26 of Thief of the Ton
Then her eyes widened, almost as if in fear. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she stepped back.
He grinned to himself.
I’ve not lost my touch, if my potency can render a woman awestruck.
A hand touched his sleeve, and he turned to see Lord and Lady Francis. “I say, Marlow, I’m glad you’re here,” Lord Francis said. “I’ve been wanting a word.”
“Lord Francis, Lady Francis.” Peregrine inclined his head. “I didn’t know you were here tonight.”
“Foxwell and I were at Oxford together,” Lord Francis said. “Bloody good shot, he is—bagged thirty birds in a single afternoon at my house party last month. Which reminds me—”
A shrill female voice interrupted him.
“Dinner is served,mes amis!”
Lady Foxwell stood in the center of the drawing room, wearing a silk gown in a toothache-inducing shade of orange. She raised her fan, as if in salute, then, with a flick of her wrist, snapped it shut.
“Suivez moi, s’il vous plaît!”
“Bloody hell—quick march!” Lord Francis muttered.
Lord Foxwell approached the intriguing young woman with her purple-clad chaperone, while Lady Foxwell sauntered toward Peregrine and his companion.
“Lord Francis, would you escort me to the dining room?” she asked. “I believe you’re my dinner companion for tonight. Shall we lead the way?” She nodded to Peregrine. “Lord Marlow, you’re partnering Lady Francis at supper.”
Lord Francis grimaced, then offered his arm to the lady and let himself be marched into the dining room. With a sigh, Peregrine followed, Lady Francis clinging to his arm.
*
“Lady Edna—might Iescort you and your niece to dinner?”
“Oh, Lord Foxwell, you’re too kind! Is he not,child?”
Lavinia grimaced. Why did Aunt Edna have to behave as if they were in the schoolroom? Always picking at her headdress, telling her not to fidget, and whispering instructions on how to behave.
And now, she had to endure her aunt’s company at dinner. Aunt Edna, while professing to be an expert in table manners, had the unique ability, when consuming soup, of conjuring the image of a litter of piglets drinking from a trough. Why was it was socially acceptable toslurpsoup, but a capital offense if she dared touch the edge of the bowl with her spoon?
There was no respite from Aunt Edna. Hostesses were supposed to separate husbands and wives during dinner parties to ensure any marital altercations weren’t carried through into the dining room to discompose the other guests. However, unattached young ladies must always remain tethered to their chaperones.
Lavinia glanced about the drawing room, but there was no sign of her friends—the two young ladies she’d met during Lady Stiles’s tea party earlier that week, Henrietta Redford and Eleanor Howard. It seemed that neither Henrietta nor Eleanor had been invited to tonight’s party. A pity—they were the only two young women Lavinia had met in London who didn’t look upon her with distaste, primarily because, like Lavinia, they did not fit into Society’s ideal of what a young woman ought to be.
Then her gaze settled on the gentleman who’d caught her eye when she arrived, who was now arm in arm with Lady Francis. Tall, with an athletic frame, he wore a close-fitting jacket of a dark, imperial green. An embroidered silk waistcoat was visible beneath the lapels, and a smooth silk cravat caressed his throat, pale against his tanned skin. His breeches left little to the imagination—soft cream fabric stretched across his thighs, serving to emphasize the powerful muscles that rippled faintly as he moved.
He reminded her of Samson, a stallion in his prime—the epitome of masculinity and virility.
And he knew it.
In fact, everyone in the room knew it. The atmosphere seemed to shift around him, as if the world declared its willingness to bend to his will.
Lavinia had smiled to herself at the frank admiration in their hostess’s gaze. In fact, every woman he spoke to seemed transfixed, their eyes filled with a hunger to match that of Mr. Bates’s pointer bitch when faced with a particularly tasty offcut from Mrs. Bates’s roast beef.
But then he’d turned his gaze on Lavinia, and she was assaulted by a wave of powerful need—a flame that coursed through her body. A deep recognition filled his gaze, as if her soul was stripped bare before him, until she became his prey, a rabbit caught in a predator’s gaze—trembling and vulnerable, only to be devoured moments later.
And devouredwillingly.
Heavens!
He wasn’t a man—he was a god.
