Page 36 of Thief of the Ton
“Quite so. Poor Lady Wadchester was most put out—it had been a gift from her godmother on her wedding day. It’s a hideous thing, of course, but the tray alone is worth a fortune, and she must value it for that.”
“I’d have thought she’d value it more because it was a gift from someone she loves,” Lavinia said.
Lady Francis let out a snort. “What sentimental nonsense! But one can hardly expectyouto understand. Perhaps, in time—and assuming your cousin’s charity enables you to remain in Society for a little longer—you’ll learn to understand what must be valued and what is beneath our attention.”
She approached Lord Marlow and slipped her arm through his. “Meanwhile, my husband and I wish to discuss the matter with Lord Marlow in private—if you’d be so kind, Miss de Grande?”
“With pleasure, your ladyship,” Lavinia said. “It’s grown overly cold, and I swear I can smell a frost in the air.” She dipped into a curtsey, then crossed the terrace and slipped back inside the ballroom.
When she reached the solitary footman guarding the punch bowl, she waved at him, and he filled a glass and handed it to her. She drained it in a single gulp.
You should never meet your heroes, Lavinia darling.
Lady Betty had spoken the truth. The boy Lavinia had idolized was a figment of her imagination, an ideal formed in her dreams. The reality was something completely different. He was a man—a virile man who had the power to consume her, not save her.
He was a hunter—the man who pledged to bring the Phoenix to justice, no matter how long it took.
And, though he didn’t know it, she was his prey.
Chapter Eleven
Why did LadyFrancis have to be so shrewish, venting her spite on those she deemed beneath her? Was she so insecure about herself that she needed to tear down others? Perhaps that was why she was rumored to have multiple affairs—in order to make herself feel desirable. But a woman who spread her legs for multiple men would never be anything but a harlot, no matter that she had a title.
By the time Peregrine had shaken off the undesirable couple, Miss de Grande had returned to her chaperone and was deep in conversation with their host. Her skin, which had bloomed a delicate shade of rose when he’d called her his little Guinevere, was now flushed a darker shade of red—a similar shade to that of Lord Foxwell when he’d taken a little too much brandy.
As he watched her, she lifted a glass to her lips and drained the contents. Then, excusing herself, she made her way around the perimeter of the room toward the punch bowl and waved her glass at the footman, who nodded and filled it.
To give her credit, she made a good effort at disguising her inebriation—head upright, body straight, smooth, even footsteps. But the glimmer in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks, which extended to the tips of her ears, told him all he needed to know.
She was well on her way to becoming drunk.
What the devil was she doing? The slightest transgression and her reputation would be in tatters.
He made his way toward the coffee and, dismissing the footman’s offer of help, poured a cup and dropped four lumps of sugar into the brown liquid. Then he approached his quarry.
“Miss de Grande,” he said. “I believe you’re in need of this.” Before she could protest, he plucked the glass out of her hand and held out the coffee cup.
She opened her mouth to protest.
“I’ll take no refusal, Miss de Grande.”
Her eyes widened at the anger in his voice. Then, her hand trembling, she took the cup.
“Drink.”
She took a sip. “It’s too sweet,” she said. “I prefer—”
“It was not a request,” he said. “How many glasses of punch have you had?”
She glanced toward the punch bowl.
“Look at me when you respond,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I find a perpetrator is more likely to respond honestly when forced to look his inquisitor in the eye.”
“I…” She shook her head, then blinked, and moisture glimmered in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have come tonight,” she said. “I told Aunt I didn’t want to. I feel sick.”
