Page 51 of Thief of the Ton
“It is rather old, I believe.”
“You don’t wear it well.”
Indignation rose with her. “Do you intend to insult me, Lord Marlow?”
“Of course not—but you look a little uncomfortable, as if it weighs heavily on you.”
She glanced away. How could he be so perceptive? At all costs she must rid herself of him, despite how she relished the feel of his hands on her, the warmth of his body heat as he drew her close…
He led her across the dance floor, past Lady Irma and her partner. Irma glanced at Lavinia and wrinkled her nose, though she smiled sweetly at Lord Marlow—curse her.
“I wear the necklace because it reminds me of my mother,” she said. “After she died, Papa gave it to me as a keepsake. It’s all I have of her.”
The dance concluded, and the couples dispersed. He bowed and escorted her to the edge of the room where Eleanor sat, alone.
“I’m afraid I’ve disappointed you,” Lord Marlow said, “and a gentleman should never leave a lady unsatisfied.”
A thrill rippled through her at the prospect of receivingsatisfactionat his hands.
“Perhaps you’d permit me to atone, if you’d favor me with a second dance?”
“Perhaps later.”
She withdrew her hand, then sat beside Eleanor.
“May I fetch either of you ladies something to drink?” Marlow asked.
“No, thank you,” Lavinia said. Eleanor opened her mouth to speak, then she stiffened. A blush spread across her cheeks, and she curled her hands into fists.
Lavinia placed a hand over hers. “Are you all right?” she whispered.
“I say, Marlow—it is you!” a deep voice boomed.
A tall man approached in long, confident strides and clapped Marlow across the shoulders. “Some congenial company atlast,” he drawled. “You’d think Lord Houghton’s home would be a little less—provincial, wouldn’t you? I’ve spent half the evening trying to avoid our hostess and her horse-faced progeny.”
“Miss Houghton’s charming,” Lord Marlow, said, glancing toward Lavinia. “I say, Monty, have you met the honorable Miss de Grande?”
The man raised his eyebrows, then glanced toward Lavinia and Eleanor, noticing them for the first time. But rather than show remorse at his ungentlemanly words, he resumed his attention on Marlow.
“No,” he said. “I have not.”
Nor did he want to, given the sneer in his voice.
What an uncivil creature! But he looked oddly familiar—a strong jaw, thick, dark hair—a little too long to be respectable—and wickedly dark eyes.
Savagely handsome, and he knew it.
Where had she seen him before?
Beside her, Eleanor trembled, distress in her expression, as if she were a rabbit caught in a fox’s stare. Her hands curled into fists, she clutched at her skirts. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and she looked as if she were about to faint.
“Lord Marlow,” Lavinia said, “I have no wish to dismiss you and your friend, but there’s something I wish to discuss withmyfriend. In private.”
The newcomer let out a snort of derision, turned his back, and strode off. Lord Marlow bowed, then followed.
“What an unbelievably rude man!” Lavinia cried. “Who the devil is he?”
“Montague, eighth Duke of Whitcombe.”
