Page 67 of Thief of the Ton
“Then I must beg forgiveness for displaying further ungallantry toward your sex. The Phoenix’s actions are not those of a woman.”
“Why? Because they’re outwitting you?”
He laughed. “No—I believe his motive is far simpler than the desire to outwit another.”
“What do you believe it to be?”
“Vengeance,” he said. “A game that any woman would consider too dangerous.”
“What about justice?”
“Justice and vengeance are entirely different,” he said. “Take yourself, for instance.”
Surely he didn’t mean…
“Few, if any, would go out of their way to ensure the safety of a creature capable of killing them for the cause of justice,” he continued. “It takes great courage to place yourself at risk, when others would not.”
He lifted his hand and brushed a stray tendril of hair from her face. She tipped her head up and met his gaze. The color of his eyes softened to a moss green, with flecks of brown. Such an extraordinary shade! Then he lowered his gaze to her lips, and she caught a flash of hunger in his eyes—a craving to match her own.
She lowered her gaze to his lips. Full and rounded, with a firm, determined shape, they were the lips of a man who would not brook denial.
How many women had those lips kissed? What had he said about men having to exercise their rights asmen—to prove their virility?
He flicked his tongue out, and she caught sight of the moist pink tip running along the seam of his lips. Then he parted his lips and sighed. His warm breath caressed her face, and her skin tightened with want and anticipation. She moved closer until she could feel his hard body against hers.
Then he spoke, his voice vibrating against her chest. “Are you placing yourself at risknow, Miss de Grande?”
“A-at risk of what?”
Hunger flashed in his eyes, and he brushed his knuckles against her neckline. Desire fizzed through her, and to her shame, she felt her nipples hardening, straining against the fabric of her gown. He only need lower his gaze, and he’d see them. She shifted position, and an uncomfortable heat bloomed between her thighs.
He circled her arms with his hands, long, lean fingers curling possessively around her flesh.
Then he pushed her back and broke the spell.
“You look a little overheated, Miss de Grande.”
Unable to speak, she nodded.
He glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. “Perhaps I might venture to say that a criminal resides here tonight, in this very room.”
Her stomach somersaulted.
He knows.
“Wh-who do you mean?”
His eyes twinkled with mirth.
“I believe Lady Hythe may be guilty of a crime far worse than theft,” he said, gesturing toward the pianoforte at which their hostess was settling down once more. “Herr Mozart has my sympathies, for I fear he’s about to be murdered again.”
Lavinia let out a laugh of relief.
“Do I amuse you, Miss de Grande?”
“The piece we were dancing to earlier was a Bach canon.”
“Then I must applaud your greater intellect,” he said. He glanced toward the pianoforte. “Perhaps I should ask a footman to fetch me the remains of the cheese from dinner.”
