Lord Libertine. Gail Ranstrom
in his voice. “You confuse me, Mr. Hunter. One moment you are pursuing me most ardently, and the next you sound as if you do not even like me. You have taken great care to warn me against you. Is this sport? Are you trying to make your conquest of me more difficult, so the winning will be sweeter?” She lifted his glass, took a swallow and winced as the whiskey stung a little cut on the inside of her lip.
“I think you drink that whiskey a wee bit too eagerly for a lady. Do you have a drinking problem, madam?”
“Not yet, Mr. Hunter, but I am working on it.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I daresay you will get there. You appear to be deucedly determined. But I should warn you that a drunken woman loses her attraction.”
She looked up and studied the handsome face. No. Whatever concern he might have had for her was gone. Now there was just a challenge. “What would I have to do to make you go away, sir?”
“Come clean. Tell me what you are about. Or say, ‘Yes, Mr. Hunter, I will be delighted to take you to my bed.’”
Bella was discomfited to learn that she could still blush—if the heat in her cheeks was any indication. She covered it with an extra measure of defiance. “Then would you go away? Truly?”
But he only shrugged—not that she would have told him the truth anyway. “Money, then?” she asked. “If I paid you, would you go away?”
He looked surprised, then a little insulted. “This is a first for me. How droll. No one has ever attempted to buy me off before.”
“Really? Your company is so tedious that I would have thought you could make a rather nice living from it.”
He took his glass from her and raised it as he gave her a crooked grin. “It would seem you’ve taken my measure, madam.”
Heavens! Was there no discouraging the man? She sighed and started to push past him on her way to the door. He caught her arm when she was beside him and leaned sideways to whisper in her ear. “Have a care, Lace. I may not always be around to save you, and the way you are heading, you are going to need saving.”
Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes and she blinked them back quickly. “What business is it of yours what I do? Do you devil everyone you dislike? Everyone who has ever done something of which you do not approve?”
He gave her that slow smile again. “Did I say that I dislike you, Lady Lace? I do not recall that. On the contrary, it is my devotion to you that will keep me at your heels.”
Chapter Three
Drew’s hand tightened around his glass as he watched Lady Lace wind through the crowds when she returned to the ballroom. He wished he could call her graceless or gauche, but she held her own with a quiet dignity that belied her apparent purpose—to kiss every eligible male in society. He eased his grip on the glass before he could break the stem, but his stomach began to tighten.
How many times had he pitied men who’d fallen victim to Cupid’s arrow? Who followed their ladylove’s every move and sigh? God save him that indignity. Lace was a slow burn in his blood, and as soon as he satisfied his need, he would be himself again. And now, to make matters worse, he’d have to find McPherson and make amends. He’d be damned if he’d lose a friend over a skirt.
“My! Such a dark look, Hunter.”
He turned and found Viscount Bryon Daschel and Percy Throckmorton standing behind him. “Then my look matches my thoughts.”
Daschel, whose good looks accounted for his nickname, “Dash,” followed the line of his gaze and nodded. “Ah, yes. Lady Lace. Quite the comer, that one.”
“You do not seriously believe she will be a force in society?”
“Male society, at least.” Daschel grinned. Throckmorton sniggered and nudged him.
For some unaccountable reason, Drew wanted to put his fist down Daschel’s throat. Lace was his new obsession, and his interest had become proprietary. He took a deep breath and assumed a look of unconcern. “She is trouble, Dash. You’d do well to stay away from her.”
“No doubt.” Daschel gave him a rakish grin. “But when has that ever stopped me? And why do I have the feeling that you intend to disregard your own advice?”
“You know me, Dash. As a…connoisseur of beautiful women, I am immune to her charms. My interest in the woman is…shall we say, more cerebral.”
Daschel laughed. “And here I was thinking it was located in another region entirely.”
Again Throckmorton sniggered. “I say, Hunter, we all ought to have a go at her. Only fair, wouldn’t you think?”
“No. I wouldn’t.” In fact, if Throckmorton wanted to have a go at Lace, he’d have to “go” through Drew.
“Come, now. Let’s not quarrel,” Daschel soothed. “Let Hunter indulge his fascination.’ Tisn’t as if the chit is in danger of losing her reputation, is it? That, I gather, is too far gone for retrieval, though I haven’t spoken to anyone who has made her a conquest yet. Give Hunter a chance to break her in for the rest of us, eh? I warrant he’ll do as good a job of it as he always does.”
Break her in? Lace might be unfettered, but he was beginning to suspect she was not quite a tart. There’d be no profit in debating the fine points with Daschel and Throckmorton, however. He decided a change of subject was the safest course of action. “Did you come to discuss the woman in question, or did you have other business with me?”
“Thought you might like to come along on a jaunt tonight,” Daschel said.
Jaunt. That was the word Daschel always used for an excursion into the opium dens near the wharves. Last year, when Drew had been searching for a solution to his ennui, and for a way to feel anything at all, he’d spent a considerable amount of time and money as a lotus eater. The only thing he’d gained was the knowledge that he did not like being in a helpless state and at the mercy of others.
“Thank you, but no, Dash. Not for me.”
“Last year—”
“Was last year. This year I prefer a different poison.”
“Do tell.”
Drew lifted his glass with a self-mocking smile. “Mundane, perhaps, but steadier. Easier to control.”
Daschel nodded. “As you will. But you must come with us tomorrow. Throckmorton has arranged a private tour of Bedlam. Should be quite amusing.”
“Amusing?” Drew doubted observing the unfortunate inmates of an asylum could provide entertainment. He shrugged. “Perhaps. Where and when?”
“Outside the entrance at midnight. Bring your ready. There’s bound to be wagering.”
“If I’m not there, do not wait for me.”
Daschel gave him a puzzled smile. “Sooner or later, Hunter, I shall think of something to pique your interest.”
“I hope you will, Dash,” he said honestly. “It is a sorry state of affairs when there is nothing remaining to engage my notice.”
Gazing at Lace, Daschel murmured, “I would not call her ‘nothing,’ Hunter. Finish with her quickly, will you? I fancy I’m next.”
Drew gave his friend a rueful smile. He doubted there’d be anything quick about Lace and, unless he was wrong, she’d be worth the wait.
He left Daschel and Throckmorton and moved to the perimeter of the room, keeping Lace in view. She wandered slowly through the crowds, and he saw her decline an invitation to dance with Lord Entwhistle, then move on. After a short conversation, she took the arm of a man Drew did not know and strolled toward an alcove. He knew what would happen there and fought the urge to interrupt them. And failed.
As it happened, he did not have time to