The Rake's Revenge. Gail Ranstrom
as if measuring her response to his comment.
Bemused by that notion, Afton tilted her head to one side and studied the casual posture of Glenross and her aunt. She’d have thought it congenial, but not romantical. And yes, Grace Forbush was “delectable.” The number of men who sent her flowers, paid calls upon her and fought over invitations to her Friday salons would attest to that. But McHugh? She couldn’t picture them together—Grace with her cool elegance and McHugh with his seething, rough-edged masculinity. A poor match, that.
She repeated Sir Martin’s word. “Wooing? Do you suppose Glenross knows how to accomplish such a task?”
“May not,” Sir Martin agreed. “Maeve was given to him like a parcel wrapped with a bow. Their families betrothed them when they were still in the nursery. He never had to woo or win her. She was always…his.”
His. Afton sighed, wondering what it would be like to be his. So, they had loved each other since childhood? What sort of woman had won and kept the love and devotion of a man like McHugh, even after death? A small flash of jealousy shot through her. “You knew her? Glenross’s wife?”
“Aye. We grew up together, an unmanageable threesome if ever there was one. Willing partners in one debacle after another until we reached adolescence.”
Afton was charmed by a sudden vision of three barefoot children roaming the Scottish countryside, causing havoc. “Indeed?”
“Aye. McHugh was our ringleader. He knew every hiding place and every forbidden door in the county, and he could pick any lock known to mankind.”
Afton met McHugh’s gaze across the distance. A provocative smile curved his lips and a thrill of excitement warmed her. “He was mischievous?”
“Larcenous.” Sir Martin grinned.
She laughed. She had always suspected McHugh would not let mere rules stand between him and a goal.
Sir Martin slowed his pace and leaned near her ear to whisper, “So, if not your aunt, Miss Lovejoy, who do you suppose the McHugh is waiting for? Your sister?”
Afton shrugged. “I promised him another waltz earlier today. Perhaps he has come to collect.”
“It would have been better if he was interested in your aunt. Since she is a widow, she is free to engage in a discreet alliance. You see, I know for a certainty that McHugh is not interested in marriage. Maeve ruined him for anyone else.”
Afton was not surprised. She had suspected as much all along. “I shall warn my sister,” she murmured.
“And you, Miss Lovejoy?”
“Me?”
“Did you have any hopes in that direction?”
Afton was startled by the question—both that Sir Martin had asked it, and that she had never contemplated it. Oh, she’d thought of McHugh often enough, but only to wonder what it would be like to kiss him, and if hands gentle enough to replace her hood and wipe away a tear would be likewise gentle in an embrace. She felt the heat of a blush creep into her cheeks at those possibilities.
But hope that he might make an offer for her? Absurd. Aside from the fact that he was still in love with his dead wife, he was far too…intense. There was an impalpable darkness that hovered about him, as if he knew that darkness intimately. As if he cherished it. Courted it.
“Miss Lovejoy?” Sir Martin repeated.
Afton shook her head to clear it of the troubling thoughts. “Hopes, Sir Martin? Nay. I am not that foolish.”
Rob wondered what the hell Seymour had said to elicit Miss Lovejoy’s delicate blush. It was all he could do to maintain his self-control as he waited for his friend to deliver her back to her aunt. Patience was not Rob’s strong point. And neither, it would seem, was sharing.
He took a deep breath and relaxed his tense muscles. What had gotten into him? He had better claim the waltz she had promised this afternoon and then be on his way. Miss Lovejoy was not for him. Too sweet. Too innocent. Too damn tempting.
“Ah, Glenross.” Miss Lovejoy offered her hand the moment Seymour released it. “Have you come to collect my debt?”
“What debt?” Seymour asked, his eyes narrowing.
“His lordship rescued me from the weather today.” Miss Lovejoy answered for him. “We waited out a fresh snowfall at Twickford’s Tearoom until duty called his lordship away. He was kind enough to order me tea and allow me time to warm up.”
Rob felt slightly smug at Seymour’s look of surprise. “Careful, Miss Lovejoy. Such reckless talk could ruin my reputation. You’ll have people thinking I am a gentleman.”
She laughed. “I shall be more circumspect in the future.”
The orchestra began the first notes of the next dance. “As fate would have it, I have come to collect. A waltz, was it not?” Without further ado, Rob whisked his partner onto the dance floor and into his arms.
“I must admit that I am a little surprised,” Miss Lovejoy began. “I feared, when you departed so abruptly this afternoon, that I had done something to incur your displeasure.”
He gave her a wry smile. He could never admit that, amidst the pots of jam and sponge cake, he’d been about to bend her over the little table and take her then and there. Or how he’d fantasized about being the one to lick the cream from her lips while she moaned, “heavenly.” Maeve had been right about that much at least. He was an animal. “To the contrary, Miss Lovejoy, I did not find you displeasing in the least. I simply had…ah, urgent business.”
His downward glance snagged on the row of rosebuds at her décolletage. Thankfully, Miss Lovejoy did not notice, her attention drawn to the sidelines where a murmur was growing to a buzz. “I wonder what could be amiss,” she mused.
Ethan Travis, Rob’s old partner, was standing in a group of colleagues and turned to look at them. With a quick jerk of his head, he signaled them to the sidelines. Rob guided his partner off the floor.
“McHugh, did you hear? James Livingston was found murdered in a back street behind the Pultney Hotel. Is that not where you are staying?” Travis asked.
“Jamie Livingston?” Rob went still. “Shocking” news rarely affected him, but this was extraordinary. He had run into Livingston after leaving Twickford’s mere hours ago. It was no secret he and Livingston had not been on good terms since Rob had found him pulling Maeve into a night-dark garden many years ago, but he certainly would not have wished such a fate on the man. “Did they catch the murderer?”
“No. He’d been dead a few hours before he was found. The bastard took a knife to him, Rob.”
A soft intake of breath demanded his attention and reminded him that Miss Lovejoy was a witness to this unpleasantness. He looked down at her pale complexion and horrified expression. “Are you all right, Miss Lovejoy?”
“Yes.” She nodded, her eyes wide. “Please do not worry about me.”
He gave her a distracted smile and turned back to Ethan. “Are there any clues?”
“The watchman said he was clutching a button of some kind. Had a raven on it. Jamie must have grabbed for his attacker as he went down.”
A button? A dim memory tweaked the back of Rob’s mind.
“H-how very awful for you, to lose a friend in such a manner,” Miss Lovejoy gasped.
She looked so distressed that Rob felt the need to reassure her. Forgetting Travis in his concern, he led her toward a vacant grouping of chairs near the punch bowl. He seated her and quickly fetched a cup of punch laced with a touch of brandy.
He knelt by her chair and offered the cup. “Drink this, Miss Lovejoy. You’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time.”
She drank deeply and returned the cup with a sad