Devlin turned.
And his heart leaped into his throat.
Thump, thump.
In that single, pulsing moment, he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.
The dark colored silk of her gown seemed to ripple over her body like a puff of exotic smoke. Several gold-sparked tendrils capered free of her upswept tresses, as if a lover had caught her in a quick caress. They danced down the arch of her neck, curling and kissing up against the bare skin.
That fabric and a few finespun wisps of hair could be so exquisitely erotic was a revelation.
His gaze then slid from her throat and his lungs had no choice but to suck in a much-needed gulp of air. That hitch of movement seemed to kick his brain back into working order.
How in the name of Lucifer had her mother allowed her to appear with such a plunging décolletage?
The answer was of course obvious. Lady Trumbull was determined to hook an impressive title and fortune for her second daughter. And the baroness wasn’t above using Anna’s considerable charms as bait.
All the gentlemen in the room had turned to stare as she passed through the portal, and now they were whispering among themselves. That was to say, Devlin saw their lips moving, and yet the only sound he heard was the thrum of his own blood rushing through his veins.
Anna, seemingly oblivious to the effect she was having on half the guests, made her way around the display of flowers and came to stand by her sister.
As they exchanged a quick greeting, Devlin quaffed a swallow of champagne to lubricate his throat. “Perhaps you ought to consider hiring a new lady’s maid,” he said when they were finished. “She seems to be a trifle careless.”
Anna turned and fixed him with a challenging stare. “You don’t like the way I look?”
Actually I would rather remove every stitch of clothing from your body.
“She forgot a few hairpins.” His gaze slid back to her breasts. “And a lace fichu to keep men from letting their eyes rove to places where they should not stray.”
“Some men,” she said slowly, “rove past all boundaries of propriety.” With that, Anna turned to Caro. “What do you think of Josette’s creative efforts with brush and comb?”
Her sister studied the casual creation. “Well, as Lord Davenport hinted, you do look a little rumpled. But strangely enough I think it suits you.”
Rumpled. Caro’s choice of word was all too fitting. Anna looked like she had just risen from bed. There was a heavy-lidded languor to her eyes—a touch of kohl, perhaps, wielded by a hand skilled in seduction.
“As Josette says,” mused Caro. “A lady with nary a hair out of place is awfully bland.”
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This French maid was highly dangerous, decided Devlin. Highly dangerous to a man’s peace of mind. But even more dangerous was Anna’s sudden transformation from her usual self to a sultry Siren. He considered himself a savvy judge of woman, but she had him off balance.
“Um, do you think she could do something different with my coiffeur tomorrow night?” continued Caro. She had lowered her voice, but not quite enough.
McClellan’s rough-cut voice rumbled in a low laugh as he moved out from the shadow of the curio cabinet. “Aye, I daresay one of those towering designs from the previous century would look very fetching. You know, the ones that feature things like real fruit and stuffed songbirds woven into an elaborate nest.”
“Ah, it appears that you do possess a sense of humor after all, McClellan,” said Devlin lightly.
The baron’s mouth curled up ever so slightly at the corners. “It wasn’t meant to be funny.”
“No,” said Caro tightly. “It was meant to be beastly.” Setting her wine glass on the display pedestal, she turned on her heel. “If you will excuse me, I had better go see what’s keeping Mama.”
“Is your sister always so excitable, Miss Sloane?” asked McClellan, after watching Caro storm off. “This afternoon I overheard her reciting poetry in one of the side parlors. Not bad poetry, though I didn’t recognize the author, however her emotions do tend to become enflamed.
“Only when provoked.”
“Quite deliberately provoked,” murmured Devlin.
“That,” said Anna, turning her frown on him, “is rather like the pot calling the kettle black, sir.”