The faint scent of his spicy cologne floated across the narrow space between them, and as he leaned forward for a closer survey of the board, the candle flame flickered, its red-gold fire catching for an instant on the tips of his dark lashes.
Breathe, she told herself. It was the exotic smoke that was making her a little woozy.
“If I move here,” he pointed out, “you are in danger.”
His words stirred a prickling sensation at the nape of her neck, as if daggerpoints were teasing against her flesh.
In and out, in and out. Olivia forced her lungs to obey her silent order as she studied the positions of the pieces. The blood was thrumming in her ears, and for one, mad, mercurial moment, she feared she might swoon.
No—only feather-brained gooseberries swooned. And of all the derogatory comments she had heard whispered behind her back, nobody had ever called her an idiot.
“True,” she replied to him.
The sudden scuffling of approaching footsteps in the corridor prevented him from making a reply.
Damnation. Fisting her skirts, Olivia shot up from the table, belatedly realizing that she had put herself on the razor’s edge of ruin.
Damn, damn, damn.
The rules of Society strictly forbid an unmarried lady from being alone in a room with a gentleman. Her name would be blackened, her reputation would be ripped beyond repair.
Ye gods, if I am to be sunk in scandal, at least let it be for the right reason, she thought, quickly whirling around and moving for the narrow connecting portal set in the recessed alcove.
Clicking open the latch, she darted into the welcoming darkness of the adjoining room.
John watched as the lady flitted away in a swirling of shadows, smoke, and indigo silk.
Who the devil is she?
It had been too dark, too hazy for him to make out more than a vague impression of her face. Arched brows. Slanted cheekbones. A full mouth. And an errant curl of unruly hair—it looked dark as a raven-wing, but he couldn’t be sure of the exact color—teasing against the curve of her jaw.
The lady’s voice had been the only distinctive feature. Slightly husky, slightly rough, the sound of it had rubbed against his skin with a heat-sparked friction.
He frowned, feeling a lick of fire skate down his spine and spiral toward his…sword.
Good Lord, had the lady really uttered such an utterly outrageous observation? He wasn’t sure whether he felt indignant or intrigued by her outspoken candor.
“No, no, definitely not intrigued,” muttered John aloud. He shifted in his seat, willing his body to unclench.
Everyone—including himself—knew that the Earl of Wrexham was, if not a perfect hero, a perfect gentleman. He respected rules and regulations. There were good reasons for them—they provided the basis for order and stability within Polite Society.
Don’t think. Don’t wonder. Don’t speculate.
No matter that the blaze of fierce intelligence in her eyes h
ad lit his curiosity.
Granted, she might be clever, he conceded. But a lady who flaunted convention was his exact opposite. And like oil and water, opposites never mixed well.
“John? John?”
It was his sister calling. The muted echo of his name was followed by a tentative rapping on the study’s oak-paneled door. “Are you in there?”
Women.
At the moment, he would rather be pursued by Attila the Hun and his savage horde of warriors.
The latch clicked.