word and—”
“Heartstrings?” Wycliff snorted. “Did you not sever all emotional cords long ago?”
“I hardened my heart to deceivers.” To a lying mother and vengeful stepfather. To a grandmother as frosty as the frigid north wind. And to the viscount who conducted his dalliances with eager enthusiasm yet kicked his son aside like the runt of the litter. “Consequently, I find Miss Vale’s need to place justice before her own safety a rather attractive trait.”
“Her original character appeals to you in unexpected ways.”
“Indeed.” He did not dare evaluate the rolling somersaults that played havoc with his stomach whenever she smiled. Or the lust that burned in his veins with the merest touch.
“You’re drawn to her innocence and integrity,” Wycliff continued.
“Yes.” Lawrence knew where the conversation was heading. “As one might expect from a man with my beleaguered past.” Then again, Miss Vale could prove as inconstant as every other woman of his acquaintance.
Wycliff sipped his brandy, his curious gaze fixed on Lawrence. “Considering you’re obsessed with Miss Vale’s welfare, I find your logic lacking.”
Of course his logic was lacking.
It was not his brain leading him on this merry dance. The woman stared at him with doe eyes and parted lips as if he were her saviour. The only man in the world who valued her opinion.
“A wise man would take the moral high ground, stamp his patriarchal foot and send her back to her idyllic home in Shepperton.” But Lawrence would not sleep. Danger lurked in the shadows. A malevolent energy commanded the air whenever they spoke about the Brethren. “But you did not see her eyes dance as brightly as the night star when I told her she was to accompany me this evening.”
Wycliff placed his crystal tumbler on the side table and relaxed back in the chair. “Seeing happiness in a woman’s eyes is as potent as any drug, as stimulating as any aphrodisiac. Only a fool would believe himself immune. Desire blurs the senses.”
“Control is something I have mastered.” When a man abstained from the hordes of mindless sexual encounters offered at such events, the women grew desperate to prove they had the prowess to break his resolve. None did.
Wycliff chuckled. “And yet here you are, breathless with anticipation at the thought of Miss Vale dressed in an exotic costume.”
Damnation!
Wycliff’s level of perception grated.
“How will you cope, Trent? Every rogue there will have his eyes fixed on her lush—”
“Enough!” Lawrence jumped to his feet. “Inform Miss Vale that I have gone to arrange my own outfit. I shall return at ten this evening to convey her to the masquerade.”
Time alone would help bolster his crumbling defences. And he would need his wits to keep her safe from rogues like John Layton. If Layton was the masked villain who attacked her in the bedchamber, he might be out for his own form of vengeance.
“Can I trust you to keep her here?” Lawrence added. “She cannot walk through the lobby of Jaunay’s Hotel dressed as an Egyptian princess.”
Wycliff inclined his head. “Scarlett will find something more demure for an innocent than a costume of silk charmeuse.”
Lawrence stiffened. The thought of Miss Vale draped in silk gave him palpitations. “Might I suggest the garb of an abbess? One whose thick vestal robe covers every inch of flesh?”
Wycliff laughed. “You know my wife. Whatever she chooses will complement Miss Vale’s natural attributes.”
Did Mrs Wycliff not have a reputation for wearing notorious attire? Had she not created a persona that attracted every man’s attention? “That’s what worries me.”
“You’re certain this costume will serve our purpose?” Verity gripped her crook and stared at her reflection in the looking glass. “Will the jaded members of the demi-monde not think a shepherdess a little tame?”
“Tame?” Mrs Wycliff arched a brow. “My dear, your frilly pantaloons are visible beneath your skirts, and you are showing far too much ankle. And that bodice leaves little to the imagination.”
Indeed. Every time Verity inhaled, she thought her breasts might burst free from the scandalously low neckline.
“Rarely do I seek advice on a lady’s wardrobe,” Mrs Wycliff continued, “but my husband is more than familiar with what one expects from such parties and insists this is perfect.” She smiled. “You look every bit a conundrum and will be sure to rouse intrigue.”
“Mr Trent will not wish to draw unnecessary attention.” They were to mingle amongst the crowd and observe any suspects. “Perhaps, Mrs Wycliff, you have a lace fichu that might protect my modesty.”
“You must call me Scarlett, and the demi-monde will think a fichu tame. My husband agrees you must look demure yet tease with a hint of sensuality. Women will wear far worse. Trust me.”