The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

From his lips, even the word home sounded licentious. “You’re taking me to Stanton House?”

“Where else?”

“You cannot escort your mistress into your family home.” What would people think? Such an immoral action would surely reflect poorly on Rose.

The earl jerked his head and frowned. “You’ve no need to worry about my reputation, Miss Flint.”

She wasn't sure if he was being dense or acting the fool on purpose. “Stanton House is Rose’s home, too, is it not? What gentleman would allow a mistress to enter the residence of his unmarried sister?”

“I know you care for Rose, but you’re taking your role of paid companion far too seriously.”

Nicole shook her head. “I speak as her friend not her servant. No. I shall remain in the carriage and enter the house via the mews.”

“While the thought of being my mistress is loathsome,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ll have to leave the carriage eventually.”

Chapter Seven

Dressed in his evening clothes, for there was every chance he’d have to charge into Lady Chatwell’s townhouse and hunt for Lord Cunningham, Oliver hid in the dark depths of his carriage, keeping a watchful eye on the house from across the street.

“Had you done as I suggested, Miss Flint, we would be enjoying Lady Chatwell’s hospitality instead of sitting in a cold, cramped carriage spying on every passerby.”

The hint of frustration in his voice had nothing to do with the biting chill in the air. For a reason unbeknown, he had a strange desire to inform the world Miss Flint was his mistress. To stake his claim. To ensure the scoundrels knew to stay away. It was a ridiculous notion considering the fact they would soon go their separate ways.

“Had I listened to you, my lord, I would be roaming the ballroom in a dress befitting the village strumpet.”

Even though her silhouette was in shadow, Oliver was acutely aware of her curvaceous figure.

“A mistress does not dress with decorum. The more salacious her appearance, the better.”

So why did the thought of her flaunting her sumptuous body make him want to rip the eyes from every man’s sockets? Good Lord, he’d become a walking monument to contradiction.

“Then I am thankful I declined your gracious offer. I would prefer to hide in your conveyance, to avoid any misconceptions.” Miss Flint sighed and continued to stare at the amber glow of candlelight spilling out onto the street.

Music drifted through the cool night air as if carried on a breeze, the enchanting rhythm mingling with the faint hum of laughter.

Oliver couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to hold Miss Flint tightly in his arms, to feel her soft breath breeze against his cheek as he twirled her around the dance floor. They would be giddy from an excessive consumption of wine, and she would challenge his opinion simply to make him want her all the more.

Bloody hell!

Oliver shook his head. Since when had he become a man prone to daydreams? Why did he find it impossible to banish all amorous thoughts of the lady sitting opposite? Miss Flint held him spellbound — with her wise words, her bow-shaped lips and full breasts.

But how could he dance, how could he think of his own pleasure when Rose was still missing?

“You’re certain Lord Cunningham was the gentleman who entered the house an hour ago?” Miss Flint’s face was so close to the glass a white mist covered the lower half of the pane. She wiped the window clean with her gloved hand. “From our position here, it is difficult to distinguish one man’s features from the next.”

“One glance at Lord Cunningham and you would not fail to recognise him again. He walks like a man whose drawers are too tight and pinch with every step.” Oliver chuckled at that. Everyone knew Cunningham wore a corset to create a more masculine silhouette. “And I would recognise his mop of golden curls anywhere. Many ladies comment upon his cherubic countenance, though I would remind them that the Lord regarded Lucifer as an angelic being once.”

Miss Flint raised a mocking brow. “How on earth will you cope?”

“Cope?”

“If Rose marries the devil.”

“She won’t.”

“You seem so certain.”

“Not certain,” he corrected, “hopeful.” Rose was not a fool. The truth would soon bring her to her senses. “Besides, I refuse to converse with a man who thinks it appropriate to wear a waistcoat of mustard-yellow with a pea-green coat.”