The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

“Good God, Nicole,” he growled between gritted teeth. The use of her given name only heightened the strange sensations thrumming through her body. “I can honestly say I have never wanted a woman as much as I want you.”

She, too, could think of nothing other than prolonging the rush of euphoria. But unlike the ladies frolicking in the pit, she had no intention of making more of a spectacle of herself than she had already.

“Tell me you feel the same,” he continued. “Tell me you’re not playing a role.”

When she turn

ed to look at him, she was surprised to see genuine emotion swimming in his blue eyes. “I feel the same. But we must remember why we came here.” In his company, it was easy to lose sight of reality. At the mere touch of his lips or fingers, it was easy to forget about Rose and Jeremy. “We must focus on our task.”

The loud applause alerted them to the start of the play.

Drawing his lips thin, he gave a curt nod and moved his hand to rest on the back of the chair.

The opening scene of Henry V proved interesting. The discussion regarding the prince’s youthful antics as opposed to the level of maturity shown as king, drew similarities to the gentleman seated at her side.

She cast the earl a sidelong glance.

Raw masculine power oozed from every fibre of his being. From the comments he’d made about love and lust, it was clear he’d taken many women to his bed. Yet she did not see an irresponsible rake. She saw a man who loved deeply. Regardless of all else, it was love that drove him to find Rose.

The interval was signalled by raised voices and peals of laughter.

Oliver stood and stretched. “Would you care for some refreshment? Though I should warn you, I may not return in time for the second half of the performance. Consequently, you might find that the box is bombarded by those keen to make your acquaintance.”

Nicole shook her head. Heaven forbid she should be forced to converse with this rabble.

“No.” An image of Jeremy charging into the box and dragging her home flashed into her mind. “No. I believe it is best we stay together.” She would hide in the box until they needed to leave, then make a quick escape, safe in the knowledge she’d have no need to enter society again.

Oliver inclined his head and dropped back into the seat. “As you wish.”

The play resumed.

Nicole tried to concentrate on the performance, but she could feel the heat of Oliver’s stare. What was it he found so fascinating? The answer turned out to be the wisp of hair at her nape. His warm fingers settled on the spot and drew light circles that left every nerve in her body tingling.

Another hour passed before he tapped her shoulder. “We’ll leave just before the end of the final act.”

“To which actress does our fake Miss Flint play maid?” Nicole knew the answer. It was the beauty who played Catherine. Numerous times the woman had looked their way from the side stage, eager to catch the earl’s attention.

“Two years ago, she was a maid to Miss Brooke. I only hope that is still the case.”

“And how are we to gain entrance backstage?”

“The usual way,” he said. “With a bribe. The maid should be waiting in the dressing room, ready to assist Miss Brooke. Indeed, perhaps we should not delay.”

The light knock on the door brought them both to their feet. Aware of various heads turning their way, Nicole fell back into the shadows. Oliver padded to the door and prised it gently open.

Nicole held her breath.

He was unaware of the possible threat her attendance might cause. She couldn’t see beyond his broad shoulders, but his frustrated sigh conveyed displeasure.

Nicole listened intently, waiting for her brother’s cold, heartless words to reach her ears. Instead, a haughty feminine voice cut through the air. Only Rowena spoke with that level of self-importance.

Oliver stepped out into the corridor as the visitor attempted to push past him.

Despite expecting to see her sister-in-law’s bitter scowl, Nicole moved to stand in the doorway. Relief coursed through her upon witnessing the stranger standing there with pinched lips and hollow cheeks.

“So, this is the lady currently warming your bed?” The stranger squinted as she scanned Nicole’s attire. While the woman’s porcelain face was considered classically beautiful, her tone — that of a jealous harpy ravenous for revenge — portrayed the ugliness buried within. “When one inherits a title are they not encouraged to raise their standards?”

“Have a care.” Oliver straightened. “What do you want, Lady Foster?”