The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

There was no need for her to offer a defence. Mosgrove was the one on trial, the only one who should swing from the gallows.

“When I heard you call my name …” The muscles in Oliver's stomach twisted into painful knots. “When I heard the desperate plea in that one word, my heart almost stopped beating.”

In truth, his mind was a jumbled mess of chaotic thoughts and emotions. And yet the tender ache in his chest remained constant. Since declaring his love for Nicole in an effort to wipe the smug look from Lady Foster’s face, he could not shake the feeling that there was some truth to the statement. The words had not been formed in his head or his throat but from a foreign place yet to be discovered.

“It was foolish of me to leave your box.” She squeezed his hand to make him listen, or perhaps by way of an apology. “Had I stayed a moment longer I was in danger of throttling that woman.”

“You and me both. Why do you think I left for Italy?” Had he remained in London, his father would have forced the marriage. At heart, Oliver was an honourable man. Found in a compromising position, he would have had no choice but to do the right thing.

“Even though she married Lord Foster, it is apparent she has feelings for you.”

“Feelings?” Oliver snorted. The only person Lady Foster loved was herself. “Anyone would think we were involved in a passionate affair when we’ve done nothing more than pass pleasantries.” The lady’s obsession had come from nowhere. Then again, he did not know what assurances his father had given. “I may have danced with her once, fetched her a glass of lemonade but therein lies the end of our association.”

A whiff of ale and the screech of an out-of-tune ballad filled the air. A drunken lout stumbled past them, dragging his feet. The fellow kept one eye on the road while the other surveyed the quality of their clothes.

The streets were not safe at night and with Oliver’s volatile mood he would swing for the first man brave enough to pass comment.

“It was foolish of me to give Lady Foster the opportunity to air her views,” he continued. “The woman is a consummate gossip, desperate to heal her injured pride.”

“I am the only one guilty of stupidity. Lord Mosgrove craves attention and often follows the crowd. There was always a chance we’d meet him here tonight.”

Her irrational fear of Town made perfect sense now. Once they’d dealt with the matter of Morton Manor, Oliver would find out where her brother lived and help her solve the problem once and for all.

“And so your eagerness to remain in my carriage has nothing to do with the new seats.”

“No, although your vehicle is remarkably comfortable.” A weak chuckle left her lips. “I was frightened to come to Town because … well … the last thing I wanted was for Jeremy to find me.”

“Jeremy is your brother?”

In the cool night air, her sigh materialised as a cloud of white mist. “He is. And now that he’s married Rowena they are double the trouble.”

Oliver drew his gaze away from the door of the Haymarket and turned to look at her. At times, she appeared so strong and independent. Now, with her emerald eyes swimming with sorrow, she looked so vulnerable he wanted to scoop her up into his arms and never let her go.

“Any brother capable of selling his sister to the highest bidder should be thrown into a pit of rabid dogs.” Oliver had left Rose in the hands of a devil, too, though he would never treat his sister as property to sell.

“Since developing a fondness for gaming, Jeremy is not at all like the sweet boy I once knew.” She clutched the flimsy wrap to her chest but her teeth chattered, and her lips were tinged blue. “His love of the tables has blackened his heart.”

Oliver shrugged out of his coat. “Here, it is far too cold to be out wearing nothing but a few thin layers of material.” He draped his coat over her shoulders. The garment swamped her, but she snuggled into it and inhaled deeply.

“Thank you. It smells divine.”

Oliver smiled. “So it should. That cologne was made specifically for me by a perfumer in Florence.” It wasn’t that he was frivolous. He’d taken pity on the man and had accepted the scent in place of his vowel.

“It’s not the smell of cologne that warms me,” she said with a soft, seductive lilt. “It is the natural scent that clings to your skin. The same essence I

tasted on your lips.”

Heaven help him. She was simply conveying her opinion, yet her sensual tone sent every drop of blood in his body racing to his cock. He shuffled on the spot in a bid to find a more comfortable position, but there was only one way to ease his torment.

“For a woman who believes in true love, you are incredibly talented when it comes to inciting lust in a man,” he said, although it wasn’t just lust he felt.

“Perhaps it is honesty you find stimulating.”

No. It was her. Everything about her spoke to him in a way no one else had before. He wanted her … in his arms … in his bed … in his life.

“Then I must say that I find myself a little besotted with honesty, Miss Flint.”

He expected a flirtatious response, but she shrank back. “About that. It is not in my nature to deceive anyone. But you must understand that I had to get away from Jeremy.” She shook her head too many times to count. “You saw Lord Mosgrove. He is irrational, utterly deluded. I’d rather die than marry such an odious creature.”