“That’s not the point. Kerr isn’t sweet nor thoughtful!”
Emma waved her hand to silence her. “Neither am I, darling. Neither am I.”
Bethany looked up at her sister and bit her lip. Truly, Emma didn’t look sweet nor thoughtful either. She looked dangerous, her eyes glinting wickedly over her mask, her gown’s tight lacing enhancing her breasts. “I’ll be waiting in the carriage for you.”
Emma grinned. “You needn’t wait, love.” She descended from the carriage and then peeked back in. “I’ve taken a room at Grillon’s Hotel, and my maid is already waiting for me there.”
They probably heard Bethany’s shriek in the next county. But Emma just waved good-bye and adjusted her mask.
The competition had begun.
Chapter Seven
The footmen who had been set to guard the door of the Cavendish ball were having a difficult time of it. They’d had to turn away at least a score of people who had no invitations, and more recently, five whose invitations were obviously fraudulent. One could tell from the very way they walked that the invitations wouldn’t prove to be genuine, James thought to himself. They didn’t have that air of command.
Not like the prime article getting out of the carriage now: tall and slender, but with a bosom that made his mouth water. She had buckets of red hair, all curled and looped down her back, and the contrast between all that red hair and the white gleam of her plump breasts made James’s knees feel weak. He hardly glanced at her card, so mesmerized was he by the faint smile in her green eyes as they regarded him over the edge of her mask.
“Here you are, my lady,” he said, breathlessly handing back the invitation, even though they’d been expressly told to keep them so that no one could hand them out the back window to a friend.
“Merci beaucoup,” she murmured, and the shiver went straight down James’s legs. She was a Frenchwoman, she was. And if all Frenchwomen were like this, the world would be a better place.
>
The ballroom was brilliant with a shifting mass of bright silks, swaying feathers, and the glint of gems. Off in the corner, a small orchestra was making a valiant effort, but people were far too excited to dance. The whole ballroom was filled with Marie Antoinettes and Julius Caesars, screaming with delight when they glimpsed each other and darting across the room to press powdered cheek to powdered cheek.
Emma felt a pure stab of excitement. It had been too long since she went to a ball. Painting sets for Mr. Tey was fascinating in its own way. But painting was a lonely skill and offered none of the heart-thumping pleasure of a masquerade. She drifted through the crowd. People parted before her, drawing back, their voices drifting toward her: “Who’s that . . . really?” “It can’t be . . . darling, I’ve never seen her before. . . .” And then: quite clearly: “Those are real diamonds; she’s no governess.”
She felt a peck of annoyance at herself. She should have come to London so she would know who all these people were. There was no doubt that she would recognize Kerr, but not his friends. A gentleman was standing just to one side, gaping at her as though she had fallen straight from the sky. She dropped her eyelashes, slowly, and then looked at him again. He had such a mindless expression that she felt certain he would be a friend of Kerr’s.
It appeared the young lord was called Duffer, a thoroughly appropriate name. He almost stumbled over his own boots in his haste to kiss her hand. And a second later he took Emma into the gaming rooms, where he last saw Kerr.
Kerr was seated at a table playing vingt-et-un, his head bent to the side, studying his cards. Emma paused for a moment, letting Duffer’s hand slip from her arm. Her future husband (if she decided to give him the honor) was remarkably good looking: tall and dark, with a gypsy face and slanted eyes. He wasn’t wearing a costume, just a stark black coat and a carelessly tied scarf, but he looked better than all the peacocks he was sitting among.
“Kerr!” Lockwood hissed at him. “Wake up, man. There’s a woman behind you!”
The last thing Gil wanted was trouble with women. Tomorrow he was going to St. Albans, and . . .
He looked. She was trouble. Trouble in all the ways he most liked.
“My lord,” the woman said huskily. “You are playing with such devotion that you haven’t noticed me.”
“I’m afraid that I’m at a disadvantage,” Gil said, rising and bowing. “I am Gilbert Baring-Gould, the Earl of Kerr.”
“Mais, monsieur,” she cried, drawing back, her voice breaking slightly, “Darling Gil, you haven’t forgotten me, have you?”
Gil blinked. Surely he hadn’t—
“Oh, but you have forgotten me,” she said, her voice dipping into a husky lament. “Hélas, gentlemen—”
She cast a brilliant smile around the circle. “This is why we Frenchwomen consider you Englishmen so very dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Gil said. He was almost certain he’d never met her before. Except perhaps there was just the faintest hint of something familiar about her. “Absent-minded, perhaps, but not dangerous.”
“You admit it,” she said, pouting.
Lockwood was clearly anxious to assuage her disappointment. He stepped forward and kissed her hand. “Ah, mademoiselle,” he said softly, “my heart is French, I assure you. I could never forget the merest press of your fingertips.”
“Do you tell me, sir,” she said, in the most ravishing lisp, “that you Englishmen are not all as unmannerly as Lord Kerr? For I do believe that he has quite forgotten our acquaintance.”