A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin 2)

“I’m sure.”

“Or you could stop treating me like I carry some contagious disease and tell me what bee’s got into your bonnet.” His tone lowered. She cursed the way the soft baritone brushed like velvet over her skin. “What is it, Genevieve? What made you go from purring to snarling within an instant?”

She was a coward to avoid challenging him with her suspicions, but she couldn’t trust her unruly emotions. The prospect of screaming like a fishwife, or, even worse, bawling like a motherless calf because he’d let her down twisted her stomach with nausea.

Furious at how susceptible she still was, she didn’t have to manufacture a chilly response. “Don’t pretend ignorance.”

He sighed and it was a sign of his disturbance that he made no attempt to mask his irritation with charm. “Isn’t that like a woman? You expect a man to be a mind reader, then condemn the fellow to perpetual exile when his simple masculine brain can’t track his way through the labyrinth of your thinking.”

She stared at him balefully. “Try very hard, Mr. Evans.”

He winced at the way she bit out the formal address.

Lord Hillbrook turned to her. Humiliation burned her cheeks. Christopher seemed to have forgotten that they weren’t alone.

“I’ve looked forward to meeting you, Miss Barrett.”

“Thank you,” she responded to the social nicety, then realized that his black eyes studied her with a concentration belying his bland comment. Now she was more accustomed to his scars, she saw past them to features vivid with intelligence and sensuality.

“I’d heard you were remarkable.”

Surprise made her speak more frankly than she should. “That’s very flattering, but I can’t imagine how. His Grace only met me tonight.”

A smile tugged at Lord Hillbrook’s mouth. Did she imagine his gaze flickered past her to Christopher? From the corner of her eye, she saw her Nemesis staring into his wine as if it contained hemlock. And as if he had a mind to drink it.

She bit her lip and told herself she didn’t care. She turned back to Lord Hillbrook, although she was so upset, she could barely focus.

“General report. We were all agog to see you. Now that we have, can I say we’re not disappointed?”

This was an exceedingly odd conversation with a stranger. Before she could answer, Christopher spoke from behind her left shoulder. “Stow it, Jonas. Miss Barrett won’t play your damned games.”

Lord Hillbrook’s heavy black eyebrows arched at the rudeness. “Are you in a position to speak for the lady?”

Genevieve shot Christopher a fulminating glance. “No, he’s not.” She muffled her voice to a whisper, although Lord Hillbrook was too close to miss what she said. “What on earth is wrong with you? You’re behaving like a lunatic.”

“Driven mad by a pair of silver eyes,” Christopher muttered, taking a reckless gulp of wine before signaling to a footman for a refill. Genevieve frowned, wondering how much he’d had to drink.

“Then go mad quietly,” she snapped and deliberately turned her back. She began what became an absorbing discussion about Lord Hillbrook’s extensive collection of antiquities.

The dinner party was conducted upon informal lines, with conversation passing up and down the table and across it. The Hadley-Childe ladies remained on best behavior, but it soon became clear that Sedgemoor, Hillbrook, and Christopher knew each other too well to stand on ceremony, and that Lady Hillbrook was perfectly capable of holding her own.

Genevieve had dreaded the evening. She’d worried about dealing with Christopher, and that the duke would be insufferably patronizing. But while Sedgemoor’s remarks were more circumspect than those of his friends, his dry wit supplied a fascinating counterpoint. To her surprise when Lady Hillbrook rose, signaling for the ladies to withdraw, Genevieve was sorry to leave the men to their port. And thanks largely to Lord Hillbrook, she hadn’t boxed Christopher’s ears.

She’d always imagined people of fashion would be shallow and self-centered, but brilliance spiced the wit. There was nothing contemptible in the Hillbrooks or the Duke of Sedgemoor. In this company, even her father appeared to advantage. Only Lord Neville remained outside the charmed circle, his swarthy features set in disdain. The thought might be ungenerous, but Genevieve interpreted his displeasure as pique. Here he wasn’t everyone’s social superior as he was at the vicarage.

Even Christopher had abandoned his megrims and played an essential role in the lightning interactions. His ease in this great company didn’t mollify her anger. Instead, it spurred curiosity. Why did a man who bandied quips with dukes lurk in her shabby back bedroom?

Worse, he made her feel like a country mouse. At the vicarage, surrounded by books, she could pretend that they were equals. Here, she couldn’t help thinking that his pursuit conveyed a hint of King Cophetua and the beggar maid. That wasn’t a pleasant sensation. Christopher had been right about the excellent dinner, but the idea of playing peasant to his prince curdled the poulet à la

perse in her stomach.

Who was Christopher Evans? There was more to the relationship between these three men than she gleaned from observation. Once the duke had vouched for Christopher, nobody but Genevieve had questioned his background. Did Sedgemoor covet the Harmsworth Jewel too? It began to seem like the whole world schemed to steal it. She wondered if she should reveal the shocking truth about the heirloom, whether it preempted her academic coup or not.

“I must speak to you,” Christopher said urgently as she stood.

“No, you mustn’t,” she said, back where she’d been when the meal started, quarreling with Christopher Evans.

“Please, Genevieve.” He reached for her hand, then curtailed the movement.