Midnight's Wild Passion

“Delighted, Miss Demarest,” he murmured, bending over her gloved hand with a deference he knew the girl—and her dour companion—would note.

“My lord.” Cassandra Demarest had long, childish eyelashes tipped with a gold darker than the luxuriant curls framing her piquant face. She inspected Ranelaw from under their shadow.

A natural coquette.

He wasn’t surprised. Nor was he surprised to discover a beauty. She was as bright as a daffodil.

His skin prickled under the chaperone’s glare. Curse the crowlike Miss Smith. He needed to concentrate on his goal, not some disapproving and insignificant old maid. Although with every second, he revised his estimate of the chaperone’s age downward.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance?” A waltz struck up.

“I’d love—”

Miss Smith interrupted. “I’m sorry, Lord Ranelaw, but Miss Demarest’s father strictly forbids the waltz. She has a country dance free after supper.”

The dragon didn’t sound sorry. Her husky voice was surprisingly resolute, considering she rebuked a man so far above her in rank.

“Toni, surely Papa wouldn’t mind under these circumstances,” Miss Demarest said in a winning tone.

Toni—an intriguingly pretty name for such a starched board—arched a blond eyebrow. “You know your father’s rules.”

Miss Demarest was clearly used to wheedling her own way. Ranelaw prepared for a childish outburst, but the girl took denial in good spirit. Apparently he was mistaken in both women. Miss Demarest wasn’t altogether a brainless flibbertigibbet. The black beetle showed unexpected promise.

How interesting. . .

More white-clad butterflies joined the group. Introductions were performed. The chaperone hovered protectively.

Wise chaperone.

Lady Wreston wandered away while Thorpe questioned Miss Demarest about mutual acquaintances in Somerset. Thorpe was related to half the nation and anyone he wasn’t related to was apparently his dear acquaintance. The quizzing could continue into tomorrow. Taking advantage of the diverted attention, Ranelaw shifted nearer to the companion. She was even taller than he’d thought. In bed, she’d fit him perfectly.

What particular Gehenna spawned that thought?

“The chit won’t take if you terrify all the eligible gentlemen, Miss Smith.” Music and conversation restricted his taunting remark to her ears.

She started but didn’t retreat. He found himself respecting her courage if not her sense of self-preservation. She kept her gaze fixed on Miss Demarest, who giggled at one of Thorpe’s quips in a way Ranelaw found remarkably irritating. Would she giggle when he fucked her? He feared it likely.

“My lord, I hope you will permit me to be frank,” Miss Smith said sternly.

He could imagine what the dragon wanted to say. She’d displayed only dismay when Lady Wreston introduced him to Miss Demarest. His reputation had preceded him. He counted on it as a weapon in his arsenal of seduction. Young girls found his wildness deplorably romantic.

Silly poppets.

“And if I said no?” he asked lazily.

“I’d still find myself compelled to speak.”

“So I imagined,” he said with a boredom that was completely feigned. Most people disapproved of him. Few had the backbone to tell him so to his face.

“Pray suffer no insult when I tell you I consider you neither eligible nor a gentleman, my lord. Miss Demarest can do considerably better than the Marquess of Ranelaw, even if your intentions are honorable, which I take leave to doubt.”

He burst into laughter. His first unguarded response since entering this stuffy ballroom.

The woman had nerve. Damn him if she didn’t. His interest, reluctantly aroused, became intent. He’d have the girl. No question. And before he was done, he’d have the chaperone as well.

He’d strip away that ugly gown. He’d unpin that wrenched-back hair—whatever color it was under that horrible cap—until it tumbled around her shoulders. He’d kiss those untouched breasts. He’d teach her to relish a man’s caresses.

He reminded himself that the duenna was a side benefit of the main game. But his instincts didn’t accept that. Right now, his instincts were pitched to hunting sharpness because of a desiccated maiden of uncertain age.