Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)

It was a blatant invitation to strike up a more heated flirtation, which fitted perfectly with his duties for Thorncroft. And yet, he found himself ignoring the opportunity.

“Has your missing emerald been found?” he asked.

Her mouth pursed to a pout. “Not yet. The servant quarters have been thoroughly checked, however Lord Dunbar is reluctant to offend his other guests by ordering a search of their rooms. He has, however, offered to reimburse me for its loss at the end of the house party if it hasn’t been found.”

“Most likely it has simply rolled into some hidden nook or cranny and will turn up before then.”

“Perhaps.” A Gallic sniff expressed quite the opposite sentiment. “Though I think it far more probable that it’s tucked in someone’s reticule or pocket.” Lady de Blois flicked a gloved finger over the folds of his cravat. “Maybe I should demand to run my hands over your coat and waistcoat, Lord Davenport.”

“Alas, you would be greatly disappointed, Lady de Blois.”

“Oh, I think not.” Her lashes fluttered. “And do call me Marie-Helene. After all, country house parties are notorious for their informality.”

Notorious. Her understanding of the English language was either mediocre or superb.

“I am called—”

“Le Diable,” she said. “The Devil. But surely your parents gave you a more proper Christian name.”

“Devlin,” he supplied. “Though I’ve been told they considered Lucifer, as I put my mother through hell in birthing me.”

“Ah, so you were trouble from the start.”

“So it would seem.” As he spoke, the supper bell rang, signaling it was time to move into the dining salon.

“Since we are seated at opposite ends of the table, it seems we must continue this fascinating conversation at a later time,” said Lady de Blois. “Midnight is a charming hour, don’t you think?”

“An interlude of black velvet skies and diamond-bright stars, cloaked in the mystery of moonlight.”

“La, you are a poet as well as a rogue,” she intoned.

“Merely parroting the words of one,” replied Devlin.

She regarded him with a faintly quizzical look before saying, “I am quartered on the third floor of the west wing. My door is the first one on your left as you enter the corridor. I shall not linger over tea with the ladies while you gentlemen enjoy your postprandial port and cigars. So don’t dally too long.”

The assignation should have stirred some enthusiasm in his thoughts—not to speak of his privy parts. However, the prospect of dallying with the lady no longer seemed quite so attractive.

Perhaps the combination of Scottish malt and French champagne was setting off an adverse chemical reaction.

Mayhap I should switch to Spanish brandy or German wine.

“A bientôt, Devlin,” she said in a throaty whisper.

“Yes, until later,” he murmured.

“Drat it.” Freeing the tangled pin from her topknot, Anna tossed it on the dressing table. Several more pings followed.

“Was your evening’s ensemble not a success?”

Anna whirled around as her maid emerged from the dressing alcove. “You really need not wait up for me in the evenings, Josette. I am quite capable of undressing myself.”

“Forgive me if I am disturbing you. I was just putting away some freshly laundered nightrails. Things have been slow in the scullery because of all the extra work.”

“I did not mean to sound snappish,” apologized Anna. “I seem to be a little out of sorts tonight.”

“Your gown…”

“Earned effusive compliments from most of the men present,” she said, turning back to the looking glass to unknot the ribbon in her hair.