Slave to the Night (The Brotherhood 2)

"He's standing near the alcove. Markham's the only gentleman in the room not in costume, so you're unlikely to miss him." The lady placed her hand on Grace's arm. "What are you going to do about Barrington? He will not tolerate your blasé attitude and without the protection of a gentleman, he can make things difficult for you."

Grace didn't have to worry about Barrington and neither did Caroline, not anymore.

"I shall do what I always do," she said making an attempt to sound vain and conceited. "I shall smile and flutter my lashes and all will be well."

In their youth, Caroline had used the trick a hundred times or more.

"Oh, you're incorrigible. Let me know how you fare with Lord Markham. Although I'm sure to hear tales of your humiliation. I may even rouse the courage to try myself."

As Grace walked away, she was overcome by a wave of sadness. Was this how Caroline spent her time — comparing conquests and juggling suitors? There was something so shallow, so degrading about succumbing to the voracious demands of men.

Where had it all gone wrong?

After reading the diary, she had a fair idea.

There was only one gentleman wearing evening clothes. He was conversing with a man dressed in the garb of a Turkish prince, whose crimson pantaloons were attracting much female attention.

Lord Markham, or so she assumed, had the bearing of a man who bowed to no one. Dressed all in black, he exuded raw masculinity. With his arrogant chin, sinful mouth and lethal gaze he embodied all the qualities she imagined of a scandalous rake. His decision to forgo a mask made him appear all the more masterful, all the more dangerous.

Grace swallowed down her nerves and tried to muster just an ounce of her sister's steely composure. It was the height of rudeness to interrupt a conversation and so she hovered at his side in the hope he would notice her.

The first thing he did notice were her breasts and his lustful gaze lingered there for longer than necessary. Grace could feel her cheeks flame under his heavy scrutiny. Her instincts cried for her to flee, the feeling only tempered by her sheer desperation to discover what the gentleman knew.

His expression altered dramatically as his gaze drifted up to the topaz necklace, up to the mole on her cheek. Recognition dawned, and his countenance resumed the same tired, world-weary air.

"Ah, Miss Rosemond," he said glancing down at her breasts once more. "I see you have found a way to enhance the paltry assets bestowed upon you. Some poor devil will have a fright when his hand curls around a pair of old stockings."

The gentleman's mouth was as foul as his reputation. Trust him to notice the only distinct difference. And why had he called her Rosemond? Had he mistaken her for someone else or had Caroline used a different name? More importantly, he showed not the slightest surprise at her presence.

"You presume to know me, my lord," she said trying not to show her displeasure at his derogatory remark. He apparently felt within his rights to speak in such base terms, and she felt another pang of sadness for the sweet sister she once knew.

The Turkish prince sniggered, his turban wobbling back and forth, but became distracted when a lady stopped to admire the softness of his silk trousers.

Lord Markham raised an arrogant brow. "I know you a little too well, I fear."

Grace lifted her chin. "How so? I find such a critical assessment causes my memory to fail me." She was doing far better than she ever hoped and she resisted the urge to clap her hands together. After all, such a dire situation was not to be trivialised.

"When it comes to the weaknesses of the flesh, my memory never fails me."

Grace smiled. "I'm afraid I can only recall the things I deem important."

Lord Markham narrowed his gaze, his mouth twitching at the corners. "Then tell me what you do remember."

The request caught her by surprise.

How was she supposed to answer that?

"I-I couldn't p-possibly repeat it."

Oh, God, she was going to start mumbling.

Lord Markham turned fully and focused his attention, gazing deeply into her eyes through the oval holes in her mask. The room appeared to sway, and she sucked in a breath to calm the flutter in her heart.

"Oh, I think you can," he said as the amber flecks in his green eyes grew more prominent. His gloved finger came to rest on her pendant, drifting seductively over the topaz stones. Grace shivered at his touch and his mouth curved up into a satisfied smile. "Tell me what you imagine occurred between us. Tell me."

Grace swallowed. "I … I won't repeat it."

He leaned forward, the smell of sandalwood and some other earthy masculine fragrance bombarded her senses. "Tell me." He dropped his hand as his greedy gaze dipped to her breasts bulging out from the neckline of her gown. "Whisper the words to me."