Part 3 (1/2)

The first was the dining room. Beyond an open doorway was a long, beautifully carved table adorned with elegant bone china and sparkling crystal goblets. Evangeline had never seen such finery. And she was meant to eat and drink from them?

The second thing to catch her attention was the dark-haired, dark-eyed man lounging negligently against the dining room doorway, wide shoulders leaning against the frame, thumbs hooked casually into his waistband, one polished black boot crossed over the other.

Lioncroft.

He had not failed to notice Evangeline's proximity, if the sudden heat darkening his eyes was any indication. His gaze slid down her body like warm oil over bare skin, gliding past her unruly mane, to the helpless widening of her eyes, to the erratic pulsing in her throat, to the odd constriction in her bodice, to the flowing silk of her borrowed gown, to the tips of her slippered feet.

And then his gaze retraced its path back up, just as slowly.

Just as insolently insolently, Evangeline reminded herself, for no gentleman would dare to stare so boldly, to allow his eyebrows to lift in blatant appreciation, to quirk his lips in obvious amus.e.m.e.nt at her consternation.

The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly. He made no attempt to look away. Was the beast laughing laughing at her? at her?

Vexed, Evangeline decided to give Mr. Lioncroft a taste of his own rude behavior. She arched her brows in acknowledgment of his smirk before letting her own gaze drink in every facet of his appearance.

The soft hair tumbling across his forehead and down the back of his neck was not black, as she'd first thought, but rather a rich, glossy brown, much the same shade as freshly tilled soil in springtime. Or, she corrected herself darkly, like the sinister hue of a recently dug grave.

His eyes were the same deep brown, although his long lashes and thick brows were both a shade darker. His nose was straight, his chin strong. His skin was smooth, pale, and unblemished, excepting the faint shadow of hair along his jawline, not quite masking the long thin scar she'd glimpsed earlier. No doubt a memento from a duel, or some other such devilry.

A skillfully creased cravat flowed at his neckline, just above a cream-colored s.h.i.+rt made of a material so smooth and soft it fairly begged for her to run her bare fingertips across its surface.

Not that Evangeline wished to touch Mr. Lioncroft's chest, to feel the beating of his heart beneath her palm. If he even had a heart.

A perfectly tailored jacket hugged his powerful form just so, emphasizing both his impressive height and the breadth of his shoulders. Breeches stretched over long limbs, outlining the strength and musculature of his legs before disappearing into spotless Hessians.

When she glanced back at his face, he lowered one eyelid in a knowing wink. His smile was slow, lazy, devastating. The wicked promise in his gaze had her lungs gasping for air and her skin tingling in antic.i.p.ation. Her flesh felt heated, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s heavy, her stays laced too tight.

Even if he hadn't been a murderer, Evangeline realized with an involuntary gulp, Gavin Lioncroft was exactly the sort of man from whom mamas everywhere protected their virginal young daughters. And the quirk of his full, wide lips suggested he well knew it.

”I'm not ready for a betrothal yet,” came a frantic whisper from somewhere behind Evangeline's back.

Susan. Good heavens. For a moment, Evangeline had completely forgotten Lady Stanton's stratagem. And, if Evangeline were honest, Susan's presence at all.

Luckily for Susan, the rapid heartbeat raging in Evangeline's chest prevented her from breathing properly, much less screaming like a madwoman about Susan allegedly being compromised before a dining room doorway after the bell had been twice rung. In fact, all Evangeline could do was continue staring helplessly at Mr. Lioncroft.

Who hadn't yet ceased staring right back.

”My word, mum, I didn't expect to run into you so soon,” came a small, shaky voice, arresting both her and Mr. Lioncroft's attention. The maid who'd been in Evangeline's room earlier was now at her elbow, staring up at her with wide blue eyes. ”It's me, Ginny. I got no idea how you did it, but thank you ever so much for helping. I hope I got it before she chanced upon it, because if not, he'll-” The maid broke off mid-sentence as voices spilled from the hallway behind them. She seemed to catch sight of Mr. Lioncroft for the first time and flinched. ”I'll find you later, if I'm not sacked between now and then. I must know-”

But whatever Ginny had to ask was swallowed by the buzz of conversation as Benedict and Francine Rutherford strode down the hall, laughing and chatting with the cane-wielding man from earlier. Evangeline frowned. Where was Lady Hetherington? She'd been talking to the elderly man only a few minutes ago. Speaking of which, if the white-haired man wasn't Lady Hetherington's husband, who was, and where was he?

Evangeline turned back to Ginny, only to discover the maid was no longer there. She'd disappeared into the blackness of the pa.s.sageway like one of the many shadows.

Conversation sputtered and died by the end of the first course.

Across the table, Gavin's sister placed her spoon next to her empty bowl and refused to meet his eyes. When she'd first been seated-later than all the rest-she'd been oddly pale, her cheeks rouged with a heavy hand. By the time the bowls of steaming soup appeared, so had the reason for the face paint. Her delicate skin had always bruised easily.

His houseguests slunk nervous glances from her face to his, as the pinkness of Rose's left cheek purpled and spread to the size and proportion of a man's hand. There was no doubt she'd bear the horrible mark for the rest of the party, just like there was no doubt in anyone's mind who had struck her.

Except...Gavin hadn't.

Considering the crimes in his past, one might think he wouldn't mind being saddled with the occasional misplaced lesser crime. After all, of what import was the implied accusation behind a mere bruise, compared to the greater sin of patricide? Nonetheless, the ease with which he was cast in the role of villain rankled. Such presumption of guilt was precisely why he chose to avoid the company of so-called Polite Society in the first place.

Gavin couldn't deny the presence of his temper, a rash thing, a recklessness, an ever-simmering rage. When at Cambridge, how often had he been chastised for neck-or-nothing phaeton races ending with blood and bruises, or for the myriad fights that would break out afterward over who had won and who had lost? But he'd been a boy then, not more than seventeen. And while his anger might still be quick to surface, he now had at least a tenuous hold on something he'd never possessed before: self-control.

He didn't discipline his servants with his fist, although doing so was perfectly legal. He'd never hit a woman in his life, no matter how provoked. And he certainly hadn't struck his sister for no reason at all, despite the accusing glances surrept.i.tiously sent his way from all corners of the table.

But who had?

Her husband, a slimy pompous rat of an earl, would've been Gavin's first guess, had Rose not taken her place beside him with a buss and a smile.

What about Lord Hetherington's brother? Benedict Rutherford, heir presumptive to the t.i.tle, coughed discreetly into his napkin. A charming, bedimpled wastrel, yes, but hardly one to go about slapping other men's wives. Nor his own. His wife Francine Rutherford was a plumed ostrich of a woman, her costume and manner fit more for the stage than a drawing room. The silver lining to the shocked glances was a blessed halt to the woman's shrill, forced laughter.

Gavin's niece, Nancy, sat between her father-the only person still eating, as though he'd somehow missed the coiled tension thickening the air-and her intended, the elderly William Teasdale. If Teasdale raised his palsied hand to anyone, he'd likely lose his balance and tumble directly to the floor, arms and legs flailing in the air like an overturned c.o.c.kroach. The old codger couldn't see well enough to slap his own face.

That left Edmund Rutherford, Hetherington's tawny-haired cousin and second in line for the t.i.tle. Now, there there was one who spent more time in his cups than in his right mind. He was even now motioning a footman for more wine. But as far as Gavin knew, Edmund got more pleasure from dallying with other men's wives than striking them. Edmund, as usual, merely appeared drunk. Was drunk. Gavin, seated next to him, had the misfortune of smelling Edmund's rancid, humid breath. was one who spent more time in his cups than in his right mind. He was even now motioning a footman for more wine. But as far as Gavin knew, Edmund got more pleasure from dallying with other men's wives than striking them. Edmund, as usual, merely appeared drunk. Was drunk. Gavin, seated next to him, had the misfortune of smelling Edmund's rancid, humid breath.

As Rose stared at her br.i.m.m.i.n.g soup bowl, the scarlet stain spreading up her neck suggested she was beginning to realize powder and rouge hadn't masked her injury as well as she'd hoped. She appeared ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.

The only other guests were Lady Stanton, then Miss Stanton, then Miss Pemberton, none of whom Gavin suspected of striking his sister.

Lady Stanton, for her part, seemed far too frigid an individual to even be capable of the pa.s.sion necessary for anger. Her veined skin was almost as pale a blue as her gown, her colorless eyes close-set and narrow. If it weren't for the trembling mole on the edge of her upper lip, her entire person would be as unremarkable as an icicle in winter.

The daughter was a noisier, more colorful version of the mother. Although the same general size and shape in body, the eyes behind Miss Stanton's spectacles were bluer, her hair more yellow, her skin less transparent. And her mouth-Gavin was fairly certain the chit hadn't closed the d.a.m.n thing since the moment she plopped down next to Miss Pemberton, who even now was feigning interest in Miss Stanton's hushed whispers.

Feigning, Gavin was convinced, because out in the hallway he'd seen true true interest widen those long-lashed eyes. Eyes that now refused to meet his. Miss Pemberton ducked her head, giving him a view of an undulating ma.s.s of unruly, dark caramel hair straying from its binding in random, wavy locks. Gavin's fingers twitched against the tablecloth, aching to bury themselves in all that luxuriant softness. Such disarray lent her the appearance of a woman recently tupped. He couldn't help but wish he were the man doing the tupping. Perhaps he was in luck. By her manner in the hall, Miss Pemberton was no simpering debutante. Her bold gaze along the length of his body ignited his flesh until he could barely restrain from trapping her between the wall and his heated limbs to devour her in a kiss. The very thought made Gavin s.h.i.+ft in his seat, the elegantly carved woodwork suddenly awkward and uncomfortable. interest widen those long-lashed eyes. Eyes that now refused to meet his. Miss Pemberton ducked her head, giving him a view of an undulating ma.s.s of unruly, dark caramel hair straying from its binding in random, wavy locks. Gavin's fingers twitched against the tablecloth, aching to bury themselves in all that luxuriant softness. Such disarray lent her the appearance of a woman recently tupped. He couldn't help but wish he were the man doing the tupping. Perhaps he was in luck. By her manner in the hall, Miss Pemberton was no simpering debutante. Her bold gaze along the length of his body ignited his flesh until he could barely restrain from trapping her between the wall and his heated limbs to devour her in a kiss. The very thought made Gavin s.h.i.+ft in his seat, the elegantly carved woodwork suddenly awkward and uncomfortable.

How many years had pa.s.sed since he'd been with a woman he hadn't had to pay for? Perhaps, if he were to let the so-called ”party” continue, he and the delectable Miss Pemberton might share an entirely different variety of dining experience.

She sat much too far away for Gavin to speak to her, which was just as well given the libidinous direction of his thoughts...and the ever-present hiss of the Stanton chit's incessant tongue. She was no doubt regaling Miss Pemberton with the very suspicions no other guest dared put to words-that the murderer at the head of the table couldn't be bothered to contain his violence even for a single evening.

Gavin returned his gaze to his sister, unaware he was scowling until she caught his eye and flinched.

”So tell us,” came Edmund's loud voice, the words slurring together until they were barely decipherable. His amber eyes blinked several times as if he found focusing on Gavin's face a difficult task. ”Why'd you plant your sister the facer?”

Without bothering to respond to the grinning sot, Gavin leaned back in his chair until his weight balanced on the rear legs. He knew he gave the impression of perfect boredom, and why not? No point defending oneself when judgment had already been made.

The furtive glances shared between the other guests confirmed this suspicion.

Nothing was quite as c.o.c.k-shriveling as fear moistening the eyes of a woman. Gavin was pleased to note Miss Pemberton was one of only two females not currently pale with terror. Unfortunately, her expression bordered on rage, as though she were more disgusted with his apparent lack of self-control than worried she might be the next to feel his wrath.

The other woman unafraid of him was Rose herself, as she alone knew the true culprit.

”He didn't hit me,” she mumbled now, her eyes meeting neither his nor Edmund's. Had there been any other sound in the dining room, she might've gone unheard. In the silence, however, her words were cannon blasts.