Then the man laughed, startling them both.
“The Misses Summersby, isn’t it?” The man took a long draw of his cigar, tilted his head back, then blew a trail of smoke. “Leopold Mayweather, at your service.”
She clenched her teeth on a gasp. She’d heard his name before, whispered by ill-natured women who congregated near the wallflowers to whisper stories about dangerous men. Viscount Briarwood, Leopold “Leo” Mayweather, was one of the worst, a confirmed rake and despoiler of innocents. Rumors held he had ruined a dozen debutantes and survived twice that many duels with angry fathers and brothers.
“Sister, who is that man?” Angelica whispered. “He looks like a devil.”
Saffron hoped he hadn’t heard that.
He chuckled. “A devil, is it? And you have stumbled into my lair.” He gestured to an oil painting on the wall depicting a group of naked women feasting on the slaughtered remains of a goat, their hands and faces covered in blood.
Fear pulsed through Saffron like a living thing. With every second they remained alone with the man, the risk of ruin increased. She knew she should follow the woman out whatever exit she had taken, but her legs refused to move.
Lord Briarwood was dangerous, but he didn’t elicit in her the scattered, nervy sensations she was used to feeling around strange men. He looked like a lion and had the reputation of a scoundrel, but something in his posture spoke of a tenderness beneath the surface. He didn’t lounge in the chair so much as hecurledhis body into it, like a housecat perched on top of a pillow.
“What are you doing here, Lord Briarwood?” she asked.
Angelica uttered a quiet gasp at his name.
“I’m searching for something.” He unfolded his long legs and stalked from the shadows. The flickering firelight cast an orange hue over the sharp planes of his cheekbones, wide lips, and slightly crooked nose, making him appear even more devilish. She stood her ground, her hands buried in her skirts, heart thundering in her chest. She tilted her head up and met his gaze.
“Searching for what, my lord?”
“Something that doesn’t belong.” His lips twitched. “Rather like you, Miss Summersby. You do not belong here, dressed like…” He trailed off, running his gaze down her body.
Her stomach churned and for a fleeting moment, she wished she’d chosen something other than the plain but serviceable gown of brown wool unadorned with lavish ribbons or ruching. Combined with her coal-black hair and pale complexion, she probably looked more like a scullery maid than a lady.
Angelica glided around her and dipped into a curtsey, a picture of grace and beauty. “It is lovely to make your acquaintance, Lord Devil.”
Briarwood’s eyes crinkled at the edges. Then Angelica rose from her curtsey and smacked him in the chin with the crown of her head. Saffron tensed, expecting an outburst, but as the viscount staggered back, rubbing his chin, he laughed. “What is in that head of yours, my dear? Rocks?”
The tension that had seized Saffron’s lungs drained away. She turned to her sister to examine her escaped curls and clucked her displeasure. “You must have more care. If you lose another curl, I will not forgive you.” She dug her fingers into the tangle of her own hair and pulled out a pin. A lock of black hair tumbled free. Before she could tuck it behind her ear, cool fingers brushed her temple.
“I have it,” Lord Briarwood said, his voice soft. “Don’t worry.”
The feather-light touch on her scalp sent pleasurable tingles down her back and a wild part of her wondered what it would feel like to have his fingers on other parts of her body. She imagined his long fingers trailing up her inner thigh and untying the ribbon holding her stockings in place. She thrust those wayward thoughts aside and grasped her sister’s head in both hands, twisting the curls that had come free around the length of the pin and tucking them away. That done, she releasedher sister and inspected her work. It would not pass muster in daylight, but in the dim light of the ballroom, it would suffice.
“Now that we have been introduced, albeit in a highly unusual manner,” Briarwood said, “please allow me to accompany you back to the ballroom. Perhaps we will find what I have been searching for along the way.”
She hesitated. What was worse—walking in on Lady Jarvis inflagrante delicto, or entering a ballroom on the arm of a rake?
The viscount’s lips twitched. “Propriety. Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Marie? If you will.”
A short, gray-haired woman wearing the uniform of a servant separated from the shadows and curtsied. “I will accompany you, my lord.”
“Marie is one of Lady Jarvis’s servants,” Leo explained. “Our generous host assigned her to attend to me tonight. I required a servant’s perspective.”
The tightness in Saffron’s shoulders eased, and she held out her hand. Warm fingers enveloped her own and drew her closer. The intensity in his face should have sent her scurrying away. She knew what men like him wanted, had felt their lecherous gazes lingering on her in every ballroom she’d graced since her brother’s death. It was as if they could sense her imminent fall from grace and were waiting to claim her as their mistress. Those looks always made her long for a bath. Not Lord Briarwood’s. His gentle gaze caressed her skin like the finest silk and made her long to slip into his arms and bury her nose in his neck.
She had never felt such wild impulses with any other man. She felt like a character in one of the romance novels she’d read.
His wicked smile would haunt her dreams for months.
“Let us return before anyone raises a fuss,” Briarwood said. He pushed back a heavy drape from the wall and revealedanother door. They passed through the doorway and into a wide hallway, Angelica and Marie following behind.
He squeezed her hand. “I thought you might flee rather than take my arm. I sometimes forget how imposing I must seem.” He waved his free arm up and down his body.
She kept her lips shut and her gaze focused on the swirling shapes at the end of the hall. Her traitorous mind, which recalled facts and figures with ease but forced her to write down her daily tasks no matter how many times she repeated them, had already memorized every line of his body.
