She had to be mistaken. Although she’d believed she’d never forget what the gent had looked like, she had to admit to some murkiness around the edges of her memories, thanks to the influence of too much absinthe. So perhaps he only reminded her of the fellow, because of his dark hair and eyes, along with the intensity with which he seemed to be taking her in.
He gave a little bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Garrison.”
That voice. Deep, silky, rich. Low and intimate.Don’t be nervous. You tell me.
She swallowed hard, striving to get her lungs to work. She couldn’t return his sentiment, couldn’t claim pleasure because she feared the word would come out as a strangled croak. Since that night at the Elysium, she’d thought of that man, possiblythisman, a hundred times at least, regretted not allowing him to give his name because if she returned to the club, how could she ask for him in order to ensure that he was the one who came to her?
She gave a shallow curtsy. “My lord.”
Her voice was a strangled croak anyway, and she cursed her traitorous body for showing any indication she was struggling with this unexpected development.
“I was giving Miss Garrison a tour of the library. She loves books,” the duchess said.
“Reading makes for a wonderful pastime,” he said. “Are you enjoying England?”
“It has its moments.”
When a corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly and his brown eyes warmed, she knew he was no twin or doppelganger. Hewasthe one they’d sent to her. How he had come to be that man was another matterentirely. Did he lead a clandestine life? Did the Elysium allow him to fulfill his own fantasies of pleasuring the innocent? Did he use the various encounters for blackmail? Her mind was rife with questions, none of them flattering toward him. And none that she could ask outright at the moment without giving away her own sinful behavior.
“If you’ll excuse me—” Needing to put distance between them, she stepped around him in order to move nearer to her family, not that they were wont to provide a modicum of protection. “You should have come with us, Mama. You’d have been impressed with all the tomes.”
“Unlike you, my girl, I prefer to live life within the world, not between the pages of a book.”
Her father had adored Leonora. His death nearly a year ago had come as a blow, even though she’d been expecting it. The doctors knew little about the illness that had caused his muscles to atrophy and his body to fade away, and thus there had been nothing they could do to stop its progress. She dearly missed him and wished he was here now to share in and be part of her endeavors.
Her mother had never approved of her, which was no doubt one of the reasons Leonora hadn’t stayed on the ship in order to travel back to New York once it became clear that her mother had tagged along with a definite agenda in mind: to see her daughter married to a lord, believing it would lift her own esteem.
But Leonora had no wish to marry. Instead, she had her own dreams that could be accomplished by not remaining on the vessel. So here she was, striving to prove herself of value and worthy of her family’skind regard, while also hoping to obtain that which she longed for: to be recognized for her talents and acknowledged as a true partner in the business.
She took the sherry her brother had been holding for her and forced a delicate sip when she would have preferred downing all the contents. Between her mother’s designs, her brother’s tendency to take nothing seriously—even their dire straits—and the arrival of a man with the power to distract her, possibly to destroy her, she was teetering on the edge of a precipice, and a single misstep could cause her to lose everything for which she’d worked so hard and devoted years hoping to acquire. All done surreptitiously. All done with the knowledge of only a few.
Glancing over at Wyeth, who’d joined his friends, she could hope only that her encounter with him would also remain confidential.
Leonora knew that among the aristocracy, rules existed regarding the order as to how one was seated around the dining table. Precedence, she believed it was called. She thought aristocratic ladies were required to memorize some tome in order to learn where to properly place people so as to not insult anyone. She couldn’t imagine giving a fig as to which chair had been designated for her backside.
Still, she wasn’t altogether certain that the duchess had adhered to the proper sitting order. She and her husband were at opposite ends of the table. The three other Chessmen were lined up to the duke’s right, her brother to their host’s left. They’d seated her beside Sam, which put her across from the viscount. Hermother was beside her, the other two wives on either side of the duchess.
She was rather certain that Sam had asked for her to be placed beside him—out of brotherly love and because she wasn’t comfortable around strangers, he would have told them. But the truth was that he worried business might come up and he would need to be rescued. Because unlike him, she’d always hung on to every word their father had uttered as if it had come from God. Because that’s what he’d always been to her: a deity.
He’d known everything, had commanded men and been a mover of industry. He’d built railroads, been instrumental in discovering ways to make factories run more efficiently. But his passion had been weaponry. The evolution of it had fascinated him, and she suspected, like her, he would have spent considerable time examining the armor that had been on display near the library as though a knight still stood in it. Her taking long minutes to study it had delayed her and the duchess returning to the drawing room. Perhaps she wouldn’t have been so surprised by Wyeth’s presence if she’d been there when he entered the chamber.
Maybe she could have thought of something witty to say as he escorted her—at the urging of the duchess—to the dining table. The duke had offered his arm to her mother, who had preened as if being gifted with the Crown jewels while Sam had accompanied the duchess. Instead, Leonora had not even been able to look at the viscount, to meet his gaze.
Because the few times she’d glanced over at him before the butler announced that dinner was ready to be served, she’d found it difficult to breathe and wasn’tcertain it was entirely due to his being privy to her embarrassing secret. She feared it might have something to do with how remarkably handsome he was, with a patrician nose, bold cheekbones that would offer a resting place for his thick eyelashes, and a jaw that had quite possibly been chiseled from stone. And those lips. Those damn plump lips that had been sculpted to provide a cushion for a woman’s mouth.
She realized, sitting at the table now, that she was staring at them, remembering the softness moving provocatively over her own, urging her to part them and allow him entry. She’d so blithely obliged and unleashed her inhibitions because she’d never expected to see him again. She’d thought he was a commoner, someone of the streets. Not a damned noble, not someone her brother was striving to entice into investing. Not someone with the power to prevent her from achieving her dreams.
When she lifted her attention from his lips, she discovered his eyes, speculative and curious, homed in on her face with such intensity that he might as well have been skimming his fingers over her skin. His look was so thoroughly assessing, so profound, so incredibly penetrating. She suspected if he dipped his smoldering gaze, he’d set her clothing alight.
With heat flaming her cheeks, she jerked her attention back to the soup that had been placed before her. She had no idea what kind it was. It had no flavor—or if it did, her senses were so overwhelmed by the memory of his taste that it dominated all else.
She supposed she was expected to speak with him about mundane matters, topics she’d learned at the boring finishing school to which her mother hadsent her because they were the nouveau riche and the woman who’d given birth to her in a small house on the outskirts of Chicago had wanted to erase any evidence of their origins. While Leonora thought their rise out of poverty was the most interesting thing about her family.
But she didn’t want to discuss mundane matters with him. She wanted to know why a man who was supposedly as rich as Croesus—according to her brother, all the Chessmen were—was working in a questionable establishment. And worse, she wanted to know if he’d enjoyed kissing her... at all. If she’d done it correctly. If he ever pondered doing it again.
Rook couldn’t stop thinking about kissing her—what it had been like and how much he wanted to do it again. Only longer, slower. He wanted to stretch it out into eternity.
Not that she seemed to have any interest in kissing him. Every now and then she darted a quick glance at him. Once her gaze had lingered—on his mouth if he was forced to guess—but she appeared to be discomfited by his presence. And thus far, he’d noticed her blushing half a dozen times. He wondered if she was striving to forget what had happened and was discombobulated to find herself sitting across from the reminder in the flesh. That might explain the tension radiating from her when he’d escorted her to the table. He supposed it was also possible she didn’t recognize him. He was fairly certain she’d been rather sauced that night. Which might account for the way, upon first being formally introduced to him, she’d looked athim with confusion as if he was a stranger, someone she’d never before encountered.
