His eyes had locked on Miss Wynchester along the far wall.
For once she was not dressed in shades of gray but wore a gown the color of fresh cream with a bodice of seafoam green and embroidery to match along the hem. Her soft brown hair was swept up in a simple coil, drawing one’s attention to her lively brown eyes and rosy lips. He wanted to taste the dip at the top, run his tongue along the seam until she allowed him access…
She did not seem at all the sort of woman who needed to ask to be kissed. He could imagine begging for the pleasure, the seductive feel of a victorious smile tugging at her lips even as she pressed them against his.
Miss Wynchester was no peacock of fashion, but she played her part with astonishing precision. She mixed well with wealthy, cultured wallflowers who had been coming to these events their entire lives. If the butler had not read her name too loudly, the current company would have no reason to suspect a Wynchester was in their midst.
Lawrence noticed every sparkle in her eye and stray curl of hair. He had the nape of her neck and the curve of her cheek memorized, yet watched her helplessly all the same. Miss Wynchester was like air. He could not help but breathe her in.
“What’s caught your attention?” Lord Rosbotham asked.
The back of Lawrence’s neck began to sweat. He could not possibly respond withA Wynchester.
Could he? She was here to make the best match she could. No one would believe he’d extended an invitation to his end-of-season gala if he didn’t acknowledge he knew her.
Perhaps more to the point, she needn’tattendhis gala in search of leg shackles if she happened upon an interested gentleman beforehand. Anything Lawrence could do to speed things along would do them both a favor.
And the Marquess of Rosbotham had three unmarried sons.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Lawrence said as casually as he could, “the pretty girl in the celery-hued gown is Miss Chloe Wynchester.”
“Wynchester?” Rosbotham snorted in derision. “God save us all. Baron Vanderbean might have been allowed into less discerning households, but that is no reason for his collection of strays to be afforded the same luxury.”
Lawrence’s cold fingers curled into fists. Despite having felt much the same way less than a fortnight earlier, there was little more he wished to do now than plant the Marquess of Rosbotham a dizzying facer.
“Parentage is not one’s only trait,” he pointed out. “Besides, I can think of several by-blows who move quite freely in society.”
“Whose by-blow isshe?” Rosbotham spat. “Some harlot who discarded her own spawn? Why should we feel obligated to bow and scrape to the likes of—”
Lawrence did not wait to hear the rest of Lord Rosbotham’s diatribe. He was not so foolish as to punch a marquess in a crowded ballroom; neither could Lawrence stand passively by while an innocent young lady was disparaged. Heritage was never a child’s fault. One’s actions, however—thosedefined the man.
Without begging his leave, he stepped around the marquess and headed straight toward Chloe Wynchester. At least she hadn’t brought her cat or her basket—unless Tiglet had already escaped.
An elderly woman with wiry gray hair and sharp, narrowed eyes stopped him less than a foot away.
“Have you been properly introduced to my great-niece, young man?” Her thin voice quavered as she swayed unevenly to block his path.
“Yes, Aunt.” Miss Wynchester gave the older woman’s pale hand a reassuring pat. A thin ring encircled one of the aunt’s narrow fingers. “That’s no ne’er-do-well. That’s the Duke of Faircliffe.” Her brown eyes sparkled up at Lawrence. “Your Grace, my great-aunt Wynchester.”
Her great-aunt stared at Lawrence with enough suspicion that he dipped an involuntary bow to prove himself harmless.
“A duke, you say?” Mrs. Wynchester sniffed with obvious resignation, as though she’d been holding out hope some unfettered king or prince would fall madly for her great-niece, and Lawrence stood in that royal hero’s way. “Humph. I’ll get the ratafia.”
Ratafia.Lawrence despised the sickly-sweet cordial almost as much as tea.
Miss Wynchester shook her head. “I don’t want ratafia, Aunt.”
“It’s not for you.” Another harrumph.
Lawrence jerked back in alarm. “I don’t require ratafia, either, madam.”
“I’m afraid it’s not for you, either,” Miss Wynchester murmured as her great-aunt doddered away without a backward glance. “I wish you better first impressions next time.”
He could not help but recall Lord Rosbotham’s commentary. Baron Vanderbean was just important enough to be considered part of the beau monde, but Miss Wynchester would have had to fight for every scrap.
“You look like you belong,” he offered, unsure if he was damning her with faint praise or if she would take the remark in the complimentary spirit in which he had meant it. “You’re even prettier in light green than you were in lavender.”
A touch of pink flushed her cheeks, and she glanced away. “You have a gaggle of admirers awaiting your attention.”
