His eyes smoldered under lowered lids—bedroom eyes—and the smirk that played around his mouth was suggestive and practiced.
“Lord Geoffrey,” I told him, coolly. When he reached for my hand, I contemplated moving it behind my back and out of his way, but decided that it would be too rude a reaction to a man whose house I was standing in. So I let him bring it to his lips, and let him breathe on it, moistly, for several seconds longer than necessary, before he gave it back to me. I wiped it surreptitiously against my skirt before I told him, sweetly, “Congratulations.”
He blinked. While he’s brilliantly handsome, and much too well aware of it, he’s as thick as a stack of bricks. “What for?”
“Your sister’s engagement,” I reminded him. “The reason we’re all here.”
He looked around, and I could see the thoughts chasing one another, with the speed of snails, across his countenance. Eventually, his face cleared and he chuckled. “Yes, St George is quite a catch.”
“Quite so,” I agreed pleasantly. From beside me, I could hear Christopher smother a laugh.
By now, the Honorable Reggie Fish and his less than honorable companion had moved on, and Crispin and Laetitia were standing alone in front of the fireplace. But instead of smiling fatuously at his fiancée, the way she was gazing at him, heart in her eyes, Crispin was scowling in our direction. When I caught his eyes and smirked, his brows lowered further. I turned back to Geoffrey. “You must be so pleased.”
Geoffrey stuck his chest out. “Of course. Couldn’t ask for better, really.”
“Not really. He’s one of a kind.” I smirked into my gin. Francis turned a bark of laughter into a cough, and addressed his future cousin-in-law.
“Welcome to the family, Marsden.”
“Same, Astley,” Geoffrey said jovially. “Although you were there already, weren’t you?”
He flicked a glance at Constance, and of course he was absolutely correct. We were a fairly incestuous bunch, between Geoffrey’s cousin being engaged to marry Francis, and Francis’s cousin being engaged to marry Geoffrey’s sister. All we needed to tie it all together was for me to marry Geoffrey, but that was entirely out of the question, of course. I didn’t think that marriage was likely to change his proclivities—it would simply give him more opportunity to philander—and I was certainly not going to get involved with it.
Not that he was interested in me for marriage, anyway. Whoever he married would have to come with a title and preferably a fortune of her own. Someone like, I assumed, Lady Violet Cummings or, in a pinch, the Honorable Cecily Fletcher or Olivia Barnsley, whatever her title was. Not a nobody from the Continent, whose only claim to nobility was that she was the Duke of Sutherland’s younger brother’s wife’s niece, with no money or standing of my own.
And that, of course, was when the door to the drawing room opened again, and someone new entered.
I only knew about it because Crispin’s eyes, already narrowed, now turned to slits, while something that felt very much like an electrical current ran around the rest of the room. Laetitia straightened, and so did the three young ladies who had heretofore been dividing their attention between Dominic Rivers and the Honorable Reggie. The latter’s mouth shaped words that I would have been willing to bet were, “I say!” while Dom Rivers’s jaw clenched.
Francis’s eyes narrowed, too, and just as I was about to turn around to see what all the excitement was about, a presence stepped up beside me. A voice I recognized said, warmly, “Philippa.”
Francis growled, and I saw his knuckles turn white around the brandy glass he was holding. For a second, I worried that he would squeeze so hard that the glass broke and cut him, but then Constance’s hand landed on his arm and I stopped worrying.
“Natterdorff,” Christopher said blandly, and I turned on my heel with a blinding smile.
“Wolfgang. How lovely to see you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“You know this Kraut?”
Francis’s voice was dark and threatening, barely more than a growl.
“Don’t be rude, Francis,” I admonished, while Christopher told him, “TheGraf von und zuNatterdorff is Pippa’s cousin.”
Francis looked at me with betrayal in his eyes. “Pipsqueak?”
“Once or twice removed,” I said apologetically, “or something of that nature. On my father’s side. I’m not certain how the relationship works.”
Nor was I to blame for it, really, although I didn’t think that argument would really hold water with Francis right now.
He didn’t respond to it, just turned his attention back onto Wolfgang. They stared at one another. Everyone else stared, too, while whispers spread throughout the drawing room, starting low and slowly building to a buzz. The girls’ attention was avid, probably because Wolfgang is exceptionally handsome, at least aside from that Mensur scar bisecting his cheek.
Not that there’s anything at all wrong with the way Francis looks, or for that matter the other Astleys. They’re all good-looking young men of the British type, with their fair hair and fair skin. Wolfgang, though, it must be said, is stunning.
After a moment’s contemplation of Francis, he turned to me and arched a brow. “Another one?”
Another Astley, I assumed. He had met Christopher and Crispin before, and they look enough alike to be twins, aside from a slight difference in coloring. Francis looks enough like them both to be a brother to both of them.
