Page 46 of An Enchanting Dare

Cara shook her head, peering down through the gaps in the screen. “I don’t know. Aisling, who is that fellow?”

Aisling moved towards the screen and a prickle of unease ran down her spine as she saw Kilbane moving through the crowd. They parted before him as though aware of a predator in their midst, everyone turning their gazes away from him and pretending to be having a fascinating conversation elsewhere.

“That’s the Marquess of Kilbane,” she said, watching him with unease. “He’s not supposed to be here, for he wasn’t invited.”

“Why did Papa let him in, then?” Cara asked, glaring at the man.

“Because he’s the kind to cause worse trouble if you deny him what he wants. Papa was hoping to avoid a scene. If he were a gentleman, he wouldn’t have come.”

“But why wasn’t he invited?” Cat demanded, her blonde brows knitting. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

Aisling sighed. She could hardly tell the girls all about the marquess and his dreadful reputation… at least not in any detail. “Because he’s a very bad man.”

Cat made a scathing sound. “Kilbane is an Irish name. You know better than anyone that’s likely got more to do with it than any bad behaviour. After all, the Earl of Vane is here, and he’s supposed to be wicked too.”

Aisling looked at the girl in surprise. “It may be a part of it,” she admitted, for there was plenty of prejudice among the ton for anyone with Irish blood and it was a fair point, but she did not believe Vane had ever come close to Kilbane’s desire for scandal and vice.

“I don’t think it’s fair that he wasn’t invited,” Cat said crossly. “I would have invited him. Wicked men are always the most entertaining in books and—.”

“But not in real life! Never in real life!” Aisling snapped, wanting to shake the girl for her reckless words.

Cat looked up at her in shock, and Aisling took a breath.

“I beg your pardon, Cat,” she said, regretting how harshly she’d spoken, but a terrible sense of foreboding had prickled down her spine, making her breath catch. “But do not go getting the idea that men like Kilbane have any romantic qualities. He’s selfish and arrogant and immoral and… you must stay away from him.”

She knew at once she’d said entirely the wrong thing as interest lit the girl’s silver-grey eyes.

“If you say so, Aisling,” Cat murmured, but turned back to watch the marquess make his way through the ballroom alone.

Matilda Barrington, the Marchioness of Montagu, watched her husband as he adjusted his cravat with long, elegant fingers.

“If you keep looking at me like that, we will not return in time for the supper waltz and people will talk,” he said, his silver eyes glinting wickedly in the dim light.

Matilda hid a smile. “You’ve behaved quite badly enough already this evening, my lord,” she said, endeavouring to sound cross with him, which was ridiculous. He knew damn well she was as besotted now as when she’d first met him, though she’d hidden it a good deal better in those days. “I don’t know what gets into you,” she added sadly.

There was a low chuckle that sent shivers prickling up and down her spine.

“Little liar,” he murmured, and she jumped as she realised he was standing right behind her, his hands sliding about her waist and his warm breath fluttering over the back of her neck. “You know exactly what gets into me because you provoke me. You’ve always provoked me and you’re doing it still.”

Matilda grinned and leaned back into him, inclining her head to allow him another kiss. She sighed as he released her.

“You had best check on that she-devil of ours, or our little Cat will be up to no good, mark my words,” he said, patting her bottom as she headed towards the door.

“I know,” Matilda said with a sigh. “I am all for strong-willed, independent young women, but that child terrifies me.”

A smile softened her husband’s beautiful if austere face and she laughed, shaking her head. “How can you smile so indulgently when it’s your fault? You’ve spoiled her. If anyone knew the terrifying Marquess of Montagu could be reduced to putty by a little slip of a girl, no one would ever fear you again.”

He snorted with amusement. “Then you’d best never tell, darling. Give the wicked creature a kiss from me. I shall see you back in the ballroom in time for our waltz. Do not be late.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Matilda replied, waiting until he confirmed the coast was clear before she exited the dimly lit parlour.

She blew him a kiss and hurried off to check on their naughty daughter. She was making her way along the impressive long portrait gallery when she saw a tall, dark figure ahead of her. He made an elegant picture, standing regarding a family portrait of the Baxter family. Matilda knew the painting well, and it was a wonderful likeness of Kitty and her family.

The man was studying it so intently he did not appear aware of her presence. Matilda considered him as she drew closer, intrigued by the fascination in his eyes. He appeared thoroughly absorbed, as though he were looking upon a depiction of some distant foreign land, full of exotic mysteries, not a portrait of a happy family in an English drawing room.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” she said, curious why he looked so intrigued.

He stiffened at once and the curiosity in his eyes vanished, replaced by something harder and far more cynical. Her breath caught as he turned, for he was younger than she had first thought, but his expression was diamond hard. Glittering eyes looked her over, a strange violet shade of blue she’d never seen before, but it was unusual enough that she now knew who this was. The Marquess of Kilbane.