Page 7 of Dangerous

Exley extended his arm. “May I claim the honor of escorting you to dinner, Lady Euphemia?”

Mia bowed her head and laid her hand on the cool, smooth fabric of his sleeve. She could not have resisted the quiet note of command in his voice even if she’d wanted to—and she did not want to.

Chapter Three

They made the short journey from the drawing room to the dining room in silence. Exley was no more than average height, but even so, Mia’s head barely reached his shoulder and he had to fit his longer stride to hers. They paused in the double doorway, staring along with several other couples at the magnificent sight before them.

The panels between three rooms had been opened to create a massive dining room. Gargantuan chandeliers lighted the vast expanse, each fixture blazing with enough candles to illuminate half of London for a week. Although the duke was conservative, tonight he’d set aside his personal preferences and embraced the newest dining fashion, service à la russe. To that end, a table draped in acres of white linen held forty covers, each comprised of dozens of pieces of silverware, china, and crystal along with numerous personal cruets and condiments.

The glittering exhibition was hard to look at directly and the guests—jaded and inured to opulence as they were—approached the display with hushed reverence.

The marquess led her to a chair near the head of the table. “You are here, my lady.” He glanced at the placard beside her and his lips twitched. “Ah, what a surprise,” he said in a tone the antithesis of that emotion. “I have the excellent fortune to be seated beside you.”

Was it the appalling reception he’d received from her family and guests that made him so contemptuous or was he always that way? Mia mentally shrugged. Contempt was far more appealing than the insincere fawning of the other men pursuing her hand and money. In fact, Exley was the first of her father’s suitors she’d not taken in immediate disgust; quite the opposite. The man was almost shockingly handsome.

The duke had paraded eligible men before her for months; why was she only meeting the marquess now? She nibbled her lower lip. Perhaps she’d misread matters and he wasn’t a potential suitor at all. But why would he be seated beside her if he wasn’t? Maybe he was—

“Good evening, Mia.”

Mia winced at the loathsome voice and forced a smile onto her face before turning to greet its owner. “Good evening, Mr. Chambers.”

The Honorable Horace Chambers—the Duke of Carlisle’s current favorite for son-in-law—chuckled, causing his chins to jiggle. “Oh come now, we are great friends, Mia. You must call me Horry.”

Mia made a noncommittal noise and smiled.

He beamed, his eyes moving over her skin like the sticky feet of a bluebottle fly. “You look ravishing, my dear.” The sheen of sweat on Chambers’s upper lip made it hard not to snatch her hand away when he placed his damp, spatulate fingers on her wrist. Chambers was perhaps a decade older than Mia but his heavy body and florid countenance made him appear older than her father. His avuncular manner was belied by his eyes, which held a look she had last seen in the sultan’s when she’d been a very young girl.

Mia reached for her linen napkin, using the movement to free her arm from his soggy grasp. Chambers’s protuberant orbs slid past her and landed on the marquess. His eyes narrowed and he grunted, as though he’d encountered something both unexpected and unpleasant.

When Mia turned to gauge the marquess’s response, she saw the woman on his left had pushed her chair so far away she was in danger of sitting in her neighbor’s lap. Heat crept up her neck at the woman’s outrageous behavior. What the devil is wrong with these people?

“Do you come to London often, my lord?” Mia asked, hoping to distract the marquess from both Chambers’s rude, unblinking stare and the woman’s terrified retreat.

Exley took the roll of linen from the top plate on the tower of china, his movements unhurried and graceful. “My country seat is in Hampshire but I spend most of my time in Town.”

Mia’s brain scrambled to recall Hampshire’s location on the map. Was it near the water? Was it in the south? She could hardly ask the man if there were any convenient ports where she might secure passage to Oran and escape.

Instead she said, “You prefer town living yet you shun society entertainments? Tell me, my lord, what is it you do enjoy?”

His gaze locked on her. “I am enjoying myself right now.”

The inflection in his cool voice was so slight Mia thought she might have imagined it. Was the beautiful block of ice flirting with her? If so, he was very subtle about it. He behaved nothing like her other suitors, who’d gone after her generous dowry like a pack of baying, slavering hounds hunting a fox. Was the man a potential suitor, or not? She had no time to employ the usual delicacy.

“And your wife, does she join you in London, my lord?”

“My wife died several years ago.”

Mia was disgusted by the way her heart capered at the news. What kind of beast was she? What if the man had loved his wife and was still brokenhearted? She searched his face for signs of emotion and found nothing. But at least she now knew he was a widower seeking a wife. Did he want Mia for her dowry or an heir or both?

“Do you have children, my lord?”

“I have three daughters.” He spoke abruptly, as if female offspring were hardly worth mentioning.

“How old are your daughters, my lord?”

“My eldest is seventeen and the other two are still in the schoolroom.” He turned to examine the individual menu beside his saltcellar, apparently more interested in the meal than his daughters—or her conversation.

Mia didn’t mind. In fact, she was glad for a brief reprieve from his uncomfortable gaze. The man burned with an intensity that was both exciting and exhausting. He was also so perfect she itched to stroke his smooth, angular jaw and feel the tickle of his black, spiky eyelashes. And that mouth . . .