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“You’ve already met him. Why pretend otherwise?”
“Because he pretends that I don’t even exist. And he never revealed his name when I danced with him, which I found odd. I want to—”
“Confront him? Yes, I’m sure that will go over well.” Hugh shook his head. “He’s not for you. He’s not worthy of your attention. Besides, like I mentioned, I don’t think he particularly likes me.”
“You’ve implied more than once he doesn’t care for anyone. I don’t believe that matters much.” Daphne tugged on her brother’s arm, determination filling her. “I refuse to approach him again. I already made a fool of myself once for this man. I need you to make an introduction. Please?”
Shaking his head, he shrugged away from her grip, smoothing the front of his waistcoat. He appeared agitated, as if she’d just asked him for the world. “I shouldn’t do this.”
“But you’re going to.” She knew he would. She’d always been able to convince Hugh to do just about anything for her.
With a resigned sigh, he offered her his arm. Daphne took it, curling her arm around his elbow. Nerves made her stomach dance and she stood straighter, hoping she looked composed. Serene. Attractive enough to catch the man’s attention—again.
And see what she might be tempted to do once she had it.
* * *
Hartwell swallowed hard as he watched Lady Pomeroy approach. Christ, she was beautiful. A sensual, regal countess and completely untouchable to a man like him. Except for that one evening he’d held her in his arms. A stolen moment he knew he’d never be able to experience again.
A miracle then, that her brother led her to him at this very moment. A slight smile curved her lush, rose-colored lips, the sight of her mouth making him stiffen all over. His throat went dry and he coughed. Prayed like hell he wouldn’t make an utter fool of himself and trip over his words.
For whatever reason, that night at the masquerade he’d spoken with relative ease. For him, anyway. As if she were a balm to his rather hectic soul.
“Hartwell.” Viscount Huxley’s jovial voice filled Hartwell with immediate jealousy. How he envied Fitzgerald’s easy, friendly behavior. The man always acted as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “May I make an introduction?”
He kept his gaze trained on Fitzgerald’s face. One look at the beauty standing next to him, and he’d turn into a stuttering idiot. “Of course,” he said, wincing at the formal tone of his voice.
“Capital. This is my sister.” Fitzgerald extended his arm and Lady Pomeroy took a step forward, her pale green silken skirts rustling with the movement. Hartwell allowed his gaze to wander all over her form, noted the flush on her cheeks, the sparkle in her pretty greenish-blue eyes. Lustrous dark brown curls brushed her cheeks and the front of her gown dipped low, allowing him a perfect glimpse of the tops of her perfect breasts. “The dowager Countess of Pomeroy, I introduce you to the Marquess of Hartwell.”
“L-Lady Pomeroy.” He jerked his head in her direction, cursing himself for stumbling over the word. He could hear his father yelling at him. The same demands he’d heard every day for years, especially when he was younger and his problem overwhelmed him.
Out with it, boy! You’ll never be a success if you can’t string five words together!
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Hartwell. Again.” Her smile grew, dazzling in its intensity, and he was momentarily blinded by the sight of it. Christ above, she was a vision. Surely the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. “I have so wanted a more…formal introduction between us. I finally persuaded my brother to do the honors,” she continued, shocking him with her confession.
“Indeed.” Confusion flooded him. She’d wanted to formally meet him? Had forced her brother to introduce them? So she had realized he’d been the one who danced with her. Her not-so-subtle hints were enough proof to confirm.
Despite his wariness, the fact that she wanted the introduction pleased him. He knew of his reputation
amongst society. How they all viewed him as a cocky, arrogant bastard who couldn’t be bothered with anyone, not even his bloody peers.
He’d much rather endure that particular reputation than allow anyone to discover the truth. That he was painfully shy because of his childhood affliction. An affliction he still hadn’t completely rid himself of. Hence the reason he kept his mouth clamped shut most of the time.
All of society considered him unfriendly. In fact, he was damned lonely if anyone wanted to know the truth, which it seemed no one really cared about.
Until, perhaps, Lady Pomeroy.
“Are you enjoying yourself this evening, my Lord Hartwell?” Her lilting voice was sweet as honey and the sound of it filled him with an ache he could hardly deny.
“I am.” He was now that he was in the presence of this woman.
She held a delicate cream silk fan in her right hand, waved it madly for the briefest moment, and he watched in fascination as the tendrils of dark hair that curled about her neck fluttered with the breeze. The delicate wisps teased her creamy skin, lifting as if ready to take gossamer flight before settling gently against the slope of her elegant neck.
He was filled with the sudden urge to touch her there. Skim his fingers down her throat, feel her pulse flutter wildly beneath his fingertips and then his mouth. Kiss her, lick her, nibble her sweet skin until he had her whimpering, begging for more…
Hartwell banished the tempting vision, focusing on the woman who still smiled up at him. She looked so very pleased to be in his presence and he found it damned odd. Even her brother cast her a strange sideways glance, as if he too couldn’t quite believe what was unfolding. Hartwell wondered desperately what he should say next.
“It’s such a shame we weren’t able to talk further when we last saw each other,” she said with a beguiling smile. “Perhaps we can remedy that sometime.”
