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It was a good thing Diana didn’t give a tinker’s dam what they thought. “My mother once said sons are a necessity, but daughters are a mother’s blessing and joy. For all that it’s ephemeral, I wish you and your daughter good health and happiness. Good evening, Lady Grenville.”
Brows shot up and gasps erupted as she dipped a small curtsy.
Too late, Diana remembered her décolletage.
The silently trembling Lucille appeared at a complete loss for words, so Diana did the merciful thing and turned without waiting for a response. Head high and heart in her toes, she walked away. That had brought her no satisfaction and no joy. Yes, Lucille had stolen her fiancé and caused her to become a pariah, but it appeared she’d been ill rewarded for her theft.
Truth be told, Diana counted herself fortunate she’d escaped Grenville. Married life rarely afforded women the sort of freedom she now enjoyed.
“Happy in your triumph, my dear?” whispered Harrow at her ear, making her turn in surprise.
“Quite pleased. Is it done?”
“It is. Are you ready?”
“I am,” she lied, wanting nothing more than for him to take her home.
A group of men standing to one side caught her attention. Pressing closer to Harrow, she softly cleared her throat. When he looked down at her with questioning eyes, she flicked her gaze toward the men. Chuckling, he shifted his hand a little lower to rest on the small of her back and altered their path.
When Lord Bolingbroke’s companions fell silent, he turned to follow the direction of their gazes. All at once, his cheeks took on the appearance of ripe pomegranates as he spied her.
Though she’d tweaked his nose many times since he’d cast her out, Diana still took immense satisfaction in it. His discomfiture was a sweet balm. She flashed the bastard an impudent grin, relishing the strangled noise he made as she brushed past.
A quarter of an hour later, Diana tossed her head and laughed as if delighted, although Lord Atworth’s flattery was far from inspiring. “Such a high compliment, my lord. You’ll make me blush,” she said, bringing up her fan to hide cheeks that were, in fact, quite cool—all the while encouraging him with her eyes in a game she’d practiced until it had become second nature. Beside her, Harrow looked on with an approving eye.
She warmed beneath his silent praise. It was of utmost importance that she be as desirable as possible. The more his peers lusted after her, the better. As long as their comments remained favorable and admiring, he would remain well pleased.
“Harrow, I vow you’re the luckiest man alive,” said Atworth, licking his thick lips. He winked broadly, apparently unaware he’d just sloshed wine all down the front of his jacket. “I’d just about sell my soul to be in your place. If you ever decide to leave him, dear goddess, I beg you to consider my patronage. I would build you a temple, fill it with delights for your pleasure…” his voice lowered to a suggestive growl, “and worship at your delectable altar every night with utmost devotion.”
Coupled with the leering expression on his fat face, it was just about the worst double entendre she’d ever heard. One bad insinuation deserves another. “As tempting as that sounds, I’m afraid even your most devout worship would fall short of my lord’s nightly offerings.” Turning, she favored Harrow with a smoldering gaze and stroked his silk-clad forearm, giving it a light squeeze.
Atworth’s eyes widened until she could see the whites all around. Then great guffaws began to erupt from his portly person. “Ho-ho! Harrow, I’ll say it again: You’re the luckiest fellow alive!”
“Indeed,” murmured Harrow, taking up her wayward hand to kiss the tips of her fingers. “I can only count myself the most fortunate of men.” He smiled down at her. “Shall we dance, my love?” Without bothering to excuse himself, he tucked her hand beneath his elbow and led her away.
“Better?” she murmured as they waited for the dance to begin.
“Brilliant, now we’ve extricated ourselves. It’s time to provide further grist for the mill,” he whispered, tilting her face up with a finger beneath her chin.
Letting her eyes drift halfway shut, Diana tipped her head back and favored him with the sultry smile she’d practiced. Her ears pricked at the faint gasps that sounded from a nearby group of ladies as her ‘patron’ dropped a kiss on her exposed throat, another on her jaw, and another by the corner of her mouth. She repressed a smirk.
Another face drew her attention. It caught her eye because it wore neither a look of disapproval nor one of outright lust, but rather one of amused interest. It was a handsome face, too. One raven brow cocked in acknowledgment of her attention.
She looked away, a rush of heat flooding her cheeks. “Who is that gentleman over there? The dark-haired one by the pillar?” she asked Harrow.
“That is Viscount Blackthorn, recently returned from abroad.”
“He’s staring at us.”
“No, my dear, he’s staring at you.” He chuckled. “And well he should, for you are quite the loveliest woman here tonight. A man of his reputation would be remiss if he failed to notice you.”
“His reputation?”
“Mm. It’s very nearly as wicked as yours,” murmured her protector, smiling. “Blackthorn was sent abroad by his father out of desperation to keep his heir atop the grass. He’s been in numerous duels, most of them over some woman.”
“You mean like the one you face tomorrow?” Diana said, not bothering to mask her displeasure.
“Just so,” he answered easily. “You need not be concerned. My opponent lacks any skill with a sword or pistol. His ineptness is the stuff of legend.”
