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Artemis deposited her teacup on its saucer with a clatter. How completely bizarre and disconcerting in the extreme. To think the Duke of Dartmoor’s brother-in-law—a thoroughly coldhearted, cold-blooded scoundrel—had been Artemis’s first lover. And his poor sister was now dead…
Despite the warmth of the room, an ice-cold shiver slithered through Artemis, and her cup rattled against the saucer again.
“Artemis, are you all right?” murmured Lucy. Concern filled her lavender-blue eyes. “You’ve spilled your tea.”
“Oh, so I have.” Artemis gratefully accepted a napkin from Miss Babbington. “I’m just tired. That’s all.” She’d never told anyone about Guy de Burgh—not even Lucy or Jane. At the time, she’d been too humiliated. And then, as the years had gone by, it hadn’t seemed all that important anymore. There was no point in crying over spilt milk.
“Are you sure?” asked Lucy. “You’ve gone awfully pale. Perhaps you need some fresh air. Itisterribly stuffy in here.”
Artemis couldn’t disagree. Perspiration prickled along her spine, and the tea and champagne she’d drunk earlier began to swirl uncomfortably in her belly. “I suppose I could take a quick turn about the Castledowns’ terrace. I know it’s probably not the ‘done thing’ at an event like this, but surely a spinster nearing thirty is able to exercise a small degree of autonomy.”
“Exactly,” said Lucy with a nod. She glanced at Miss Babbington, who appeared to be drifting off to sleep. “I’d come with you to keep you company, but I feel I should stay and look after Cousin Mabel.”
“I understand,” said Artemis. “When I’m feeling restored, I shall return.”
As soon as Artemis emerged from the ladies’ retiring room, she was immediately grateful for the fresher air in the hallway outside. The terrace couldn’t be too far away. She’d just gained the gallery that led back to the main staircase when someone called her name. A man.
Guy de Burgh.
Curse him to the farthest reaches of hell. He’d clearly followed her.
Artemis halted, and after dragging in a steadying breath, she slowly turned around to face him. Perhaps it was better to have this out than to run away.
They weren’t alone in the gallery. Another couple who seemed to be admiring a marble bust dallied at the far end, and surely at any moment, some of the women crowding the ladies’ retiring room would emerge and make their way back to the ballroom. Or Phoebe and Aunt Roberta might even come looking for her. In any event, she wouldn’t have to endure Guy’s odious company for too long.
Lifting her chin, Artemis attempted to stare down her former paramour as he stalked across the polished parquetry floor toward her.
“Artemis,” he said, his voice silky with a familiarity that made her skin crawl. “It’s been such a long time.”
“Not long enough, Mr. de Burgh,” she returned frostily.
“Now, now. There’s no need to be rude. Not when we used to be such good friends. And it’s Lord Gascoyne now.”
Artemis arched a brow in disdain. She wasn’t going to verbally acknowledge his title. She certainly wouldn’t curtsy either. “Friends?” she huffed. “I utterly dispute your characterization of our former relationship. Friendship is not based upon a bed of lies.”
Oh, no.Why had she chosen to use the wordbed?
Lord Gascoyne’s smile was the epitome of sly. “If my memory serves me correctly, we managed quite well without a bed. But in any case, I suppose you’re right.” He took several steps closer. “We were far more than friends, weren’t we, my dear?”
Artemis narrowed her eyes, but the viscount didn’t retreat. Apparently, her scorching she-devil stare didn’t work on the likes of Lord Gascoyne. “It doesn’t matter what we were in the past,” she said in the most glacial tone she could muster. “What matters is the present. And there is nothing between us at all. To that end, I would ask that you cease to address me by my first name. Or ‘my dear.’”
He emitted a derisive bark of laughter. “Very well,MissJones. Although now that I’m a widower, I predict it won’t be long before we’re on familiar terms again.”
Artemis couldn’t suppress a gasp. “A widower? I had no idea your wife had passed away.” Even though Guy had chosen Evangeline Gibbs over her, she’d never borne the woman any malice for what had happened. Her ill treatment, her betrayal, had been at the hands of Guy. “I’m…I’m sorry for your loss,” she added with grave sincerity.
Gascoyne shrugged. In the golden glow of a nearby wall sconce, his dark gaze glittered. “Don’t you read, Artemis? It was in all of the newspapers both here and in America. I wouldn’t feel too sad for me though. It wasn’t the most amicable of marriages in the end, and Evie’s been gone over three years now. A case of typhlitis, the doctor said. Nothing could have been done. In any event, since I inherited the viscountcy, I’m back in London for good—”
“And on the prowl for another wealthy wife?” Artemis couldn’t resist aiming a nettled barb his way.
“Just like you appear to be on the prowl for a rich, titled husband.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“Well, clearly.” His mouth twisted with a cruel smile. “Isn’t that why you did what you did with me all of those years ago? Weren’t you trying to tempt me into marriage with your Jezebel wiles? And isn’t that why you just shamelessly threw yourself at the Duke of Dartmoor? In front of an entire room full of people?”
Oh…the things she could say to this detestable, despicable, contemptiblearse. Anger shimmered like a heat haze in front of her vision as Artemis bit out, “I amnothere to find a husband. Nor to use my supposed Jezebel wiles on anybody. Least of all, you.”
Gascoyne snorted. “You can deny it all you like, but take it from me, you’d best stay away from Dartmoor. I don’t care what the coroner decreed—I take it you read aboutthatin the papers, didn’t you?—I know the dog murdered my sister. He’s a dangerous man—”
“Oh, and you’re not?”
“Artemis”—Gascoyne stepped close and grasped her upper arm—“I know we didn’t part on the best of terms all those years ago, but in all seriousness, you should heed—”
“Don’t attempt to play the role of my knight in shining armor,” she hissed. “I have no reason, at all, to trust a single word you say.” She tried to shake Gascoyne off, but to her alarm, his grip only grew tighter. Even through the silk of her sleeve, his fingers pinched with bruising force. “Now remove your hand, or so help me—”
“Yes, remove your hand from Miss Jones’s person before I remove it for you, Gascoyne.”
