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“Hush.” He pressed a finger to her mouth, and she cringed at the feel of his bare fingers and the scent of stale tobacco.
She frowned at this bare hand. Where were his gloves?
A ridiculous thought given the situation and it occupied her mind far more than it should.
Really, she should be thinking of how to escape said situation. The gentleman seemed most determined to block her escape.
“Mrs. Talbot,” he repeated over and over. “Lovely Mrs. Talbot.”
Ivy was fairly certain Mrs. Talbot was ten years her senior, a lot more slender than her, and extremely married. “Sir, I really must assure you that I am not—”
He dropped heavily onto the bench next to her, crushing her knitting. She wrinkled her nose and held her breath when warm, alcohol-tinged breath wafted over her as he leaned in. “I’ve been waiting so long to get you alone.”
She shifted sideways and glanced at the knitting. Luckily for him, the needles had not jabbed him. Unlucky for her, it was now jammed under the man’s breeches. She eyed the door then her knitting. Her chances of escaping with it were minimal. Perhaps the couple in the library were done and she could retrieve a book and find yet another quiet corner of the house to while away her time.
“Do not be coy.” He moved closer, hiding the knitting entirely. Now she would not even be able to tug it from under him.
“Sir, you are on my knitting.”
“Well, that is one I haven’t heard before. Is it a French thing?” He chuckled. “I can be on anything you want me to be on.”
“No!” Eyes wide, she put a hand to his shoulder as he leaned closer. “I do notwantyou on anything.”
“We have played this merry dance for so long, Mrs. Talbot.”
“I am not Mrs. Talbot,” she said firmly.
“No.” He grinned. “No, that’s right. You are my Amelia. My lovely, beautiful, naughty Amelia.”
The man wouldn’t be convinced and the longer she remained here with him, the more dangerous her situation would become. No one would believe a Musgrave had innocent intentions, not after their disastrous Season in London all those years ago.
Even if the man was entirely mistaken of her identity and clearly inebriated.
She stood sharply but not quickly enough. The stranger grabbed her wrist, dragging her down next to him then latched a hand around her neck. She found herself buried against his chest, scarcely able to breathe past the thick wool of his jacket. Hands to his chest, she wriggled away enough to gulp down a breath just before his mouth descended upon hers. She screamed before he crushed his lips to hers.
***
Lord Cillian Murphy, Viscount Hartwood, plucked a small round of something pink from the supper table and eyed it. It was meat, he suspected. Mashed and seasoned and fashioned into some ungodly shape then cut into small slivers. How wrong could one go with meat though? He popped it whole into his mouth.
Very wrong apparently. He wasn’t certain if it was the texture or the overwhelming concoction of spices, but he fought to swallow it in one gulp to save himself from tasting it for too long. Cillian snatched a glass of wine from a passing footman and drained it quickly, welcoming the warmth as it slid down his throat and erased most of the unwelcome sensation that mush had provided. He should have opted for the roast lamb but there were far too many people at that end of the table giving him cold looks and he didn’t have the energy or the desire to tolerate the mutters and direct insults.
“No denying you don’t belong here, Cillian,” he muttered to himself, abandoning one glass of wine for another before the footman could escape into the ballroom.
He was here for one reason and one reason only. He needed to speak with Lord Birchley. If the man was not so evasive about setting up a meeting, he wouldn’t even be here. But, as yet, he hadn’t even managed to snare a second with the man, let alone a whole meeting.
If the man wasn’t dancing, he was entertaining several members of thetonwho had deigned to come down from London for the ball. Someone like Cillian didn’t stand a chance no matter how many people he outranked here.
He snorted to himself. Rank meant everything to these people. Everything, that was, until someone like him unexpectedly inherited.
His next sip of wine proved fruitless when he realized he’d drained the whole glass already. He deposited it on the table laden with many more complex platters of food he did not recognize. He and his mother had eaten simply, living off the meagre charity of her brother-in-law and his time in the army had done nothing to refine his palate. Give him a simple, honest piece of meat that did not try to look like anything other than what it was.
Ignoring the temptation to snare another drink or fish out the flask weighing down one side of his jacket, Cillian cut his way through the crowds in the dining room to the drawing room as the next dance was announced. He spied Lord Birchley taking up with another partner and shook his head. For a man of sixty something, he was a lively one. And not keen at all on discussing business.
But if Cillian didn’t address the investments the man had made with Cillian’s cousin prior to his death, everything could fall apart. He had too many people now dependent on him to let that happen.
“It’s him,” he heard someone mutter.
In the periphery of his vision, he spied the two women, their heads bowed close. Few people could mistake him. If his height and general build wasn’t enough, the eyepatch distinguished him from every other gentleman in the room.
