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Where were those servants with the claret when she needed it?
Aunt Delia tugged Mr. St. John forward. “Look who I found loitering about in the card room. You remember Mr. St. John from our outing to the cathedral.”
“It’s a pleasure, Lady Sabrina.” He sketched a bow with ballerina grace. Took her hand, offering her an air kiss. His touch as cold as ever. A shame his gaze wasn’t. It rested on her bosom with warmth enough to bring an unwelcome crawl to her skin. “I just told your aunt how I’d hoped to get a chance to see once more the most beautiful woman in Dublin.”
Daigh had warned her to beware of this man. To stay as far away from him as possible. Trying not to be too obvious, she slid her fingers away and adjusted the wisp of silk that passed for a shawl more firmly over her cleavage. “My aunt has always been considered a diamond of the first water. I’m sure she was flattered.”
Aunt Delia giggled into her handkerchief while a flicker of displeasure passed over St. John’s features before the placid smile returned. “But you’re family. And as such the resemblance is striking. Same luminous eyes.”
Aunt Delia’s seemed to have been tinted amethyst for this occasion.
“Same shimmering hair.”
Her aunt’s shocking pink and curled into girlish ringlets.
“Same lithesome body.”
Aunt Delia hadn’t been lithesome since the last century. If then.
“Two great beauties. And I have the pleasure of both of you to myself.”
The man was either a consummate liar or bat-blind.
“Oh, there’s Lady Townsend.” Her aunt interrupted by waving madly across the room to a skeletal female in a dark blue gown, saving Sabrina from trying to fill the sudden awkward silence with a sparkling witticism. Which was good because her mind had gone completely blank. “Has she lost weight? She looks positively sickly, poor dear. I better go deliver my sympathies.” Aunt Delia jiggled her delight. “I’m sure I can trust you, Mr. St. John, not to take advantage of my niece’s naiveté while I’m gone.”
“Complete discretion, madam.” He sketched another gallant bow that had Aunt Delia batting him with her fan and tittering.
She bounced away with a sway to her backside that drew every man in the room’s eye. Only Mr. St. John seemed impervious. His attention rested solely and uncomfortably on Sabrina. “Has your anticipated reunion with your brother happened yet? At our last meeting you seemed quite keen on his arrival.”
Had she? She couldn’t recall, but she would hardly reveal to him how un-keen she was to see the brother who’d ordered her here against her will. “I’m afraid Kilronan’s been delayed.” She plucked a drink from a passing tray. Dutch courage when all her instincts—and Daigh—warned her to avoid St. John.
“A shame, but perhaps your other brother is taking your mind off His Lordship’s continued absence.” His eyes gleamed like pale glassy marbles.
She nearly choked as flames chewed their way down her esophagus. Good heavens. Had that been brandy? “My other brother?” she sputtered.
“The gentleman I saw you in company with at the cathedral?” He smiled with concern as if he’d caught her in an indiscretion. “I hope I’m not being intrusive. I didn’t get a good look at him, but you seemed very close.”
“Oh.” She held her breath. Took a second time-buying swallow of the hell-broth. It hit her stomach with a thud. “That wasn’t a brother. It was a . . . a cousin. My cousin Jack.”
“Would that be Jack O’Gara?” he asked, maneuvering her deeper into the palms. Behind a column and farther from the eyes of the other guests. Every Lothario move down pat.
“You know him?”
Again that toothy Cheshire grin. “Only by reputation.”
She resorted to her fan. Snapping it up and open. A curtain wall between herself and this daring scoundrel’s practiced seduction.
“Yes, well, he was very sorry he couldn’t stay and be properly introduced.”
He swirled the wine in his glass round and round. Watched her over the rim. “I’m sure he was.”
She went from stiff to paralyzed. Oh lord, why had she used Jack’s name? He probably knew of Jack’s death. She’d be caught in a lie and have to explain herself. Humiliating, and, if Daigh was right, dangerous.
Flapping her fan nervously while reaching out with her mind, she sought to catch any hint of his thoughts. Like hitting a wall, she came up against a consciousness shut and barred to any intrusion. She pushed deeper, but met only a frozen, slick emptiness. A burn like ice. Breaking contact, she fell back into herself with a dizzy lurch and a flush of heat staining her cheeks. This man was expertly trained. No cracks through which she might steal a thought.
“The refreshments are quite potent tonight,” he said, taking the empty brandy tumbler from her hand to place it on a low table nearby. “You might like to switch to lemonade instead.”
His eyes sparkled, a keenness to his sweet face. Had he felt her mental touch? Was he now laughing at her failure?
