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When they’d been in public together, she’d seemed bedazzled by his attentions. Now, not so much. Briefly he wondered if his magic touch with women failed. Surely not. For all that she struggled to hide her reactions, he set Miss Smith quivering with excitement. The problem with Miss Smith was that she set him quivering with excitement in return.
He kept his voice low, persuasive. “I suppose a hundred men have told you that.”
Amusement brightened her blue eyes. She really was a peach. What a fool he was, not to be more excited at the prospect of having her. “Oh, thousands.”
He laughed softly. This particular game of advance and retreat was mightily familiar. He’d so often set himself to charm a woman hovering between uncertainty and surrender, and with far less reason than he had to seduce Cassandra Demarest. Surely it was only a passing humor that, much as he tried, he summoned so little interest in the chase. “Somerset must be awash in broken hearts now you’ve abandoned the country for London.”
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“You’re teasing me, my lord.” As he’d seen her do so many times before, she lowered her lashes coquettishly. “I’m not sure it’s quite proper when we’re on our own.”
“I’m sure it’s not.” He let a wolfish grin curve his lips and he drew her closer but not so close that she’d take fright and run. “Miss Demarest, you make it impossible not to kiss you.”
Her eyes flashed up to meet his. “If anyone sees, there will be a dreadful to-do.”
The girl was either a hardened flirt or too stupid to guess his wicked intentions. At the very least, his improper declaration should make her blush. He was the notorious Marquess of Ranelaw. Mothers all over England used his name to frighten their virginal daughters into good behavior.
“Heaven forbid.” His voice deepened to a purr. “It seems a pity to rush this . . . conversation. Let me take you somewhere we won’t be interrupted.”
On a giggling tide, the room flooded with a dozen debutantes, including Cassie’s scarlet-faced friend. With a flash of irritation, Ranelaw realized his moment had passed.
“Not tonight, my lord,” she said with a faint smile. She stepped away to turn, calm as you please, toward the painting behind them. Not a Claude.
His vengeance was no further advanced and it was his own bloody fault. He should have pursued the chit with more conviction. No wonder his wooing left her less than overwhelmed.
Damn Antonia Smith, if he spent less time thinking of her and more time luring his prey, he could be well on his way to achieving Miss Demarest’s ruin.
As Ranelaw strolled away from the musicale, he yet again contemplated the prickly but increasingly appealing Miss Smith. Which didn’t exactly please him. At last he had Cassie Demarest in his sights. He should concentrate on his overdue vengeance. Instead his mind veered toward the unwelcoming companion.
Except that while Miss Smith’s lips spoke a continual no, her body whispered an alluring yes. The body he’d realized days ago was considerably more voluptuous than he’d first guessed. Those hideous dresses masked a wealth of promise.
The lady put up stout defenses. He didn’t delude himself that piercing her thorny boundaries would be quick work. But he had an ally within the gate—the fact that she, however unwillingly, found him fascinating.
After years of easy conquests, wearing down Miss Smith’s resistance proved a delightful game. A game whose outcome wasn’t in doubt.
His jaded heart kicked against his ribs with unjaded excitement as he pictured her tumbling into his hands like a ripe apple. She’d taste just as sweet, with that tart edge he’d come to appreciate. He’d become bored with compliant women. His palate fancied something more complex.
Even better, her seduction would forward his revenge. Once he’d neutralized Miss Smith, he’d have open access to Cassandra.
How odd that he, who had silenced his conscience years ago, felt uncomfortable at the idea of blackmailing the dragon. Not that ethical qualms would stop him. He was a ruthless bastard and Miss Smith would rue the moment she entered his orbit.
He smothered a derisive laugh. Most men would consider him an idiot for preferring the subtle, almost invisible charms of the older woman to the younger’s prettiness. But with every moment he spent in her company, he became more certain the enigmatic Miss Smith offered the discerning lover a rich banquet. Under that forbidding exterior, he’d caught hints of a wild, unforgettable beauty. He knew to his boots there was passion in Antonia Smith.
In comparison, tupping Cassandra Demarest would be like drowning in meringue.
Without making a conscious decision about his destination, he felt no real surprise when he stood outside the Demarests’ Curzon Street residence. After the musicale, a crowd had formed for carriages, so neither Miss Demarest nor her companion would be home yet. A glow shone through the fanlight above the front door but the other windows were dark.
Clinging to shadows, he slunk around to the mews. Lights burned in the stables but nobody emerged to challenge him. When he tested the gate, he discovered it unlocked. Such carelessness in the city asked for trouble.
Trouble arrived in the person of the Marquess of Ranelaw.
Soundlessly he slipped into the garden and immediately imagined himself in the countryside. The scent of flowers and freshly turned earth overcame the pervasive London stink of coal dust and dank river. Even his debauched soul evinced a trace of spring’s innocence.
He studied the rear of the house. He had a spy inside, one of the footmen, who had supplied him with a floor plan. The arrangement was so standard, he could have guessed Miss Demarest’s room. What had surprised him was that Miss Smith occupied a chamber on the same floor as the family. Most companions were consigned rooms much closer to the servants’ quarters.
Light streamed from Miss Demarest’s window in the corner bedroom overlooking the garden. At the other end of the house, Miss Smith’s darkened window opened onto a flowering cherry tree.
Ranelaw’s whim solidified into determination. Now presented the perfect opportunity to woo the Demarest chit with a billet-doux on her pillow. But all night his thoughts had turned on the beguiling Miss Smith, not her simpering charge.
