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“Oh, is this my seat? Thank you, Harry, you are my dashing hero.” A breathy voice chuckled, the sound making Valentine’s skin tighten. With horror, of course. “Goodness, I do apologize for joining you this late.” The footman blushed and Valentine rolled his eyes before standing and settling his stare on their latest arrival. Fate was a cruel,cruelmistress as he watched the footman pull out Lady Bronwyn’s chair beside a sea of dark-blue skirts. He and the other gentleman at the table resumed their places once she took her place. “Your Grace, what an unexpected pleasure! I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”
Like the plague.
Valentine swallowed the curt reply. “Lady Bronwyn, you look…”Stunning. Elegant. Gorgeous.He huffed an annoyed breath at how well his brain seemed to categorize details now, despite its lapse earlier with the man who could be the Kestrel. “Well.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” she replied, dark lashes dipping over clear blue eyes. “You lookwellyourself.” She made the word sound lascivious, like a dessert to be relished. With a warm smile to the older couple at the table, she canted her head. “Lord and Lady Willington, how marvelous you both look this evening, and how lucky I am to have been seated with you.”
They clucked at her sweetness—which madehimwant to retch in patent disgust—and fawned over her appearance and dress. It was just a gown, one that she wore quite well, admittedly, but so did the countless other ladies having supper here.Theywere all dressed impeccably.
He tore his gaze away, lest she should notice his fatuous perusal, and focused on the second course. Braised beef with morels in béchamel sauce with roasted potatoes, but even the smell of the rich broth could not overpower the cinnamon-and-spiced-apples scent wafting from his right. Why did she smell like pudding?Whosmelled like bloody pudding?
Where the hell was Lisbeth?
“Something amiss, Your Grace?” Lady Bronwyn asked with a tinkling burst of laughter that set his teeth on edge. “Is your meal not prepared to your liking? You were glowering so fiercely for a moment there, I feared the tablecloth would catch fire.”
No, just you.
That was cruel. He didn’t actually wish to set the lady on fire, only that she would move elsewhere. Far away. Where he couldn’t see, hear, or inhale her maddening scent. Valentine tugged at his collar, sweat beading over his neck. “Of course not, my lady. My meal is fine. How is yours?”
“Lovely! Better now that my sweet Harry is here with wine. Huzzah!” She grinned up as the fawning footman—how was she so familiar with him as to know his name?—poured her a full glass of wine. “Thank you, dear one. Aren’t you a gem?” She lifted her glass in a toast and the older couple was quick to follow. He lifted his with no small amount of reluctance. “To my lovely companions, and of course, wonderful Harry, who has seen fit to save me more than once.”
Valentine had the distinct urge to throw the lovesick, smitten Harry overboard when he went fiery red and stammered his thanks. Valentine’s scowl grew teeth. Devil take it, was no man onboard safe from her flirtatious attentions?
“How has he?” he bit out.
Winsome blue eyes met his. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“How has a footman saved you more than once?” The way he repeated it sounded in no way how she’d said it, given the way Lady Willington’s face tightened with displeasure. Lady Bronwyn, however, didn’t lose her smile.
“Oh, dearest Harry led me here! I was so late, you see.” She took a liberal sip of her wine. “I simply could not decide which gown to wear, and then there was the matter of jewels. Pearl earbobs or diamonds? A necklace or a choker? It’s enough to give one a megrim, I swear.”
Good God, she was so shallow, she set his teeth on edge.
“Anyway, after much ado about everything, we finally came to an agreement, and here I am at last, thanks to Harry, of course.” She lifted her glass again, though the footman had disappeared. “To Harry!”
“To Harry!” the Willingtons chorused with fond smiles.
Valentine did not lift his glass, only stared and cursed his fate, his life, and his foul luck. He was going to stab himself with his own fork, just to put himself out of his own misery. Hence, it was no surprise that when he saw Lisbeth returning, his skin crawled with relief, despite her expression that told him she hadn’t found their target.
“Lady Bronwyn, what an unexpected pleasure,” she cooed, retaking her seat.
“My lady,” Bronwyn said. “How lovely to see you. It has been an age, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, I believe it has been, though I’m sure that Thornbury has told you the news of our separation.” She waved a hand. “All amicable, of course. We remain dear friends.”
“I was sorry to hear it,” Bronwyn replied.
“Thank you and nothing to be sorry about.” Lisbeth grinned. “He’s an absolute bear most days, which I don’t miss. Getting a smile out of him was like working my way past a thorny hedge without getting scratched.”
“Ironic, given his name,” Bronwyn replied and then frowned as though she hadn’t meant to say that. Valentine swallowed a bark of mocking laughter. It was surprisingly clever for her, considering she might not even know what irony was.
“Oh, that’s droll,” Lisbeth said, while he fought the urge to kick her in the knee. She patted his shoulder. “I don’t remember her being so witty, did you, Val?”
He swore that Bronwyn’s eyes darkened, flicking to Lisbeth’s hand, but in the next blink they were back to their cheery, sunny hues. “No,” he bit out. “Not in the least.”
“What are you heading to Philadelphia for, my lady?” Lisbeth asked.
“A sick relative,” she said without hesitation.
