Frovtunes’ Kiss (4 page)

“Would you, Monteith? Yes, do be a dear.”

A dear? Not exactly how he felt, especially when he would mostly likely want to box Freddy's ears when he found him. As he started away, his mother's eager voice carried above the surrounding din. “See there, Letitia. I do believe that young man is a viscount. Come, let's wangle an introduction.”

“Yes, but is he a
rich
viscount, Mama?”

Ah, Letty. When Graham left England ten years ago, his little sister had been scrambling to follow her twin brother up into trees and anywhere else their tutors' lessons might be avoided. She'd thumbed her nose at party dresses and any pastime considered conventionally feminine, much preferring to ride, swim, or shoot a bow and arrow. And her hair had been pleasantly wavy, not this ridiculous mass of corkscrews that jiggled whenever she moved. What in blazing hell had happened?

His reunion with both siblings had been strained at best. He'd been away so many years…and there had been that letter they sent him not long after his departure from England.

How could you disgrace us? We're so terribly ashamed. Don't ever return…

He shook the memory away, blinked…and saw her. He had no idea who she was, but he couldn't take his eyes off her. Downright stared as she proceeded in his direction. There were at least two-score ladies strolling the gardens tonight, but this one stood out, seized his notice, spiked his curiosity. It was, perhaps, in the way she moved effortlessly through the crush, as if she had nowhere in particular to be—unhurried, serene, her hips swaying with the languid grace of a temple cat.

Like him, this woman wore simple evening attire: a sleek gown of midnight blue, a velvet mask trimmed to match. A gossamer veil of the same hue draped from a coil of ebony hair at the crown of her head. Unadorned, unaffected…and entirely intriguing.

Their gazes met, hers a dark mystery behind the mask that covered half her face. A smile eased across her lips. Then, quite abruptly, she changed direction, but with a parting glance that set his feet in motion.

Suddenly London seemed a good deal less boring.

       3      

M
oira pivoted and set off at a brisk pace, away from Graham Foster. She had been watching him for the better part of a half hour, after learning his identity from an acquaintance. She had known the Fosters were attending tonight, and so she had managed an invitation through the wife of an old friend of her stepfather's. But until some thirty minutes ago, she'd had no idea this man was the very same who had witnessed her utter humiliation at Mr. Smythe's office yesterday.

Good grief.

Tonight, as yesterday, he was affecting her in the most alarming manner. As she strode off, her hand flew instinctively to her mask to ensure it was still in place. She resisted a peek over her shoulder. Was he following, as she had intended? She listened for the clip of pursuant footsteps, but heard only the dull roar of voices and the musicians on the terrace.

Then there he was, not behind, but right in front of her, stepping out from behind a topiary elephant. Flashing that disturbing set of dimples, he pinned her with a stare as piercing as cut crystal. “Good evening.”

His voice was deep, as fiery and rich as brandy and altogether too intimate. The sort that made pulses race, cheeks flame.

She pulled back, and the wineglass she'd been holding slipped from her fingers. It shattered against the paving stones, sending up a shower of white wine.

“Good heavens,” she mumbled, instantly forgetting all the carefully rehearsed witticisms with which she had planned to seduce information from this man. “How horribly clumsy of me.”

When he didn't immediately respond, she wanted to dissolve into the footpath. Oh, whatever had made her—inexperienced, country-bred Moira Hughes—think she could charm a confession out of a scoundrel the likes of Graham Foster?

She braved an upward glance, straight into those clear blue eyes, which on second thought possessed an intriguing hint of green. Not to mention laughter. Yes, Graham Foster's eyes smiled down at her even before his lips parted and curled.

Something bracing and sharp tripped her heartbeat. She whisked her gaze away. Would he recognize her eyes within the mask's slits?

“The fault was entirely mine, I assure you,” he finally said in that too smooth, far too sensual voice. On either side of a broad grin, the dimples that had flashed in her dreams last night cut even deeper crevasses into his cheeks. “The shattering glass didn't catch you, did it?”

“The glass?” She gazed at the ground, at bits of crystal sparkling in the lamplight, then at her wine-soaked hems. “Oh, dear. I'm quite all right, but my dress is ruined. Your trousers, too, I'm afraid. Oh, what a mess.”

“At least we can be thankful it wasn't port.”

“Ladies don't generally drink port, sir.”

“Don't they? A pity.” He leaned in closer, and she caught the scent of his shaving soap, crisp and invigorating, like clean canvas sails stretched in a high-seas wind. “I believe ladies should grasp at life, and convention be damned.” The last word plummeted to a growl that raised a shiver down her spine.

She stepped back. “I should call someone to clean these fragments away.”

“No need. Here comes a footman now.”

Indeed, a man in livery trotted down the terrace steps, broom and dustpan in hand.

“I'm so sorry,” Moira said to the servant.

“It's what the good man's paid to do.” Graham Foster took possession of her elbow in his broad palm. “Come, we'll find you another glass, shall we?”

“Oh, but…” She trailed off. Hadn't she come here for this specific purpose? To strike up an acquaintance with the new Baron Monteith, beguile him, and steal inside his conscience. An unshakable suspicion convinced her that Mr. Smythe had been withholding vital information yesterday. Could he have been acting upon his new employer's orders?

Goodness, Moira Hughes, you're in it up to your ears now, aren't you?

As he guided her along the garden path, a sense of laughter hovered about him—in his eyes, in his voice, even in the way he claimed her arm with a breezy familiarity that set her on her guard.

They passed one of a half dozen refreshment tables ranged through the gardens. Upon arriving earlier, she had set about quieting her growling stomach by discreetly consuming an entire Cornish hen, a healthy slice of roast venison, asparagus in cream sauce, potato pudding, and several ratafia biscuits so luscious she'd nearly sighed her pleasure aloud. This—and only this—allowed her to pass the refreshments now with the air of disinterest expected in a wellborn lady.

With a fluid sweep and without the slightest break in his stride, he lifted a glass from the linen tabletop. An equally smooth flourish transferred the glass to her hand.

“Champagne, madam.”

“Why, thank you.”

As they walked on, her free hand somehow traveled to the snug, warm, quite solid crook of his arm. His considerably larger hand descended to hold hers firmly in place. She became exceedingly aware of the masculine weave of his coat sleeve beneath her fingers, the rougher contour of his palm against the back of her hand. A tremulous sensation traveled through her.

“As long as we've baptized one another in your wine, madam, perhaps you'll tell me your name.”

He guided her past the central fountain and down a tree-lined path that disappeared beneath an arbor. Covered in climbing honeysuckle, the latticework formed a sweet, dusky tunnel. A little warning trilled inside her, along with a tremor of expectation she liked not at all.

She knew she should divert him in another direction, but trees and tall hedges barred that option. He ushered her steadily forward into the fragrant twilight of the arbor. She drew a breath that quivered and slowly released it. “You've yet to introduce yourself, sir.”

“Indeed, madam.” He chuckled as he brought her to a halt, then twirled her as if leading her in a dance. “Graham Foster, at your service.”

“Sir Graham Foster,” she said with feigned surprise. To have
not
done so would have seemed odd, indeed, for these days nearly everyone had heard of the exploits of the daring Egyptologist Graham Foster.

“Not
Sir
Graham any longer, I'm afraid.” His grin turned wry. “Seems I inherited a bit of a barony while I was away. Now I'm saddled with a title, property, and the lot. Keep hoping to wake up and discover it's all just a perplexing rumor.”

Moira stiffened. A rumor? Had rumor dislodged her ailing mother from the home she loved, from all that was familiar and comfortable? Indeed, not. The new Lord Monteith had done that, though it seemed little more than a joke to him.

“Why don't you give it back?” she murmured through lips gone stiff with fury.

“Can't. It's all entailed, and I have the dubious honor of being the last available heir. Besides, I believe I can find good use for my inheritance. But we digress. You still haven't told me your name.”

She concealed her outrage behind her champagne glass, letting far too much of the sparkling liquid pass her lips before remembering how quickly the bubbles tended to affect her judgment. She slipped her hand from his arm. “I am Miss Houser. Miss Mary Houser.”

She'd hesitated the smallest fraction of an instant in speaking the name, and—confound the man—his eyes narrowed in acknowledgment. But speculation quickly vanished within the laugh lines fanning from the corners of his eyes.

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Mary Houser.” His tone mocked ever so subtly. He reclaimed her hand and shook it, then continued to hold it, confine it really, within the confident sprawl of his long fingers. “Especially as you took such great pains to make
my
acquaintance.”

Her chin snapped up. “I beg your pardon.”

“Don't deny it.” Even as his voice dipped to a sinister baritone, his grin widened. “If that smile of yours earlier didn't say ‘follow me,' I've lost all power of perception.”

“You assume too much, sir.”

“Now, now, Miss Houser, let us be frank. You wished to meet me, and I am equally delighted to meet you.”

Oh, such an insufferable flirt. Such a coxcomb. Her hackles rose. She tried to tug her hand free, but like a clever snare, his grip tightened and trapped her fast.

“You know, Miss Houser, you still have me at a distinct disadvantage.” His fingertip stroked her knuckles beneath her lace glove, sending her pulse for a gallop. “You have full view of my features while yours remain hidden beneath that mysterious mask of yours. Won't you remove it so we might become properly acquainted?”

With a jolt of alarm, she pulled free. “I think not, my lord, for were I to remove my mask, my coif would fall to shambles.” Turning to prove her point, she allowed him to see where the silken ribbons twined into her coiled hair and helped hold her veil in place.

A colossal mistake on her part. He eased closer, his solid chest radiating heat against the thin silk covering her back. His hand slipped beneath her veil and descended on her nape with a whisper's touch that made her skin sizzle. “You are correct, Miss Houser, this is quite an entanglement. You may never free yourself of it.”

At the sound of his throaty chuckle, she whirled, only to find her back tucked against the trellis. Delicate tendrils of honeysuckle curled about her shoulders while its heavy perfume blanketed her senses.

“Here, my lord.” She thrust her glass at him. “I've discovered I have no taste for champagne after all. I must go.”

A nimble side step blocked her escape. “Have I offended you, Miss Houser? Please forgive me. I've been away many years, so long I am now a foreigner in my own country. It would seem I've become woefully ignorant of English manners and customs. To be frank, I feel out of place at affairs such as these, and when I saw you walking alone…well, I thought perhaps I'd encountered a kindred spirit.”