How to Capture a Countess (Duchess Diaries 1) (2 page)

It was a bitter situation, and yet here he was, sober
as a priest and denied even the relief of dickering for horseflesh with Throckmorton.

He ground his teeth against this onslaught of disappointments. As soon as his grandmother was safely ensconced at the side of one of her bosom-bows, Sin made his escape to the library where a slew of bachelors could be found in hiding.

Desperate for some amusement, he engaged young Lord MacDoonan in a card game. Twenty minutes later, MacDoonan’s silver engraved flask, half full of fine Scottish whiskey, was neatly tucked into Sin’s waistcoat pocket. Sin stayed another half hour, hoping to pass the time until his grandmother was ready to return home, but Lord MacDoonan was not a merry loser, and he whined incessantly about the loss of his flask until Sin had had enough. Bored, Sin left the library and made his way to the refreshment tables, which were empty but for a few crumbs, a sadly wilted flower arrangement, and a stack of unused punch glasses. He pocketed a glass, paused behind a palm, and filled it with whiskey.

Fortified, he rejoined the company and had just lifted the glass to his lips when he accidentally caught the eye of a young lady wearing a pink ball gown. The second their eyes met, she hurried forward as if invited.

Bloody hell, they’re like leeches.

He turned his back on her, only to find himself being eyed by two other damsels in similarly atrocious
gowns. Though they didn’t lick their lips at the sight of him, their predatory gazes made him think of his hawk as it dove for a plump hare.

That was it; he was leaving. He’d leave the carriage for his grandmother and order a hackney to take him home.

Jaw tight, Sin turned and almost tripped over a slight bit of a girl who’d apparently been hovering at his elbow. For a nerve-wracking moment, he juggled his precious glass of whiskey.

As the glass settled back into his hands, he scowled at the chit who dared impede his departure. She was slight of stature, unusually tanned, with a smattering of freckles across a snub nose in a small face framed by wildly curling black hair barely held in place by a profusion of ribbons. Worse, she wore a dowdy white gown that was far too large for her, the style and color doing little to enhance her dank skin and too-slender figure.

“H-how do you do?” She offered a hurried curtsy with a desperate smile.

He tamped down the desire to curtly wish her to the devil. “Pardon me,” he said in an icy tone and started to walk around her.

“Oh, do wait!” Her hand gripped his arm.

A jolt of heat raced through him.

Sin stopped dead in his tracks and looked down at her gloved hand. He’d felt that zap of attraction through three layers of material as surely as if she’d brushed his bare skin with her fingertips.

He found himself looking directly into her eyes. Pale blue and surrounded by thick black lashes, they showed the same shock that he felt.

Her gaze moved from his face to her hand and back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect—” She shook her head, color flooding her skin, tinting the brown an exquisitely dusky rose.

Are her nipples that same dusky color?
It was a shocking thought, but plain and loud, as if he’d said it aloud.

She jerked back her hand as if it burned. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, but I—” She gulped as if miserable.

His irritation returned. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

She looked crestfallen. “I saw you at the Countess of Dunford’s luncheon only a week ago.”

“Did we speak?”

“Well, no.”

“I don’t remember.” He’d been far too in his cups to remember much of that day at all, anyway.

“We also met a week and a day ago at the Melton house party.”

He’d spent most of that evening in the library with the men, planning a hunting party for the next day. “I’m sorry, but I don’t—”

“The Farquhars’ soiree?”

He shook his head.

“The MacEnnis Ball? The Earl of Stratham’s dinner party?”

He shook his head at each.

She looked even more crestfallen, which set off an unusual flash of remorse in him followed by annoyance. Bloody hell, he couldn’t remember every chit who spoke to him, much less feel sorry for them all.

But then, none of them have ever caused such a reaction by merely touching my sleeve.

A footman came by and his companion captured a glass of champagne from the man’s tray. To Sin’s surprise, she took a deep breath and tossed it back, swallowing it in several fast gulps.

She caught his surprised gaze, and flushed. “I know that’s unladylike, but—” She scrunched her nose and regarded her glass with disgust. “It’s so horrid I didn’t wish to taste it.”

He had to laugh and his irritation disappeared.
Who is this girl?
He sipped his whiskey and regarded her over the edge of his glass. “So you like champagne, then?
Good
champagne, that is?”

“Yes, but there’s not a drop of
good
champagne to be had, so . . .” Without the slightest hint of embarrassment, she eyed an approaching footman and, with a slight move to her left, managed to replace her glass as he passed by and grab another, which she disposed of as neatly as the first. “At least it’s cold,” she said in a pragmatic tone.

Sin burst out laughing. She looked so incongruous, this innocent-looking chit, with her freckled nose and black curls and wide blue eyes, snapping back flutes
of champagne with a calm disdain for society’s concept of propriety. Sin didn’t know when he’d been so charmed.

When he’d first seen her he’d thought her a youngster, sixteen at most. But now as he met her gaze and caught a decided twinkle in her blue eyes, he realized he’d misjudged her because of her minute size. She was obviously older—and far more interesting—than she’d first appeared. “Tell me, Miss—?”

“Balfour. Miss Rose Balfour.”

He boldly looked her up and down. He wasn’t usually a fan of women without curves, but there was something appealing about Rose Balfour. Suddenly, the ball didn’t seem so boring. “Your name suits you.”

“It’s not my real name. My mother was a great lover of ancient mythology so she named me Euphrosyne.”

“Ah. One of the three graces.” At her surprised look, he shrugged. “I read, though I’ve forgotten which grace Euphrosyne is. Joy? Splendor? Mirth?”

“Mirth.” She made a droll face. “I’m afraid I have a very unruly sense of humor.”

A naughty one?
he wondered, his interest quickening even more.

As if she could read his mind, she laughed. The deliciously husky sound held a shimmery excitement that he could almost taste. This was more to his liking: a woman who refused to arm herself with faux innocence in an effort to lure one into a gossamer net, and boldly expressed her thoughts and desires.

He leaned a bit closer. “Miss Balfour, what brought you to this ball? The company doesn’t seem to suit you any better than it suits me.”

Looking into Sin’s handsome face, Rose couldn’t have disagreed with him more: the company was perfect.
He
was perfect. And given another glass of the forbidden champagne—Aunt Lettice was fortunately busy in the card room—Rose was certain she could drown in Sin’s beautiful sherry-brown eyes.

She couldn’t believe that those very eyes were now focused on her. She’d dreamed about this moment for so long, when the handsome, dashing Earl of Sinclair would finally see her—
really
see her—and realize that they were meant for each other.

It was a silly dream and she knew it, and yet she couldn’t help but have it every time she saw him. There was something about him that made her knees quiver and her heart race. It wasn’t just that he was so tall and broad shouldered, though he easily dwarfed everyone in the room. Nor was it because he was incredibly handsome, though his brow and strong jaw were carved as if from a Greek statue. And she didn’t think it was because he was golden, as if kissed from the sun with hair of gold, threaded with brown.

His only imperfection was the faint broken line of his nose—a childhood break, perhaps? Or a sporting accident of some sort? She only knew that it added a heady, rakish, devil-may-care air to his already commanding appeal.

All in all, Lord Sinclair was every woman’s dream, especially Rose’s, and she was determined to grab this precious moment when his attention was actually hers.
All
hers.

His smile faded a bit and her heart thudded sickly as she realized with a rising sense of panic that she hadn’t answered his question about what had brought her to the ball.
I can’t allow him to get bored, or he’ll leave and my chance will be gone. But what will interest him?
She knew that he enjoyed horses, and wagers, and boxing. And whiskey, too, and lobster in cream sauce, and that most of his waistcoats were blue, so that must be his favorite color.

She also knew that he’d dance the waltz, but never the country dances, and never with anyone who wasn’t either married or a good bit older than she was. She knew, too, that every time he was in a room, her sixteen-year-old heart thudded like that of a bird newly caught in a cage.

It was beating like that now, but she knew better than to let him see her nervousness. Lord Sin usually spoke only to older, more worldly women. Women who moved with a self-possession and outspokenness that earned them the scowls of other women, but the admiration of men like him.

And suddenly, that was the exact sort of woman Rose desperately wanted to be. She gestured with her empty champagne glass to encompass the entire room and said with what she hoped was disdain, “It’s
a very boring party.” She looked back at him. “Or it was until now.”

Her champagne-fueled confidence shocked Rose as much as it seemed to delight her companion, for his gaze narrowed and he moved closer—so close that his chest brushed her arm and sent an odd heat flickering through her. Rose suddenly realized that her fingers were so tightly clutched about the champagne flute that it was a surprise the glass hadn’t splintered. She uncurled her fingers, wanting nothing more than to toss the glass and her inhibitions away and to throw her arms around him, a feeling made stronger by the two glasses of champagne. “It’s too bad we’re at this ball now. There are other things we could be doing instead.” Like riding through the park, for she loved horses as much as he did. Or, if they could escape her aunt’s vigilant eye, walking through the gardens, where they might slip away and share a kiss. Her heart fluttered at the thought.

“
Other
things, Miss Balfour?” He returned her smile, an odd glint in his eye. “I would like that, too.”

She smiled widely as she gazed into his eyes, completely lost. He might not remember every time they’d met, but she did. She remembered every time he’d smiled, how his dark blond hair fell over his brow and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. She knew far too well how his deep voice could rumble over one and leave one’s heart thudding like a hummingbird—

“Miss Balfour, you are out of champagne. Shall I fetch you more?”

“Oh no, my aun—” She clamped her lips over the rest of her sentence.
Worldly women don’t answer to their aunts.
“I mean, yes, I would love another glass of champagne.”

He looked over her head and scanned the room. “Where is a footman? There were two hovering near just a second ago.”

Rose took the opportunity to stare openly at him, admiring the strong cut of his jaw, the decidedly patrician line of his nose, and the sensual way his mouth curved just so—

His gaze dropped to hers and for a second, their glances clung.

Rose hid her gulp behind a dismissive wave at the room. “Th-there are quite a lot of people here tonight, aren’t there?”

He shrugged, a flicker of disappointment in his face that she felt as keenly as the cut of a knife. “It’s a ball,” he said shortly.

A sense of urgency arose in her.
Blast it, if I bore him, he will leave.
She looked around, searching for inspiration. “I hate these events.”

“And why is that?”

She could answer that honestly. “Everyone dresses up in so many ribbons and bows and buttons that we all look like trussed-up codfish.”

He laughed, the deep sound rolling over her and making her heart sing. “Codfish?”

She practically glowed that she’d made him laugh.
“How do you entertain yourself at these sorts of events, Lord Sin?”

His smile disappeared. “Lord Sin?”

She blinked. “That’s what people call you.”

“People who know me, perhaps.”

Rose peeped at him through her lashes, as she’d seen a widow do to him once. “If you don’t wish me to call you Lord Sin, I won’t, but few words trip off the tongue like ‘Sin.’ ”

She had to fight to keep from gawking at her own temerity.
Goodness! Where did
that
come from?

Wherever it had, he apparently found it worth noticing, for his gaze was suddenly intense. “You enjoy sin, my dear Miss Balfour?”

“Who doesn’t?” she retorted, getting more and more drunk off her own bravery. She borrowed a line from the church service she and Aunt Lettice had attended last Sunday. “We’re all sinners in one way or another, aren’t we?”

“So we are, my lovely Rose.” His smile became as wickedly inviting as ever her dreams had made it. “By the way, my name is Alton, although if you prefer Sin”—he offered a small bow, and his closeness brought his eyes level with hers—“you may call me Sin, if you wish.”

“Sin it is, then.” Whoever had named him Alton hadn’t felt the effect of his warm brown eyes as they traveled across her as if he could see through her silks and laces. An odd shiver traveled over her, prickling
her skin and making her more light-headed than the champagne.

His gaze found her empty glass. “I almost forgot your champagne.”

“Oh, that’s quite all ri—”

“Here.” He reached out to grasp a flute of champagne from a footman and pressed it into her hand.

“Thank you,” she said, eyeing the glass with trepidation.

“You’re welcome.” He removed her empty glass and placed it on a nearby table.

The last thing she needed was more champagne; she was already tipsy from her own temerity and the other two glasses she’d had. But she caught Sin’s gaze and realized that he expected her to drink it just as she’d drunk the first two. And right now, she’d do anything to keep his attention—and admiration—on herself. She lifted the glass in a toast, and then tossed it back.