Kathryn Smith (2 page)

He made it two strides before his love of mischief made him turn. “Oh, Lady Aubourn?”

Both sisters looked.

Wynthrope smiled—really smiled. “If you ever decide to take up dancing again, please let me know.”

The viscountess’s gaze widened, and Wynthrope walked away chuckling, her image wonderfully frozen in his mind.

He had eyes so rich a blue, she couldn’t think of anything to compare them to. Sapphire was too trite. Turquoise too unnatural. Indigo just plain wrong. His eyes were—

“Blast!”

“Are you all right, Moira?”

Wincing, Moira Tyndale shoved her smarting thumb in her mouth, licking away the drop of blood that beaded there. She turned from the window with a sigh. “It is nothing a mind that works properly could not remedy, Octavia. I poked myself with a tack again.”

Octavia Sheffield-Ryland smiled teasingly as she decorated the mantel with sprigs of holly. She was a tall, slender redhead with bright blue eyes and the glow of a newly married woman, something Moira envied. “You are strangely distracted today. Did something happen at the ball last night?”

Moira busied herself with tacking decorations around the window so her friend couldn’t see the flush in her cheeks. “Of course not.”

“No one asked you to dance?” There was a strange note of interest in her friend’s voice.

Moira closed her eyes as a wave of embarrassment washed over her. Octavia knew. Of course she knew. Gossip was thin this time of year; every little thing that happened at a ball or public place was considered news.

“Certainly not.” That wasn’t a complete lie. Wynthrope Ryland, he of the nameless-blue eyes, hadn’t actually been given a chance to ask her. Not properly at any rate.

“Hmm. I must have heard incorrectly.”

The best course of action would be to ignore that pointed remark. The best course of action would be to continue tacking up the decorations and pretend ignorance.

Her shoulders sagged with resignation. “What did you hear?”

Holly forgotten, Octavia hastened closer. Thank the Lord the servants were going to help with the decorations. At this rate, the two of them wouldn’t be done by the time the guests started to arrive.

The redhead’s expression was gleeful, as though Moira’s humiliation the night before was a good thing. Obviously, whatever her friend had heard, she had heard wrong.

“I heard,” Octavia murmured, as though there was a chance they might be overhead, “that a certain gentleman paid particular attention to you.”

Well, that was one way to put it. Moira opened her mouth and paused. How best to respond?

“I made a proper ass of myself, Octavia.
That
is what happened.”

Gone was the happy insinuation, replaced by an expression of confused concern. “Surely not.”

Moira turned away, choosing to toy with the decorations on a nearby table rather than face her friend’s sympathy. She rubbed a strand of crimson ribbon between her thumb and forefinger. The velvet was butter-soft to the touch. “I thought he wanted to dance with Minnie.”

“Instead of you?”

What was that surprised tone for? She faced the other woman with a frown. “Of course.”

Octavia mirrored her expression, the pale flesh of her brow furrowing tightly. “Why would you think that?”

Moira chuckled in disbelief. Was it not obvious? “Because every gentleman who approaches the two of us at a ball wants to dance with Minerva.”

“Ah!” Octavia raised a finger as though she was about to impart great wisdom. “My brother-in-law is not ‘every’ gentleman. In fact, I’m not certain the term ‘gentleman’ applies to Wynthrope at all.”

Just the mere mention of his name had Moira blushing again. Ever since she first laid eyes on Wynthrope Ryland several years ago, she had thought him the most attractive man in England. He hadn’t spared her a second glance, and
why would he? Back then she had been an overweight, shy country miss. The only man who paid any attention to her at all had been Anthony, her best friend—her husband.

Late
husband. Dear Tony. She missed him still. He had remarked upon Wynthrope Ryland’s looks on occasion as well.

But Octavia didn’t know that Moira admired her brother-in-law’s face and form. It was too humiliating to admit. Like an infatuated schoolgirl, she often looked for him at social events. Odd, but she hadn’t thought of him at all during her mourning period. She hadn’t thought of much at all other than the fact that her best friend was dead and the world was a grayer place for his loss.

But her mourning period was over, socially as well as personally. Shame on Minnie for leading Mr. Ryland to believe otherwise. Although her sister’s quick thinking had stopped Moira from potentially making an even bigger cake of herself.

“I wish you had some idea of your own worth, Moira.”

Jerked from her thoughts by her friend’s voice, Moira glanced up. “I know my worth. You would have me inflate it beyond reason.”

“No. Just to the point where you realize you are every bit as comely as your sister.”

Was it Octavia’s righteous tone or the words themselves that made her laugh so sharply? “You are a dear friend, but I am not so fragile that you need lie to me so kindly. Minnie is ten times prettier than I am.”

Octavia’s expression was dark. “Prettiness is not the only virtue a woman should aspire to.”

What a lovely way to say that Moira was a nicer person than her younger sister. Octavia needn’t be so careful with her words. Moira wasn’t insulted for her sister. It was true. She was a better person than Minnie, but only because she hadn’t been spoiled by their parents. And Tony had given her
so much—taught her so much. Minnie simply hadn’t been given a chance by life yet. Someday, Moira was certain of it, her younger sister would become the woman she should be.

And even if she didn’t, Moira would still love her. Being an only child, Octavia wouldn’t understand that. She would wager ten pounds, however, that Wynthrope Ryland would understand perfectly.

Unfortunately, Moira would wager another ten that he would understand her just as well. Ever since that day on Bond Street, when their gazes had met, she had the unnerving feeling that he had been able to peer inside her soul. Certainly it had felt as though she had seen inside his. For one intense, perfectly clear moment, she had looked at him and known that he was not what he appeared to be.

Which was nice, because he often appeared to be a cold, unfeeling rake.

Smiling sincerely, Moira took one of her friend’s long, slender hands in her own. “I know you have little patience where my sister is concerned, Octavia. Thank you again for offering to host this party for her.”

Octavia’s lips thinned into a disgruntled curve. “I am doing it because I want you to have one evening for yourself.”

“I could hardly refuse when you offered to do all the work as well.”

“Not all of it,” Octavia replied coyly. “Or you would not be here.”

True, but Moira harbored her no ill will for it. “I enjoy dressing a house for Christmas. My own has been for days already.”

Octavia arranged a pair of porcelain turtledoves on the mantel. “Yes, it makes the season seem that much more festive, does it not?”

Retrieving her holly and tacks, Moira smiled as she returned to work. “That and good friends.”

“And hopefully some new ones.” Octavia stepped back to admire her handiwork. “I think the entirety of London’s aristocratic winter residents will be here this evening. I hope we have enough room.”

Whether it was Octavia’s invitation, or the lack of society during the colder months, Moira wasn’t certain, but she had no doubt that Covent Garden would see more
ton
tonight than it did during the height of the theater season.

Again, if she were a betting woman, she would wager a large sum that the guests who arrived that evening were there either to see Minnie or to see Octavia and her somewhat famous husband. North Sheffield-Ryland had made quite a name for himself as a thief taker before entering into politics. He was already a great favorite of the regent’s and the prime minister’s.

Moira tacked more holly along the window frame. “Will North’s brother be coming tonight?”

Octavia flashed her a sly look as she placed fresh candles in the silver holders on the mantel. “Wynthrope?”

Moira rolled her eyes. Her friend simply did not know when to give up. “You mentioned that the youngest was coming up from Devonshire.”

“Ah yes, Devlin. He and Blythe should be here sometime this afternoon. Brahm has accepted as well. Thank you for allowing me to invite him.”

Moira frowned at the thanks as she sorted through the leafy greenery for the next piece to arrange. “I could hardly tell you who not to invite to your own home. Besides, I have no reason to dislike the viscount. He’s always been perfectly charming to me.”

Octavia smiled. “The Ryland men can be terribly charming when they want to be.”

Was it an accident, or did Octavia intentionally not men
tion whether Wynthrope would be there that evening? Well, Moira wasn’t about to make an idiot of herself by asking.

As though fate wanted to aid her with that resolution, a maid appeared in the door at that very moment.

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but the man is here with the flowers you ordered. There seems to be some sort of problem with the order.”

This was obviously not what Octavia wanted to hear. Casting an apologetic glance at Moira, she begged to be excused. “I shall just be a moment, I promise.”

“Take your time. I will try not to puncture my thumb again in your absence.”

Her friend smiled and left the room. Unless the flowers were completely dastardly, Moira was fairly certain no one would give them much notice, so whatever mistake the flower man made, it was nothing to fret over. Still, Octavia had yet to return by the time Moira finished decorating the last window.

What to do now? She could go find Octavia, but she had no desire to get involved in the floral dilemma. The only thing left to do was hang the mistletoe in the doorways and in various locations throughout the room.

Moira took the ladder Octavia’s massive butler, Johnson, had brought in earlier and began tacking the sprigs of mistletoe up around the room. There would be no shortage of kissing going on that evening. Of course, it would all be entirely proper and in the spirit of the season. Many an eligible bachelor would steer Minnie beneath these boughs—in front of Moira’s ever-watchful eyes, of course.

Climbing the ladder to hang the last sprig, Moira stretched to tack it into place. She had misjudged when placing the ladder against the wall, having to position it to maneuver around a painting.

She pushed up onto her toes, straining to her right. Just a little farther…
Oh oh.

The ladder tipped, wobbling backward as Moira’s arms windmilled. Desperately she struggled to regain balance, but it was no use. The ladder fell, flinging her toward the floor.

But instead of landing on the hard slats, Moira landed against something almost as solid. A band of unyielding strength closed around her, flattening her breasts to her chest, pinning her to a wall of warm, spicy-scented man. She didn’t have to see him to know who he was. Her luck was so rotten, there was only one man it could be.

“Steady,” he murmured as her shaking knees threatened to buckle beneath her.

As though near-injury wasn’t enough to send her heart into a frantic pounding, his voice added to the chaotic rhythm. Stiffening, she turned, even as common sense ordered her to run as far away as she could.

He didn’t release her as any decent gentleman would have. He just stood there, holding her in an entirely improper manner, waiting for her to look up and meet his indescribable gaze. Well, she wouldn’t do it. She refused to let him bait her. She would demand that he let her go.

Her resolve lasted all of three seconds. Bold blue eyes stared at her from beneath gently arched brows. His lashes were long and tilted upward at the ends. It seemed everything about him was almost perfectly straight but not quite—even his nose. Such imperfections could have harmed a less impressive face, but not his. Sweet mercy, but he was one splendid-looking man. No doubt he knew it. Beautiful men usually knew they were beautiful.

Of course, in her experience, beautiful men often preferred the
company
of other beautiful men, and she knew that wasn’t true in the case of Wynthrope Ryland. He certainly seemed to have enjoyed his share of women.

Strange, but she had the feeling he hadn’t necessarily liked them. For that matter, she wasn’t all that certain he liked himself that much either, even though he gave all the appearance of just the opposite.

His dark hair was slightly mussed, his cheeks rosy from the cold. His blue eyes sparkled with mischief, crinkling at the corners as a slight dimple appeared in his cheek. Was he laughing at her? Could he feel her heart pounding through the thin material of her gown? And why couldn’t she be wearing something pretty instead of a plain blue morning dress? She must look a fright.

So why was he looking at her as though he liked what he saw?

“I must say, Lady Aubourn, that while I have often wished a woman would simply fall into my arms, this is not quite the way I imagined it.”

Low and gentle and perfectly modulated, his voice was that of the quintessential gentleman.

It was also so patently false that Moira winced at it. There was something mocking about his tone, as though he wanted people to know it was false.

“Is it not, Mr. Ryland? How lovely that you have had such imaginings. Usually I only think of falling when I am actually doing so.”

His eyes widened. Good, her tone hadn’t been lost on him either. Such caustic politeness was not her usual mode of speaking, though she knew many members of the
ton
who had it perfected to an art form.

How disappointing that Wynthrope Ryland appeared to be one of them.

Eyes glinting, he continued to hold her, even though her feet were solidly planted on the floor beneath her. He had to know what he was doing was highly improper. He had to know that she could feel him pressed against her through her
gown, that she was far too aware of the length of his legs against her own.