The Dangerous Viscount (10 page)

“I don’t look as good as you do,” he said.

Tarquin laughed. “The fact, my dear friend, that
you realize that truth makes me hopeful that one day you may join the ranks of the well dressed. For now your appearance is adequate.”

“Is it good enough?”

“There are few ladies who understand the sartorial arts as men can. They tend to be distracted by irrelevancies like good cheekbones, a charming smile, or a ready wit.”

Sebastian removed his spectacles, edged closer to the glass, and took a good look at his own face. He prodded his cheeks and stretched his lips into a ghastly grin. “None of which I have,” he said.

“You underestimate yourself. I believe you’ll do better without the glasses. Women like to see a man’s eyes so they can know if he’s sincere.”

“Do we want them to know?” Sebastian asked. In fact it was the last thing he wanted.

“Not necessarily. On the other hand, how can they tell? I think the whole eyes-are-windows-to-the-soul business quite overrated. But if it pleases ladies to believe it, who am I to argue?”

“I can’t see more than a few feet in front of me without my spectacles.”

“We’ll get you a quizzing glass. Lorgnettes are for dowagers and dowdies.”

Sebastian discovered there were some bounds he would not cross. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to look like an affected idiot with a quizzing glass. It’s bad enough having to attend parties, without doing it blind.”

“As you wish,” Tarquin said with a shrug. “I’ll take you to an ingenious little man in Soho who can make anything. We’ll see if he can rig you up more
elegant frames. Those things look like something my old nurse would wear.”

“I can take them off whenever a woman gets really close. That way I can see her, and she can look into my eyes and be deceived about the nature of my soul.”

“That’s the spirit, dear boy. It’s a rare woman who can resist the dedicated pursuit of a persistent lover.”

Sebastian stepped back from the mirror and surveyed his figure again. A light wrinkle in his sleeve caught his eye so he smoothed it out. He stretched his lips into the kind of bland, slightly supercilious smile often worn by his cousin Blakeney. Diana Fanshawe, like all women, valued the triviality of a man’s appearance more than his true worth. If that’s what she wanted, that’s what he would become: a fashionable fool without a useful thought in his head. And once she wanted him as he had once desired her, he would reject her and teach her the meaning of humiliation and betrayal.

“G
ood Lord,” Sebastian muttered to Tarquin as they escaped from the avid speculation in the fine green eyes of their hostess, the Duchess of Lethbridge. “I feel as though I’ve been stripped to my drawers.”

“Many have,” his friend replied. “And further. Like you the duchess is a collector, but she prefers her objets d’art young and virile.”

“Has she ever collected
you?”

“I’ve stayed out of the lady’s cabinet of curiosities. I prefer a more exclusive environment.”

Sebastian glanced over his shoulder, half afraid of being pursued by this alarming noblewoman. “I think I should start with someone a little less demanding.”

“A wise decision. And don’t forget, if you find yourself at a loss, think of something amusing to say about the weather.”

Ten minutes later, abandoned to the mercies of a pair of dowagers who persisted in discussing every relation Sebastian possessed, including his mother, he remembered the admonition.

“I read recently,” he blurted, “that a storm in
Sunbury produced hailstones so large that the bird on a lady’s headdress was killed stone dead.”

The more formidable of the two ladies, whose plumes he realized too late had inspired his remark, gasped. What was it with women and feathers, anyway? The other looked as though he were mad. Apparently being amusing about the weather wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Mumbling hideously he excused himself and plunged into the thickening crowd. The sight of a fellow book collector came like a yard of ale to a thirsty man.

This encounter went better. The man introduced him to his wife and some other ladies. Heeding Tarquin’s instruction, Sebastian remembered not to kiss the hands of unmarried women, nor to compliment the appearance of ladies he’d only just met. Not that he felt any temptation to do so. The females in the group seemed sensible, or at least quiet, and listened to the men’s exchange of political gossip with every sign of appreciation.

Once he’d found his footing, the discussion wasn’t deep enough to demand all his attention. Surreptitiously he searched the room. Tarquin had assured him the duchess would have invited everyone in London.

Where was she?

Even out of season the Duchess of Lethbridge drew a good crowd to a rout-party. While not as uncomfortably crushed as such an event in May, Lethbridge House, one of London’s largest mansions, was nicely filled without being too noisy for eavesdropping on other people’s gossip. Two people had already
commented, in Diana’s hearing, that half the male guests were the duchess’s former lovers.

Not having ever been on the duchess’s guest list before, Diana had been flattered by the invitation. Word of Blakeney’s interest in her must have spread. The top tier of London hostesses, ladies too superior to invite a nabob’s widow, wouldn’t want to offend a woman who had a chance of becoming Marchioness of Blakeney.

She hadn’t seen many people she knew, aside from a brace of well-known fortune hunters she’d shaken off on the way upstairs. Standing in the famous Adam saloon, she tried to look as though she were far too busy exchanging polite nods with her numerous acquaintances to actually conduct a conversation, and wondered which of the men in the room had bedded the notorious duchess.

She caught sight of Mr. Tarquin Compton, towering above the crowd. Had
he?
Somehow she had difficulty envisioning him without his clothes. Not that she spent much time imagining other men naked, either, but Mr. Compton seemed a particularly unlikely candidate. Without being in any way effeminate, he was just too exquisite in his attire. She’d never heard his name linked with any lady, except enviously when he commented favorably on her dress.

He’d once complimented Diana’s shoes, an adorable pair of pink dancing slippers embroidered with pearls. If he’d come over and notice her headdress it would irritate Lady Georgina Harville who stood with her sister a few yards away. The three of them had done the polite nod thing and Diana wondered if she should go and speak with them. While Lady
Gee wasn’t exactly her favorite person, at least she wouldn’t be looking like a wallflower.

“Looking for someone, Diana?” Saved, by Marianne MacFarland, her closest friend in London.

“I was trying to imagine Mr. Compton undressed and wondering what he’ll think of my hair.” One of the things Diana loved about her friend was that she was incapable of being shocked. Tonight, however, Marianne refused to be drawn into a discussion of the dandy’s physique.

“Oh dear,” she said, as they exchanged kisses. “Please don’t let him come near me. I’m a bit worried about mine.”

Diana drew back and blanched at the confection on her friend’s auburn head.

Marianne’s eyebrows arched in exaggerated distress. “I feared it might be a mistake but Mrs. Pynchon assured me it was the latest thing. I knew I should have consulted Chantal first but she was in such a bad mood last time I asked for her advice on a hat.”

“Never mind her moods. Next time, take her word over the milliner’s.”

“Is it that bad?”

For a moment Diana strove for tact, but some things were beyond her abilities. “It looks like a pineapple top in a dish of raspberries.”

“That is exactly what Robert said.”

“Forget my maid, listen to your husband. Clearly he has a better grasp of fashion than you.”

“That’s the saddest thing I ever heard. Is Blakeney here?”

“No, he’s gone to Leicestershire for a week’s cubbing.”

“Lord, the sports never stop. Are you sure you want to marry him?”

“He’s worth it.”

Marianne leaned in confidentially. “I only ask because if you decided you couldn’t bear the hours listening to him rhapsodize about the nobility of dead foxes, you might want to consider this new viscount everyone’s talking about.”

“Oh?” Diana murmured, only half attending. Compton was getting closer. She willed him to notice the red velvet bandeau entwined with black pearls and adorned with a diamond spray. Chantal had assured her the effect was scintillating and not at all vulgar. Chantal was never wrong.

“He only just inherited. Apparently he has a large estate and a really big coal mine.”

Diana owned shares in a couple of mines and their product was far prettier. She patted her diamond necklace.

“And,” Marianne continued, “he’s quite nice-looking and very well dressed. Tall. Better still, Susan Bellamy says he’s conversable. He had her whole group in stitches with his comments on the antics of the ministry. She said she laughed so much she hardly noticed the spectacles.”

“What did you say he was called?” Diana asked sharply.

“I don’t think I did. Iverley. Viscount Iverley. No one ever saw the old one who was an uncle of some sort. Lived in the north and was said to be a mad recluse.”

This could not be true. Not even an enormous coal mine could make the levelheaded, if taste-deficient,
Marianne describe Sebastian Iverley as well dressed. Not to mention those powers of conversation with strangers. Of course, Sebastian had spoken quite easily with her but that was different.

Wasn’t it?

It couldn’t be him. Some other nephew had inherited the peerage. Another tall nephew. With spectacles. Poor eyesight must run in the family.

She looked up through a gap in the crowd and with a sense of inevitability she saw him, a tall man in beautifully tailored black evening clothes, a red embroidered waistcoat, and a new haircut. The steel-rimmed spectacles had been replaced with a striking pair carved from tortoiseshell. Yet without a doubt this vision of masculine elegance was Sebastian Iverley.

He threaded his way in her direction with a smile on his face.

Marianne sighed. “Look at the breadth of those shoulders. And his legs! I love a man with good legs. And I’ve never really thought of it before, but spectacles draw attention to a well-sculpted face. He has the most beautiful cheekbones. And a lovely smile. Very shapely lips.”

She was right about the lips. Diana had noticed them before. More than noticed them. A glow kindled in her chest. Was it possible this transformation had been undertaken on her behalf? That was something, she had to admit, that impressed a woman.

He was quite close now. She drew herself up, preparing a welcoming smile for the man who, the last time they met, had kissed her.

He bowed. “Lady Gee,” he said.

And walked straight past Diana without noticing her.

“And Lady Felicia,” he continued. “I am so pleased to see you again. It’s been many weeks since those enjoyable days we spent together at Mandeville.”

Georgina positively simpered. “My dear Lord Iverley, as we must now remember to call you. What a delightful surprise. Those were indeed happy times.”

Diana listened with growing incredulity to an exchange of reminiscences that represented, to put it kindly, a radical rewriting of history. Felicia, the idiot, giggled and made eyes at the man whom she had, as Diana distinctly recalled, dismissed as a quiz. And Sebastian—Lord Iverley!—spoke with ease and fluency as though he’d spent a lifetime perfecting the art of meaningless social discourse.

“He’s quite delicious,” Marianne murmured. “Were you at Mandeville at the same time? I can’t believe you never told me about him.”

“He was Mr. Iverley then.” Diana forced a weak smile though she didn’t feel like it. Heaven forbid he, or Lady Gee, should notice her chagrin at the way he’d virtually ignored her.

“Still, his looks can’t have changed and they are most definitely worthy of mention.”

“He looks different,” Diana said. “Very different.”

She wasn’t at all sure she approved of the transformation. She had noticed and appreciated Mr. Iverley even as a sartorial disaster. Now, if she wasn’t mistaken,
Lord
Iverley was about to become all the rage.

* * *

He studied her out of the corner of his eye as he raised Lady Georgina’s hand to his lips and gave it an unnecessarily thorough kissing. She turned to the woman beside her and answered some remark that made them both smile. But Sebastian had been looking and he’d caught it: a moment of surprise followed by displeasure. Diana expected him to come to her and she hadn’t been pleased when he spoke instead to Lady Gee. How fortuitous that they had been standing close by but not together, providing an opportunity to implement one element of Tarquin and Cain’s strategy. Diana and Georgina might not be enemies, but Sebastian was observant enough to know they weren’t friends.

For several minutes he stood and talked with the sisters. In the space of one hour at this incredibly stupid soirée, Sebastian had recovered from the weather fiasco and found that making small talk wasn’t difficult, merely tedious. His audience seemed to enjoy what he had to say, but he’d bored himself almost to the point of somnolence.

Until now. Not because his current conversation showed any improvement, but because every second he was thrillingly conscious of Diana Fanshawe standing a few paces away. In three months her dangerous appeal had not diminished an iota. The first glimpse of her in the thronged saloon told him he hadn’t overestimated her beauty. On the contrary, clad in dark red and diamonds, she was more ravishing than he recalled. Out of sight for so long, the details had faded from memory: the gleaming locks of dark chocolate hair against ivory skin; the
soft-etched collarbones now resting beneath a web of silver and gemstones; the curve of her elbow between sleeve and glove. Could he really detect that seductive perfume at this distance, or was it etched in his memory? Either way it was above all her scent that set his body thrumming with awareness and desire.

And pain. He felt the moment of her betrayal at Mandeville anew. Deep resentment churned the jumble of his emotions. Before he met Diana he’d been content with his life.