Vice (57 page)

“You seemed to be looking for something,” he said pleasantly, as if she had not spoken. “Perhaps I can help.”

“I cannot imagine why you should think so.” Reluctantly Pen closed the cabinet and turned the key. She could not continue her search in this company, or indeed any company, and she was filled with resentment at the stranger’s intrusion. There was no knowing when she would have such an opportunity again.

“Are you closely connected to the Bryanston family, sir? Familiar with their affairs, perhaps?” She swung back to him, her expression as challenging as her tone.

There was more to her than met the eye, Owen
thought. At first sight she was as Noailles had said, fairly nondescript with her brown hair, regular features, and undistinguished figure. But her eyes. Now they were something else altogether. Very large, very clear, and a wonderful mixture of green and brown shot through with gold. They reminded him of sunlight on a forest pool. Noailles had been wrong about the temperament, too, he decided. There was a distinct flash of spirit there. For the first time, Owen felt a stirring of interest in this task.

“I must confess total ignorance of all things Bryanston,” he said with a smile. “But I find myself very interested in you, madam. I couldn’t help but follow you when you left the hall.” He bowed and gave her his most winning, inviting smile.

Pen looked at him incredulously, her annoyance vanquished by this absurdity. “Are you attempting to flirt with me, sir?” She gave a peal of laughter. “You have the wrong sister, Pm afraid. My sister Pippa is an incorrigible flirt and will repay your efforts much more than I. I’d be happy to introduce you.” Still laughing, she swept past him to the door, her skirts brushing against him.

Owen was rarely disconcerted, and chagrin was a most unusual visitor. However, he was aware of both as he followed Pen from the chamber, and something had to be done about it.

“Lady Pen,” he called softly but with a degree of urgency.

She stopped in the passage, glanced interrogatively over her shoulder at him, wondering how he knew her name. They had definitely not been introduced. He stepped up to her. He caught her turned chin in the palm of his hand and swiftly before she had any idea of his intention pressed his lips lightly against hers.

“Forgive me,” he said. “But I have been wanting to do that all evening.”

“How extraordinary!” Pen declared. “Why on earth should you?”

He had expected shock, maidenly horror, indignation, fluster at the very least. Instead he received only this blank astonishment, this implication that he must have lost his senses. Surprise usually had a good effect in Owen d’Arcy’s experience. But not in this case, it seemed.

He looked at her closely, his eyes suddenly narrowed. “I have no idea,” he said slowly. “Forgive me.”

“Why, there’s nothing to forgive,” Pen returned with another laugh. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She hurried away, leaving Owen d’Arcy for once in his career nonplussed. Clearly he was going to need some more refined technique to gain the lady’s confidence. And he was damned sure she was not going to laugh at him again.

VICE

A Bantam Book / June 1996

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Copyright © 1996 by Jane Feather.
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eISBN: 978-0-307-43100-4

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