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Authors: The Last Bachelor
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than leathery hide or scales. And as he surveyed her attractive figure and heard her pleasant voice—no roar or hiss there—he felt an even stronger rustle of disquiet. She was younger and more feminine than he had anticipated and, as a result, was probably a good bit more dangerous as well.
It was precisely that thought which saved him. Dangerous. She was a diabolical woman, and he knew how to handle them.
He had learned of her interest in the Deceased Wife’s Sister Bill from Sir Albert Everstone, who had seen her at parliamentary hearings on the measure and whose wife she had approached for gallery passes. It was a relatively small matter to get young Shelburne to read from his recent piece in
Blackwood’s
, and he felt reasonably sure that his inflammatory words would catch her notice and raise her ire. His trap was set.
And she had charged straight into it, seeking out Shelburne right away to deliver him a set-down. All he had needed to do was engage her attention and throw down the gauntlet. Now it remained to be seen if she was proud enough or angry enough to pick it up. A servant approached with a tray of champagne, and as he chose a goblet and sipped, he smiled to himself. She would pick it up; he was sure of it. And the instant she stooped to conquer, she was his.
A quarter of an hour later he looked up from having a word with his host and caught a glimpse of a woman inblack-edged purple across the drawing room, speaking with his hostess. As if in response to his intensifying stare, they turned in his direction, and he felt a brief surge of triumph. It was the dragon. It had to be; she was the right size and shape, and dressed in half-mourning colors.
His smile froze. She was also all motion and curves … swathed in layers of purple moire that reacted in glorious alchemy with the candlelight to make her seem to shimmer across the floor and set blue-crimson lights in her auburn hair. There was no lace on her gown, no ribbons, no flounces … only elegant watered silk trimmed with black velvet at the modest scooped neckline and short puffed sleeves. Her slender arms were covered by long black gloves, and she wore a black velvet ribbon at her throat with a carved ebony cameo dangling from it. Bracing internally, he looked up.
He was not at all prepared for that clear, extravagant heart of a face, with its high cheekbones, straight nose, and full, expressive mouth that, even drawn tight with disapproval, bore the promise of a tantalizing sensual pout.
It was a face more likely to stop a heart than a clock.
Could this possibly be the fabled Dragon of Decency? She didn’t look like the type to plant curvy widows in a man’s bed, then burst through the door breathing sanctimonious fire. But then—he rescued his reeling thoughts—treachery came in all sizes and shapes. Concentrating on her entrancing blue eyes, he mentally set aside their allure and discovered in them cool, disturbing lights … beacons warning of intelligence, strong opinions, and righteous determination … a dangerous combination in a woman.
And he felt a curious surge of excitement at the prospect of clipping the wings of this avenging angel of matrimony.
• • •
“I was beginning to despair of you, my dear,” Lady Constance had said, slipping her arm through Antonia’s and pulling her through the drawing room and toward the conservatory, where chairs had been erected for the musical program of the evening. “We’re almost ready for Madame DuPont.” She raised her gaze above the guests moving around them toward the garden room, to look for a servant bearing refreshments. “Now, what can I get you before we join the others for the musicale?”
“A proper introduction to that gentleman over there,” Antonia said after a moment’s hesitation. She cast a discreet nod toward a striking male figure in the doorway. “That is the Earl of Landon, is it not?”
She didn’t need an answer; his dark hair, angular features, and
It was precisely that thought which saved him. Dangerous. She was a diabolical woman, and he knew how to handle them.
He had learned of her interest in the Deceased Wife’s Sister Bill from Sir Albert Everstone, who had seen her at parliamentary hearings on the measure and whose wife she had approached for gallery passes. It was a relatively small matter to get young Shelburne to read from his recent piece in
Blackwood’s
, and he felt reasonably sure that his inflammatory words would catch her notice and raise her ire. His trap was set.
And she had charged straight into it, seeking out Shelburne right away to deliver him a set-down. All he had needed to do was engage her attention and throw down the gauntlet. Now it remained to be seen if she was proud enough or angry enough to pick it up. A servant approached with a tray of champagne, and as he chose a goblet and sipped, he smiled to himself. She would pick it up; he was sure of it. And the instant she stooped to conquer, she was his.
A quarter of an hour later he looked up from having a word with his host and caught a glimpse of a woman inblack-edged purple across the drawing room, speaking with his hostess. As if in response to his intensifying stare, they turned in his direction, and he felt a brief surge of triumph. It was the dragon. It had to be; she was the right size and shape, and dressed in half-mourning colors.
His smile froze. She was also all motion and curves … swathed in layers of purple moire that reacted in glorious alchemy with the candlelight to make her seem to shimmer across the floor and set blue-crimson lights in her auburn hair. There was no lace on her gown, no ribbons, no flounces … only elegant watered silk trimmed with black velvet at the modest scooped neckline and short puffed sleeves. Her slender arms were covered by long black gloves, and she wore a black velvet ribbon at her throat with a carved ebony cameo dangling from it. Bracing internally, he looked up.
He was not at all prepared for that clear, extravagant heart of a face, with its high cheekbones, straight nose, and full, expressive mouth that, even drawn tight with disapproval, bore the promise of a tantalizing sensual pout.
It was a face more likely to stop a heart than a clock.
Could this possibly be the fabled Dragon of Decency? She didn’t look like the type to plant curvy widows in a man’s bed, then burst through the door breathing sanctimonious fire. But then—he rescued his reeling thoughts—treachery came in all sizes and shapes. Concentrating on her entrancing blue eyes, he mentally set aside their allure and discovered in them cool, disturbing lights … beacons warning of intelligence, strong opinions, and righteous determination … a dangerous combination in a woman.
And he felt a curious surge of excitement at the prospect of clipping the wings of this avenging angel of matrimony.
• • •
“I was beginning to despair of you, my dear,” Lady Constance had said, slipping her arm through Antonia’s and pulling her through the drawing room and toward the conservatory, where chairs had been erected for the musical program of the evening. “We’re almost ready for Madame DuPont.” She raised her gaze above the guests moving around them toward the garden room, to look for a servant bearing refreshments. “Now, what can I get you before we join the others for the musicale?”
“A proper introduction to that gentleman over there,” Antonia said after a moment’s hesitation. She cast a discreet nod toward a striking male figure in the doorway. “That is the Earl of Landon, is it not?”
She didn’t need an answer; his dark hair, angular features, and
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