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Authors: Jaclyn Reding
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d�colletage of her gown—to advantage. And in the next moment, as she smiled and extended her hand toward a buff-breeched buck who scarcely looked old enough to shave his chin, he realized what she was up to.
Tristan quickly excused himself from the others and circled the room. As he approached, he could hear Harriet laughing, but it wasn’t the laughter Tristan knew so well and loved. Instead it was . . .
... a
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“Oh, Sir Duncan, you are quite funny!”
She’d obviously been spending all her time since he’d seen her last reading that damnable book. Even her voice wasn’t her own, but a softer, lighter version, aimed to charm. She was practicing the advice from the book to the extreme, as if the more she adhered to that misguided feminine wisdom, the more attractive to the opposite sex she’d become.
Harriet began to flutter her eyelashes like a nervous butterfly when Tristan came to join their little gathering. He whispered quietly to her, “What’s the matter, Harriet? Something in your eye?”
The fluttering stopped, superseded by a most chilling glare. “Lord Ravenshall, good evening. Have you had the occasion yet to meet our neighbor, Lady Harrington, and her nephew, Sir Duncan Harrington?”
“Oh, no, Miss Drynan,” Sir Duncan piped in. “The honor is all mine.” The man was looking at Tristan with an expression akin to awe. “Lord Ravenshall’s bravery on the field of battle is legend among the Scottish regiments.” He bowed his head reverently. “My lord.”
Tristan fixed the buck a bland stare. “A pleasure, Harrington.”
“I heard tell that you were virtually unstoppable at Corunna—”
“What a pity we won’t be able to hear of it in more detail,” Harriet interjected. “I believe it is time for our dance now, Sir Duncan.”
Duncan glanced once at Tristan before nodding. “Yes, of course. If you would please excuse us, Lord Ravenshall.” He bowed his head to the others. “Aunt Lucinda. Miss Maxwell.”
Tristan watched as Sir Duncan led Harriet to where the dancers were gathering. He recognized the look in the young man’s eye as one far too familiar—and far too predatory—for his liking. Harriet, on the other hand, had no earthly idea of what she was doing. Which only indicated to Tristan that he would need to keep his eye on her.
Looking around quickly, Tristan spotted a young lady standing alone against the near wall. He approached, bowing before her.
“This may seem a bit forward, miss, since we haven’t yet been formally introduced. I am Lord Ravenshall. Might I beg the honor of this dance, Miss—?”
The pretty blonde immediately blushed under his attention, fluttering her lashes in exactly the same way Harriet had moments before. Just his luck; another student of
A Reflection of Refinement
.
“I am Miss Blum,” the blonde tittered. “Miss Flavia Blum, and I would be honored to dance with you, Lord Ravenshall.”
Tristan offered her his arm and walked her to the line of dancers just forming in the center of the room. He could see Harriet standing with her conquest several couples forward in the line. The music began, and the dancers followed suit.
They had made only a few steps into the dance before Harriet turned and noticed Tristan dancing with Miss Blum. She must have been startled to see them, so startled, in fact, she misstepped, treading on her partner’s toes. Tristan found a small sense of satisfaction in the wrinkle that creased her pretty brow.
“So, tell me, Miss Blum,” he asked, turning his attention to his partner, “are you from Edinburgh?”
The shy coquette blossomed under his attention, unleashing the charm she’d been tutored in since girlhood. Tristan, for his part, played the role of interested suitor from top to toe, smiling at her, peering into her eyes, looking for all the world as if no one else existed except the inimitable Miss Blum.
In truth, as he chatted politely with her, Tristan found himself
d�colletage of her gown—to advantage. And in the next moment, as she smiled and extended her hand toward a buff-breeched buck who scarcely looked old enough to shave his chin, he realized what she was up to.
Tristan quickly excused himself from the others and circled the room. As he approached, he could hear Harriet laughing, but it wasn’t the laughter Tristan knew so well and loved. Instead it was . . .
... a
.
“Oh, Sir Duncan, you are quite funny!”
She’d obviously been spending all her time since he’d seen her last reading that damnable book. Even her voice wasn’t her own, but a softer, lighter version, aimed to charm. She was practicing the advice from the book to the extreme, as if the more she adhered to that misguided feminine wisdom, the more attractive to the opposite sex she’d become.
Harriet began to flutter her eyelashes like a nervous butterfly when Tristan came to join their little gathering. He whispered quietly to her, “What’s the matter, Harriet? Something in your eye?”
The fluttering stopped, superseded by a most chilling glare. “Lord Ravenshall, good evening. Have you had the occasion yet to meet our neighbor, Lady Harrington, and her nephew, Sir Duncan Harrington?”
“Oh, no, Miss Drynan,” Sir Duncan piped in. “The honor is all mine.” The man was looking at Tristan with an expression akin to awe. “Lord Ravenshall’s bravery on the field of battle is legend among the Scottish regiments.” He bowed his head reverently. “My lord.”
Tristan fixed the buck a bland stare. “A pleasure, Harrington.”
“I heard tell that you were virtually unstoppable at Corunna—”
“What a pity we won’t be able to hear of it in more detail,” Harriet interjected. “I believe it is time for our dance now, Sir Duncan.”
Duncan glanced once at Tristan before nodding. “Yes, of course. If you would please excuse us, Lord Ravenshall.” He bowed his head to the others. “Aunt Lucinda. Miss Maxwell.”
Tristan watched as Sir Duncan led Harriet to where the dancers were gathering. He recognized the look in the young man’s eye as one far too familiar—and far too predatory—for his liking. Harriet, on the other hand, had no earthly idea of what she was doing. Which only indicated to Tristan that he would need to keep his eye on her.
Looking around quickly, Tristan spotted a young lady standing alone against the near wall. He approached, bowing before her.
“This may seem a bit forward, miss, since we haven’t yet been formally introduced. I am Lord Ravenshall. Might I beg the honor of this dance, Miss—?”
The pretty blonde immediately blushed under his attention, fluttering her lashes in exactly the same way Harriet had moments before. Just his luck; another student of
A Reflection of Refinement
.
“I am Miss Blum,” the blonde tittered. “Miss Flavia Blum, and I would be honored to dance with you, Lord Ravenshall.”
Tristan offered her his arm and walked her to the line of dancers just forming in the center of the room. He could see Harriet standing with her conquest several couples forward in the line. The music began, and the dancers followed suit.
They had made only a few steps into the dance before Harriet turned and noticed Tristan dancing with Miss Blum. She must have been startled to see them, so startled, in fact, she misstepped, treading on her partner’s toes. Tristan found a small sense of satisfaction in the wrinkle that creased her pretty brow.
“So, tell me, Miss Blum,” he asked, turning his attention to his partner, “are you from Edinburgh?”
The shy coquette blossomed under his attention, unleashing the charm she’d been tutored in since girlhood. Tristan, for his part, played the role of interested suitor from top to toe, smiling at her, peering into her eyes, looking for all the world as if no one else existed except the inimitable Miss Blum.
In truth, as he chatted politely with her, Tristan found himself
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