surface.
Moira Tyndale, Lady Aubourn, knew he was hiding things. He could see it in her eyes. She knew he was just acting. How did she know? What was it about her that made her able to see though him? There was nothing terribly special about her. She was tall, too thin, too sharp and angular. Her features were strong, her gaze far too keen, and yet she pulled him to her just like a siren calling a hapless sailor.
She stood not far away, clad in a gown of muted wine, talking to a small group of chaperones as her vivacious sister danced a lively reel with a young baronet. There was something about the days before Christmas that made people more social, music louder, laughter jollier. Winter in London was not normally brimming with social activity, save for the weeks before and after Christmas. Granted, company was certainly thin compared to the season, but there were still enough women to make dancing appealing and enough gentlemen that it was an option, not an obligation, to ask a female to stand up.
And all evening, not a single gentleman had asked Moira to dance. She didn’t even seem to mind. How could she not mind just standing on the sidelines while her sister garnered all the attention? And what was wrong with these men that they preferred Minerva Banning’s jarring youth to Moira’s subtle maturity?
What was wrong with him that he hadn’t asked her to dance? He had wanted nothing else all evening. Several times he had caught her gazing at him, only to glance away when he met her stare. A little skittish she might be, but she certainly wasn’t sly. For a woman who had been married a decade, she seemed to have little practice with the feminine arts. She was awkward when it came to flirting and seemed more apt to flee than to turn on her natural charm when a man approached her.
So why was he approaching her? he wondered as he moved toward her. Probably because he wanted to see if she was as drawn to him as he was to her. It was one thing for her to flirt with him at Octavia and North’s, and another for her to dance with him at a Christmas party, but what would she do if he interrupted her conversation and asked her to go outside with him, even if for just a moment?
The women with her watched as he approached. Perhaps they wondered why he was so intent on them. Perhaps they already suspected that Moira was his target. It hardly mattered to him what they thought. All that mattered was the woman staring at him with a mixture of wariness and excitement in her wide eyes—eyes that weren’t hazel as he originally thought, but layers of gold, blue and green. Fairy eyes.
“Good evening ladies,” he said, not sparing a glance for any of them. His gaze was focused solely on Moira. “Pardon my intrusion. Lady Aubourn. I wonder if I might beg a moment of your time.”
To his relief, she didn’t hesitate. “Of course, Mr. Ryland. Ladies, if you will excuse me.”
He offered her his arm and she took it, following gracefully as he led her toward the terrace doors. Outside it was chilly, the darkness illuminated by the glow of moonlight on snow. There wasn’t much—two or three inches at best, but it was enough to coat the world in a delicate layer of white andbring beauty to what might otherwise be sparse and barren.
He could not keep her out there long, even though he wanted nothing more than to keep her to himself. She was not dressed for such weather, even though the neckline of her gown was demure and the fabric a heavy velvet.
If he couldn’t have her to himself for long, he would just have to make the most of what brief time he had.
“Lady Aubourn?”
“Yes, Mr. Ryland?” Her eyes were large and reflective in the moonlight, drawing him closer with a magic he was powerless to resist.
“I’m going to collect on that kiss now.”
Chapter 4
M oira had no time to react, no time even to think, before Wynthrope’s lips touched hers.
He took her totally by surprise. Every muscle in her body tensed at
Moira Tyndale, Lady Aubourn, knew he was hiding things. He could see it in her eyes. She knew he was just acting. How did she know? What was it about her that made her able to see though him? There was nothing terribly special about her. She was tall, too thin, too sharp and angular. Her features were strong, her gaze far too keen, and yet she pulled him to her just like a siren calling a hapless sailor.
She stood not far away, clad in a gown of muted wine, talking to a small group of chaperones as her vivacious sister danced a lively reel with a young baronet. There was something about the days before Christmas that made people more social, music louder, laughter jollier. Winter in London was not normally brimming with social activity, save for the weeks before and after Christmas. Granted, company was certainly thin compared to the season, but there were still enough women to make dancing appealing and enough gentlemen that it was an option, not an obligation, to ask a female to stand up.
And all evening, not a single gentleman had asked Moira to dance. She didn’t even seem to mind. How could she not mind just standing on the sidelines while her sister garnered all the attention? And what was wrong with these men that they preferred Minerva Banning’s jarring youth to Moira’s subtle maturity?
What was wrong with him that he hadn’t asked her to dance? He had wanted nothing else all evening. Several times he had caught her gazing at him, only to glance away when he met her stare. A little skittish she might be, but she certainly wasn’t sly. For a woman who had been married a decade, she seemed to have little practice with the feminine arts. She was awkward when it came to flirting and seemed more apt to flee than to turn on her natural charm when a man approached her.
So why was he approaching her? he wondered as he moved toward her. Probably because he wanted to see if she was as drawn to him as he was to her. It was one thing for her to flirt with him at Octavia and North’s, and another for her to dance with him at a Christmas party, but what would she do if he interrupted her conversation and asked her to go outside with him, even if for just a moment?
The women with her watched as he approached. Perhaps they wondered why he was so intent on them. Perhaps they already suspected that Moira was his target. It hardly mattered to him what they thought. All that mattered was the woman staring at him with a mixture of wariness and excitement in her wide eyes—eyes that weren’t hazel as he originally thought, but layers of gold, blue and green. Fairy eyes.
“Good evening ladies,” he said, not sparing a glance for any of them. His gaze was focused solely on Moira. “Pardon my intrusion. Lady Aubourn. I wonder if I might beg a moment of your time.”
To his relief, she didn’t hesitate. “Of course, Mr. Ryland. Ladies, if you will excuse me.”
He offered her his arm and she took it, following gracefully as he led her toward the terrace doors. Outside it was chilly, the darkness illuminated by the glow of moonlight on snow. There wasn’t much—two or three inches at best, but it was enough to coat the world in a delicate layer of white andbring beauty to what might otherwise be sparse and barren.
He could not keep her out there long, even though he wanted nothing more than to keep her to himself. She was not dressed for such weather, even though the neckline of her gown was demure and the fabric a heavy velvet.
If he couldn’t have her to himself for long, he would just have to make the most of what brief time he had.
“Lady Aubourn?”
“Yes, Mr. Ryland?” Her eyes were large and reflective in the moonlight, drawing him closer with a magic he was powerless to resist.
“I’m going to collect on that kiss now.”
Chapter 4
M oira had no time to react, no time even to think, before Wynthrope’s lips touched hers.
He took her totally by surprise. Every muscle in her body tensed at
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