ripped out by a French inquisitionist than share such an intimate and treasured memory.”
Xanthia looked away. “Thank you,” she said. “I do not ask this lightly—and not even for myself.”
He shocked her then by touching her gently under the chin and drawing her face back to his. “If not for yourself,” he asked quietly, “then for whom do you ask it?”
She lowered her gaze, and he dropped his hand. “For Lord and Lady Sharpe,” she managed to say. “I must chaperone Lady Louisa through the remainder of her season. I shall even have to appear at Almack’s. I fear my cousin’s health has taken a fragile turn, and she cannot attend to it.”
“Good Lord! Almack’s?” His black eyes danced with laughter. “And you shall go ?”
Her gaze snapped back to his. “You doubtless find that humorous,” she returned. “But I have little choice in the matter. And you may believe me when I say there are a thousand things I should rather be doing than rubbing elbows with the ton .”
He held her eyes for a long moment, some nameless emotion sketching over his features. “Well, then,” he finally said. “Perhaps we are destined to meet again after all, Miss Neville.”
“Oh, I doubt it.” She managed a teasing smile. “You do not look the Almack’s type to me. I should lay odds they won’t even let you in the front door.”
Again, he lifted one elegant shoulder. “One never knows,” he murmured. “What sort of odds are you offering?”
Xanthia laughed. “Oh, just a straight wager,” she said. “I must have a spare twenty-pound note lying about the house somewhere.”
Nash smiled tightly. “Tempting, Miss Neville, but I think the take would have to be a good deal richer to get me into that sort of gaming hell,” he said. “Too many men have lost their most valuable asset inside Almack’s lofty portals.”
Xanthia lifted her eyebrows. “What sort of asset?”
Lord Nash flashed his wolfish grin. “Their priceless bachelorhood,” he answered. “Now I bid you good evening, my dear, until we meet again. I believe I can find my own way out.”
Amidst a tempest of emotions, Xanthia bathed and dressed for dinner. What a shock it had been to find Nash— Lord Nash—casually reclined in her brother’s best chair and looking very much at home. Today he had seemed so very dark and tall—and altogether more man than she had remembered. In all the rush of Xanthia’s workday, and in all the consternation over Pamela’s health, she had somehow forced away the memory of last night’s foolhardy escapade.
Well, that was not wholly true, she admitted, studying herself in the dressing mirror as she fastened her second earbob. The memory of Lord Nash’s touch had lingered, hovering in the back of her mind, and engendering vague feelings of embarrassment—interspersed with more than a few stabs of regret. And upon seeing him again, once the initial shock was past, the regret had cut like a keen blade. In the light of day, it was obvious just how striking a gentleman he was.
He was not handsome, no. Not in the English way. But he was elegance personified; lean and dark, like a cat prowling through a moonlit wood. There was an air of intrigue about the man which made one yearn to know him better in every sense of the word. Today Lord Nash had worn his heavy, too-long hair swept off his high forehead like a mane of sable. His cloak, an almost old-fashioned bit of elegance, had looked to be made of the most supple, finely draped wool imaginable, and his dark gray coat had molded beautifully to the width of his shoulders.
His face, too, was remarkable. Those hard planes and angles held a severity and a certain majesty which she had not noticed the previous evening. And his eyes—oh, God, those obsidian eyes! They were almost exotic in appearance, and set at just a hint of an angle, as if the blood of a Mongol horde coursed through his veins.
All of it left Xanthia wondering. What if she had not
Xanthia looked away. “Thank you,” she said. “I do not ask this lightly—and not even for myself.”
He shocked her then by touching her gently under the chin and drawing her face back to his. “If not for yourself,” he asked quietly, “then for whom do you ask it?”
She lowered her gaze, and he dropped his hand. “For Lord and Lady Sharpe,” she managed to say. “I must chaperone Lady Louisa through the remainder of her season. I shall even have to appear at Almack’s. I fear my cousin’s health has taken a fragile turn, and she cannot attend to it.”
“Good Lord! Almack’s?” His black eyes danced with laughter. “And you shall go ?”
Her gaze snapped back to his. “You doubtless find that humorous,” she returned. “But I have little choice in the matter. And you may believe me when I say there are a thousand things I should rather be doing than rubbing elbows with the ton .”
He held her eyes for a long moment, some nameless emotion sketching over his features. “Well, then,” he finally said. “Perhaps we are destined to meet again after all, Miss Neville.”
“Oh, I doubt it.” She managed a teasing smile. “You do not look the Almack’s type to me. I should lay odds they won’t even let you in the front door.”
Again, he lifted one elegant shoulder. “One never knows,” he murmured. “What sort of odds are you offering?”
Xanthia laughed. “Oh, just a straight wager,” she said. “I must have a spare twenty-pound note lying about the house somewhere.”
Nash smiled tightly. “Tempting, Miss Neville, but I think the take would have to be a good deal richer to get me into that sort of gaming hell,” he said. “Too many men have lost their most valuable asset inside Almack’s lofty portals.”
Xanthia lifted her eyebrows. “What sort of asset?”
Lord Nash flashed his wolfish grin. “Their priceless bachelorhood,” he answered. “Now I bid you good evening, my dear, until we meet again. I believe I can find my own way out.”
Amidst a tempest of emotions, Xanthia bathed and dressed for dinner. What a shock it had been to find Nash— Lord Nash—casually reclined in her brother’s best chair and looking very much at home. Today he had seemed so very dark and tall—and altogether more man than she had remembered. In all the rush of Xanthia’s workday, and in all the consternation over Pamela’s health, she had somehow forced away the memory of last night’s foolhardy escapade.
Well, that was not wholly true, she admitted, studying herself in the dressing mirror as she fastened her second earbob. The memory of Lord Nash’s touch had lingered, hovering in the back of her mind, and engendering vague feelings of embarrassment—interspersed with more than a few stabs of regret. And upon seeing him again, once the initial shock was past, the regret had cut like a keen blade. In the light of day, it was obvious just how striking a gentleman he was.
He was not handsome, no. Not in the English way. But he was elegance personified; lean and dark, like a cat prowling through a moonlit wood. There was an air of intrigue about the man which made one yearn to know him better in every sense of the word. Today Lord Nash had worn his heavy, too-long hair swept off his high forehead like a mane of sable. His cloak, an almost old-fashioned bit of elegance, had looked to be made of the most supple, finely draped wool imaginable, and his dark gray coat had molded beautifully to the width of his shoulders.
His face, too, was remarkable. Those hard planes and angles held a severity and a certain majesty which she had not noticed the previous evening. And his eyes—oh, God, those obsidian eyes! They were almost exotic in appearance, and set at just a hint of an angle, as if the blood of a Mongol horde coursed through his veins.
All of it left Xanthia wondering. What if she had not
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