Read Online Too Wicked to Wed by Cara Elliott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cara Elliott
Ads: Link
smile.
“But I beg that as a favor to us—and to your old comrade Sebastian Hendrie—that you will promise to keep this little charade a secret. It was all meant in harmless fun, but if word were to leak out, the lady would be ruined.”
“Seb’s s’ster?” Gryff’s expression sobered. “You have my word ’f honor that I’ll say nothing about this.”
Alexa waited until the sigh escaping from Henry’s lips had run its course. “Speaking of honor, Lord Haddan, it appears we have another rather delicate matter to discuss.”
Gryff started to hold out his hand.
“Not so fast.” Alexa folded her arms across her chest. “Would you seek to renege on your bet if I were really a gentleman?”
The marquess looked nonplussed. Her cousin stared down at his boots.
“Well?” she pressed.
“No,” admitted Gryff. “I wouldn’t.”
“Then that is the end of it,” she announced.
“I fear it’s j’st the beginning,” replied Gryff slowly. “Unless, o’course, you will let me redeem the vowel at, say, double the value?”
She shook her head.
“Y’re a dab hand at cards, Lady Alexa. Appear t’ have a clever mind an’ steady nerve as well.” The marquess smoothed at his rumpled cravat. “Hope ye have a spine o’ steel hidden beneath the gent’s garb. Y’ll need it when the Wolfhound hears o’ this.”
“Don’t worry about me, sir.” She paused as she tucked her hair back under her hat. “As you have seen, I’m not afraid to go mano a mano against any gentleman, however fierce his reputation.”
Chapter Five
J aw clenched, eyes narrowed, Connor paced the perimeter of the dance floor, all too aware of his unfortunate resemblance to a predator stalking its quarry. The other guests were quick to slink out of his way, wary yet watchful, their curious gazes following his every move. Already he could hear the faint whispers behind his back. Speculation, no doubt, on what had brought the Hellhounds out to prowl through the inner circle of Polite Society.
The music, a lilting Viennese waltz, set his teeth further on edge. Damn Gryff and his jug-bitten judgment. As he stalked past the musicians, Connor was sorely tempted to put his foot through the delicate inlaid veneer of the pianoforte.
Pivoting on his heel, the earl brushed by the colonnaded gallery, his brusque step setting a wave of ostrich plumes to fluttering as several turbaned matrons fled like hens before a fox. He watched them regroup and begin an agitated clucking—which he answered with a black scowl.
On the morrow, of course, the drawing rooms would be humming with the latest example of the Wolfhound’s vicious temper. But at least the tale would be true, unlike most of the outrageous ondits.
His mouth stretched taut as the bass string of a viola, he fell in stride with Gryff, who had just finished a turn through the entrance hall. “Any sign of her?”
“No.” The marquess essayed a note of grim humor. “But perhaps I should check the card room.”
“Perhaps you should check your damn tongue, if you do not wish to have it yanked from your throat and chopped into mincemeat.”
The faint smile disappeared. “Sorry. Just trying to add a bit of levity to the proceedings.”
“Well, don’t,” snapped Connor. “The situation isn’t remotely funny.”
“I know, I know.” Looking away, his friend fell to scanning the swirl of bright silks. “I ought to be drawn and quartered, and my head skewered on a pike.”
“One can’t stick a spike into thin air,” he retorted.
Gryff repressed a wince. “Bloody hell, I warned you not to trust me with the cursed scrap, Connor.” His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass—which, the earl noted, contained ratafia punch rather than champagne. “I’m aware that my drinking has been getting out of control. But I didn’t give a damn about the consequences. Until now.”
His friend’s face was twisted in such an uncharacteristic look of hangdog remorse that Connor
“But I beg that as a favor to us—and to your old comrade Sebastian Hendrie—that you will promise to keep this little charade a secret. It was all meant in harmless fun, but if word were to leak out, the lady would be ruined.”
“Seb’s s’ster?” Gryff’s expression sobered. “You have my word ’f honor that I’ll say nothing about this.”
Alexa waited until the sigh escaping from Henry’s lips had run its course. “Speaking of honor, Lord Haddan, it appears we have another rather delicate matter to discuss.”
Gryff started to hold out his hand.
“Not so fast.” Alexa folded her arms across her chest. “Would you seek to renege on your bet if I were really a gentleman?”
The marquess looked nonplussed. Her cousin stared down at his boots.
“Well?” she pressed.
“No,” admitted Gryff. “I wouldn’t.”
“Then that is the end of it,” she announced.
“I fear it’s j’st the beginning,” replied Gryff slowly. “Unless, o’course, you will let me redeem the vowel at, say, double the value?”
She shook her head.
“Y’re a dab hand at cards, Lady Alexa. Appear t’ have a clever mind an’ steady nerve as well.” The marquess smoothed at his rumpled cravat. “Hope ye have a spine o’ steel hidden beneath the gent’s garb. Y’ll need it when the Wolfhound hears o’ this.”
“Don’t worry about me, sir.” She paused as she tucked her hair back under her hat. “As you have seen, I’m not afraid to go mano a mano against any gentleman, however fierce his reputation.”
Chapter Five
J aw clenched, eyes narrowed, Connor paced the perimeter of the dance floor, all too aware of his unfortunate resemblance to a predator stalking its quarry. The other guests were quick to slink out of his way, wary yet watchful, their curious gazes following his every move. Already he could hear the faint whispers behind his back. Speculation, no doubt, on what had brought the Hellhounds out to prowl through the inner circle of Polite Society.
The music, a lilting Viennese waltz, set his teeth further on edge. Damn Gryff and his jug-bitten judgment. As he stalked past the musicians, Connor was sorely tempted to put his foot through the delicate inlaid veneer of the pianoforte.
Pivoting on his heel, the earl brushed by the colonnaded gallery, his brusque step setting a wave of ostrich plumes to fluttering as several turbaned matrons fled like hens before a fox. He watched them regroup and begin an agitated clucking—which he answered with a black scowl.
On the morrow, of course, the drawing rooms would be humming with the latest example of the Wolfhound’s vicious temper. But at least the tale would be true, unlike most of the outrageous ondits.
His mouth stretched taut as the bass string of a viola, he fell in stride with Gryff, who had just finished a turn through the entrance hall. “Any sign of her?”
“No.” The marquess essayed a note of grim humor. “But perhaps I should check the card room.”
“Perhaps you should check your damn tongue, if you do not wish to have it yanked from your throat and chopped into mincemeat.”
The faint smile disappeared. “Sorry. Just trying to add a bit of levity to the proceedings.”
“Well, don’t,” snapped Connor. “The situation isn’t remotely funny.”
“I know, I know.” Looking away, his friend fell to scanning the swirl of bright silks. “I ought to be drawn and quartered, and my head skewered on a pike.”
“One can’t stick a spike into thin air,” he retorted.
Gryff repressed a wince. “Bloody hell, I warned you not to trust me with the cursed scrap, Connor.” His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass—which, the earl noted, contained ratafia punch rather than champagne. “I’m aware that my drinking has been getting out of control. But I didn’t give a damn about the consequences. Until now.”
His friend’s face was twisted in such an uncharacteristic look of hangdog remorse that Connor
Similar Books
