Must Be Magic by Patricia Rice Page B

simmering.
    Flinging his coat and vest over a chair and padding across the stone floor in his stocking feet, he found Lady Leila’s invitation to dinner propped against the saltcellar and cursed. He’d forgotten.
    He glanced at the wall clock. He would have to hurry. With no time for a proper bath, he grabbed the soap at the kitchen sink, started to lather his hands, and caught the scent of new-mown grass. He’d always liked the scent of grass. Eyeing the fresh cake skeptically, he tossed it aside and reached for the sliver of strong soap. Martha must have found the basket and decided to freshen the kitchen with the scented stuff.
    Dropping his mud-bedecked shirt on the floor, he poured some hot water from the stove into the sink, scrubbed his chest and shoulders, and shaved. He should be thankful he was no longer married. A wife would have hysterics seeing him walking half naked from kitchen to bedchamber. Bachelor life had its advantages.
    Except in the matter of clothing. He had never wasted much time on London fashion. Poking through his wardrobe, he found that he’d not spilled anything on the frilled linen shirt he’d worn to Drogo’s wedding. The fancified breeches still fit, but he’d ruined the silk stockings. Cotton would have to do. He didn’t want to make a complete country dolt of himself, but he had no intention of competing with the beribboned beaus who were finding their way to the widow’s door these days.
    This summer should be a right jolly tickle while he waited to see if the lady accepted anyone’s offer. Had he thought he had a chance, he ought to join the parade of suitors himself.
    But he couldn’t do that, not even to a Malcolm. Fear that deadliness might lurk in his heart chilled any desire to marry again.
    Feeling like a fop in white lace jabot and black satin evening habit, wondering how the hell he would keep clean on horseback, Dunstan strode out the front door to discover a carriage waiting for him.
    â€œThere you are, sir. I was about to knock.” The driver opened the door and bowed.
    The widow wasn’t taking any chances. Perhaps he ought to polish a few phrases of flattery so she’d be satisfied and leave him alone. So lovely to be dragged out after an exhausting day to be entertained by fools and fops didn’t sound like a practical suggestion. Perhaps, Madam is too kind to flaunt her charms in my face, knowing she can scream for help should I reach for them.
    Did he want to reach for the lady’s charms?
    Better he should find Lily. At least she was honest about her desires.
    Crossing his arms and leaning back against the seat, Dunstan scowled as the carriage swept up a lane illuminated by torches and linkboys running about with lanterns. The scene was Celia’s favorite fantasy—glittering jewels, gaily bedecked finery, and prancing fops to bow and flatter and flirt.
    He had to stop thinking so cruelly of his late wife. She’d been young and infatuated with the idea of someday becoming a countess. Perhaps if he’d indulged her more, she might have matured enough to see the foolishness of society.
    Then again, perhaps not. Lady Leila obviously hadn’t.
    Entering the chandelier-lit foyer and surrendering his hat to a severely garbed butler, Dunstan stalked into the mansion’s immense formal parlor. Gilded furniture and mirrors reflecting elegant gowns bedazzled his eye.
    Silence descended the instant he entered.
    Devil take them all.
    Clenching his jaw and straightening his shoulders, Dunstan strolled across the room as if he possessed it. Inwardly, his skin crawled. The widow’s London suitors must have brought the gossip with them. Even the locals watched him with suspicion.
    Narrowing his focus until the entire company disappeared, Dunstan cast his gaze across the immense handwoven carpet to where the Black Widow waited. He might not know how to deal with women, but he would learn how to manage this