Scarlet Devices by Delphine Dryden

a party to this sort of thing and I did nothing to stop it.”
    Her expression turned sweet. Poisonously so. “Matthew, if you’re not having any fun, I suggest you go elsewhere and find some. But you should know better than to try to spoil it for other people. I am staying.” Distracting him with a condescending pat to his cheek, she twisted her other wrist sharply against his thumb to break his hold, then turned one slim shoulder to him, giving all her attention to the end of the table where Whitcombe was taking up Madame Barsteau’s challenge to another round of smoke rings, and Cantlebury was launching into the pony story with his usual gusto.
    Worn out from the drive and his day’s worth of worry over Barnabas, Matthew growled in frustration and rose abruptly from the table just as the waiter was passing by to pour another round of port. Physics and coincidence mated with spectacular results, and Eliza shrieked as half a bottle of port burbled down her cleavage.
    â€œWhat in the—good
lord
, that’s cold!” She stood, worsening matters. The port that had pooled in her lap began to soak all the way down her skirt, dripping to the floor.
    â€œBegging your pardon! Begging your pardon, miss! I’ll get—I’ll fetch a—I’ll—” The poor young waiter fled the room before finishing his utterance, leaving Matthew and the others to fling napkins Eliza’s way to try to soak up the worst of it.
    â€œWell, now I’ve completely lost my train of thought,” quipped Cantlebury, who didn’t seem terribly upset. He leaned forward, in fact, seeming to enjoy the unexpected entertainment.
    â€œIt was a lovely ensemble,” Madame Barsteau lamented. “
Qu’elle dommage
.”
    â€œPerhaps it can be salvaged,” Matthew offered dubiously. None of them had changed from their driving clothes before dining—it was the wild frontier, after all—and Eliza was still in a midnight blue skirt that could probably be cleaned. But she’d removed her smart bolero jacket to attend the meal, and the deep red wine had clearly ruined the delicate silk blouse she’d worn beneath.
    Delicate, and now rather transparent. Her chemise and the lines of her corset were visible through the sodden fabric.
    If Dexter would flay him for letting her hear the pony story, Matthew couldn’t begin to imagine what the man would do for letting Eliza display her undergarments in public. “Let me help you to your room, Miss Hardison.”
    â€œOh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She snapped over a sudden lull in the babble around the small room. Anyone whose attention hadn’t already been riveted on the spectacle of the spilled port was now fully engaged in minding Miss Hardison’s business. “That may have been an accident, but it was certainly a convenient one for you.”
    Matthew pulled his jacket off, mourning the potential loss of the fine linen even as he slung it around Eliza’s shoulders. Settling it into place, he realized she was trembling. With rage, embarrassment or something else, he couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.
    â€œPlease have a bath and a maid sent to Miss Hardison’s room immediately,” he instructed the flustered waiter, who had just dashed back into the dining room with the maître d’ close behind. Matthew offered Eliza his arm and sighed with relief when she took it. They left to a chorus of apologies and “right away, sir” and so forth from the staff.
    He’d stopped the pony story in its filthy tracks and gotten Eliza out of the room, all in one fell accidental swoop. As far as Matthew was concerned, the unfortunate incident with the port was a godsend. Eliza obviously held a different perspective on matters.
    As soon as they’d entered the relative privacy of the elevator, Eliza flung Matthew’s jacket off and slapped it into his chest. Her silent