indeed happy times.”
Diana listened with growing incredulity to an exchange of reminiscences that represented, to put it kindly, a radical rewriting of history. Felicia, the idiot, giggled and made eyes at the man whom she had, as Diana distinctly recalled, dismissed as a quiz. And Sebastian—Lord Iverley!—spoke with ease and fluency as though he’d spent a lifetime perfecting the art of meaningless social discourse.
“He’s quite delicious,” Marianne murmured. “Were you at Mandeville at the same time? I can’t believe you never told me about him.”
“He was Mr. Iverley then.” Diana forced a weak smile though she didn’t feel like it. Heaven forbid he, or Lady Gee, should notice her chagrin at the way he’d virtually ignored her.
“Still, his looks can’t have changed and they are most definitely worthy of mention.”
“He looks different,” Diana said. “Very different.”
She wasn’t at all sure she approved of the transformation. She had noticed and appreciated Mr. Iverley even as a sartorial disaster. Now, if she wasn’t mistaken,
Lord
Iverley was about to become all the rage.
* * *
He studied her out of the corner of his eye as he raised Lady Georgina’s hand to his lips and gave it an unnecessarily thorough kissing. She turned to the woman beside her and answered some remark that made them both smile. But Sebastian had been looking and he’d caught it: a moment of surprise followed by displeasure. Diana expected him to come to her and she hadn’t been pleased when he spoke instead to Lady Gee. How fortuitous that they had been standing close by but not together, providing an opportunity to implement one element of Tarquin and Cain’s strategy. Diana and Georgina might not be enemies, but Sebastian was observant enough to know they weren’t friends.
For several minutes he stood and talked with the sisters. In the space of one hour at this incredibly stupid soirée, Sebastian had recovered from the weather fiasco and found that making small talk wasn’t difficult, merely tedious. His audience seemed to enjoy what he had to say, but he’d bored himself almost to the point of somnolence.
Until now. Not because his current conversation showed any improvement, but because every second he was thrillingly conscious of Diana Fanshawe standing a few paces away. In three months her dangerous appeal had not diminished an iota. The first glimpse of her in the thronged saloon told him he hadn’t overestimated her beauty. On the contrary, clad in dark red and diamonds, she was more ravishing than he recalled. Out of sight for so long, the details had faded from memory: the gleaming locks of dark chocolate hair against ivory skin; thesoft-etched collarbones now resting beneath a web of silver and gemstones; the curve of her elbow between sleeve and glove. Could he really detect that seductive perfume at this distance, or was it etched in his memory? Either way it was above all her scent that set his body thrumming with awareness and desire.
And pain. He felt the moment of her betrayal at Mandeville anew. Deep resentment churned the jumble of his emotions. Before he met Diana he’d been content with his life.
His brain was on the sharpest alert, acutely sensitive to any indication of her thoughts and mood. Unfortunately he couldn’t follow the dialogue between Diana and a lady with a strange leafy concoction on her head.
More guests arrived and none seemed to leave. Bodies crowded in on them and Sebastian awaited the right moment, when he could make it appear an accident. As though pushed, he stepped back several paces and collided with her.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said, spinning around and trying to ignore the jolt contact with her gave him. “Lady Fanshawe,” he cried. “I didn’t see you there. What a surprise to meet you again.”
Much to his satisfaction she appeared discomfited. “Mr. Iverley,” she murmured. Her companion nudged her. “I beg your pardon, Lord
Diana listened with growing incredulity to an exchange of reminiscences that represented, to put it kindly, a radical rewriting of history. Felicia, the idiot, giggled and made eyes at the man whom she had, as Diana distinctly recalled, dismissed as a quiz. And Sebastian—Lord Iverley!—spoke with ease and fluency as though he’d spent a lifetime perfecting the art of meaningless social discourse.
“He’s quite delicious,” Marianne murmured. “Were you at Mandeville at the same time? I can’t believe you never told me about him.”
“He was Mr. Iverley then.” Diana forced a weak smile though she didn’t feel like it. Heaven forbid he, or Lady Gee, should notice her chagrin at the way he’d virtually ignored her.
“Still, his looks can’t have changed and they are most definitely worthy of mention.”
“He looks different,” Diana said. “Very different.”
She wasn’t at all sure she approved of the transformation. She had noticed and appreciated Mr. Iverley even as a sartorial disaster. Now, if she wasn’t mistaken,
Lord
Iverley was about to become all the rage.
* * *
He studied her out of the corner of his eye as he raised Lady Georgina’s hand to his lips and gave it an unnecessarily thorough kissing. She turned to the woman beside her and answered some remark that made them both smile. But Sebastian had been looking and he’d caught it: a moment of surprise followed by displeasure. Diana expected him to come to her and she hadn’t been pleased when he spoke instead to Lady Gee. How fortuitous that they had been standing close by but not together, providing an opportunity to implement one element of Tarquin and Cain’s strategy. Diana and Georgina might not be enemies, but Sebastian was observant enough to know they weren’t friends.
For several minutes he stood and talked with the sisters. In the space of one hour at this incredibly stupid soirée, Sebastian had recovered from the weather fiasco and found that making small talk wasn’t difficult, merely tedious. His audience seemed to enjoy what he had to say, but he’d bored himself almost to the point of somnolence.
Until now. Not because his current conversation showed any improvement, but because every second he was thrillingly conscious of Diana Fanshawe standing a few paces away. In three months her dangerous appeal had not diminished an iota. The first glimpse of her in the thronged saloon told him he hadn’t overestimated her beauty. On the contrary, clad in dark red and diamonds, she was more ravishing than he recalled. Out of sight for so long, the details had faded from memory: the gleaming locks of dark chocolate hair against ivory skin; thesoft-etched collarbones now resting beneath a web of silver and gemstones; the curve of her elbow between sleeve and glove. Could he really detect that seductive perfume at this distance, or was it etched in his memory? Either way it was above all her scent that set his body thrumming with awareness and desire.
And pain. He felt the moment of her betrayal at Mandeville anew. Deep resentment churned the jumble of his emotions. Before he met Diana he’d been content with his life.
His brain was on the sharpest alert, acutely sensitive to any indication of her thoughts and mood. Unfortunately he couldn’t follow the dialogue between Diana and a lady with a strange leafy concoction on her head.
More guests arrived and none seemed to leave. Bodies crowded in on them and Sebastian awaited the right moment, when he could make it appear an accident. As though pushed, he stepped back several paces and collided with her.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said, spinning around and trying to ignore the jolt contact with her gave him. “Lady Fanshawe,” he cried. “I didn’t see you there. What a surprise to meet you again.”
Much to his satisfaction she appeared discomfited. “Mr. Iverley,” she murmured. Her companion nudged her. “I beg your pardon, Lord
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