The Gunslinger by Lorraine Heath Page B

with a bit more seasoning to them, savory, spicy, and tart.
    â€œBoy.”
    An exception to his preference for the tart had arrived. The haughtiness of the voice set his teeth on edge. He should have known he’d not escape her notice for the entire evening. That Lady Ophelia Lyttleton was one of Grace’s dearest friends was beyond his comprehension. He didn’t understand why the sister of his heart associated with such an arrogant miss when Grace was the sweetest, gentlest person he’d ever known. Stubborn to be sure, but she hadn’t a mean bone in her body. Lady Ophelia could not claim the same. Her presence at his back proof enough.
    The ladies who had been gifting him with their attention blinked repeatedly and went silent for the first time in more than two hours. Because they were there, because he was striving to give the appearance of being a gentleman, he would spare Lady Ophelia the embarrassment of ignoring her. Even though he suspected he would pay a price for his generosity. He always paid the price. The lady was quite adept at delivering stinging barbs.
    Slowly he turned and arched a brow at the woman whose head failed to reach his shoulder. And yet in spite of her diminutive size, she managed to give the appearance of looking down on him. It was her long, pert, slender nose that tipped up ever so slightly on the end. She had been a constant aggravation whenever she visited with Grace and crossed paths with him. But devil’s mistress that she was, she was very careful to slight him only when Grace wasn’t about to witness her set-downs. Because he loved Grace too much to upset her—and she would be appalled to know he and her friend were not on particularly pleasant terms—he had borne Lady Ophelia’s degradations, convinced that he was walking the high ground while she was slogging along in the muck.
    It made no sense to him that such a beauty could be such a resounding termagant. Her green eyes with the oval, exotic slant were challenging him with a sharpness that could slice into one’s soul if he weren’t careful. While he was twelve years her senior, as she had grown toward womanhood, she had mastered the art of making him feel as though he were a dog living in the quagmire of the gutters again. Not that others among the aristocracy hadn’t made him feel the same from time to time, but still it irked more so when she was the one responsible for the cut to his pride.
    â€œBoy,” she repeated with a touch more arrogance, “do fetch me some champagne, and be quick about it.”
    As though he were a servant, as though he lived to serve her. Not that he found fault with those who served. Theirs was a more noble undertaking and their accomplishments far outstripped anything she might ever manage. She, who no doubt nibbled on chocolates in bed while reading a book, without thought regarding the effort that had gone behind placing both in her hand.
    He considered telling her to fetch the champagne herself, but he knew she would view it as a victory, that she was hoping to get a rise out of him, wanted to prove that he wasn’t gentleman enough not to insult a lady. Or perhaps she simply wanted to ensure that he knew his place. As though he could ever forget it. He bathed every night, scrubbed his body viciously, but he could not scrape the grime of the streets off his skin. His family had embraced him, their friends had embraced him, but he still knew what he was, knew from whence he’d come. If he told Lady Ophelia the truth about everything that lurked in his past, she would no doubt pale and the moonbeams that served for her hair would curl and shrivel in horror.
    From the ladies circling about, he sensed their anticipation on the air, perhaps even the hope that he would put her in her place. He’d never understood the cattiness that he sometimes witnessed between women. He knew Grace had received her share of jealousy because her