thoughts about taking the plunge with the Wicked Widow?”
Lucas didn’t answer.
His friend arched a questioning brow. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken offense at my words. If I’ve been blunt, it’s only for your
own good.”
He forced a sardonic grin. “Don’t worry. It’s not as if I haven’t heard the lectures before.”
“Then cry friends and come along with me to Southwark tonight. I know where we can find some very pretty whores who will make
you forget all about Lady Sheffield.”
“You go on,” he said softly, unsettled by the conflicting urges to be both noble and naughty. “Perhaps I’ll join up with you
later.”
“You
are
ill.” Jack gave him a fishy stare. “Go home and get a good night’s sleep. I shall save you a seat at the gaming table tomorrow
night. Play will be for high stakes—it promises to be an interesting interlude.”
“As I said, I’ve already given my word to escort Lady Sheffield to the ball tomorrow night,” replied Lucas. “And much as it
might surprise you, I intend to honor it.”
Jack expelled a long-suffering sigh. “Well, it’s your funeral.” Rising, he drained the dregs from his glass. “I’m off to Cupid’s
Cave.” He hesitated a fraction before flashing a parting grin. “I shall leave you to sink or swim on your own.”
Lucas swore a silent oath at his friend’s retreating rump.
Save for the cracking coals and an occasional snore, the reading room was quiet as a crypt. Lucas shifted uncomfortably in
his seat, his mood growing more on edge as he mulled over the conversation. It seemed that his recent soggy slip had turned
his whole world upside down. Forced to look at himself from a new perspective, he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw.
Damn
. He closed his eyes and touched his fingertips to his throbbing temples. His head ached, and the brandy had left a stale
taste in his mouth. Maybe he
was
sick.
Or perhaps the widow’s kiss had possessed a potent poison after all. That would account for the strange shivers of fire and
ice that took hold of him whenever he thought of her. And for the temporary insanity of agreeing to all her terms.
Starting tomorrow…
No, he wouldn’t think about the consequences of his actions. He had always lived for the present, so why change now?
Raising his glass, he mouthed a silent toast to his real self. Mad, Bad Had-ley. A man who knew how to have a good time.
It was all very well to feel a twinge of sympathy for Lady Sheffield, but he owed no real allegiance to her. Some faraway
time in the future he might be caught in the Parson’s Mousetrap, but for now, it was all a sham. He was still free to do exactly
as he pleased.
Pushing back from his chair, Lucas hurried for the door, hell-bent to catch up with Jack and have some fun.
Chapter Eight
T he townhouse torchières were ablaze, the golden flames casting a pattern of dancing shadows across the pale Portland stone.
Turning up the collar of her cloak to ward off the evening breeze, Ciara stepped down from the earl’s carriage, glad that
the dark velvet hid her face from the other guests for a few moments longer.
All too soon she would be bared for all to ogle.
The Wicked Widow in the flesh.
No doubt her presence would stir a swirl of lurid speculation. She shivered, wishing she could turn and slink off into the
darkness.
As if sensing her thoughts, Lucas tightened his hold on her arm. “Nervous?” he asked.
“A little,” she admitted.
“Don’t be,” came his whispered reply. “All eyes will be drawn to you—”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she muttered.
“On account of your beauty, grace, and regal bearing,” continued Lucas smoothly. “You are looking exceeding lovely tonight,
Lady Sheffield. You should always wear that shade of indigo blue. It sets off your golden hair and ivory skin to perfection.”
The earl was, of course, a practiced flirt, but his flatteries helped her relax as they passed
Lucas didn’t answer.
His friend arched a questioning brow. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken offense at my words. If I’ve been blunt, it’s only for your
own good.”
He forced a sardonic grin. “Don’t worry. It’s not as if I haven’t heard the lectures before.”
“Then cry friends and come along with me to Southwark tonight. I know where we can find some very pretty whores who will make
you forget all about Lady Sheffield.”
“You go on,” he said softly, unsettled by the conflicting urges to be both noble and naughty. “Perhaps I’ll join up with you
later.”
“You
are
ill.” Jack gave him a fishy stare. “Go home and get a good night’s sleep. I shall save you a seat at the gaming table tomorrow
night. Play will be for high stakes—it promises to be an interesting interlude.”
“As I said, I’ve already given my word to escort Lady Sheffield to the ball tomorrow night,” replied Lucas. “And much as it
might surprise you, I intend to honor it.”
Jack expelled a long-suffering sigh. “Well, it’s your funeral.” Rising, he drained the dregs from his glass. “I’m off to Cupid’s
Cave.” He hesitated a fraction before flashing a parting grin. “I shall leave you to sink or swim on your own.”
Lucas swore a silent oath at his friend’s retreating rump.
Save for the cracking coals and an occasional snore, the reading room was quiet as a crypt. Lucas shifted uncomfortably in
his seat, his mood growing more on edge as he mulled over the conversation. It seemed that his recent soggy slip had turned
his whole world upside down. Forced to look at himself from a new perspective, he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw.
Damn
. He closed his eyes and touched his fingertips to his throbbing temples. His head ached, and the brandy had left a stale
taste in his mouth. Maybe he
was
sick.
Or perhaps the widow’s kiss had possessed a potent poison after all. That would account for the strange shivers of fire and
ice that took hold of him whenever he thought of her. And for the temporary insanity of agreeing to all her terms.
Starting tomorrow…
No, he wouldn’t think about the consequences of his actions. He had always lived for the present, so why change now?
Raising his glass, he mouthed a silent toast to his real self. Mad, Bad Had-ley. A man who knew how to have a good time.
It was all very well to feel a twinge of sympathy for Lady Sheffield, but he owed no real allegiance to her. Some faraway
time in the future he might be caught in the Parson’s Mousetrap, but for now, it was all a sham. He was still free to do exactly
as he pleased.
Pushing back from his chair, Lucas hurried for the door, hell-bent to catch up with Jack and have some fun.
Chapter Eight
T he townhouse torchières were ablaze, the golden flames casting a pattern of dancing shadows across the pale Portland stone.
Turning up the collar of her cloak to ward off the evening breeze, Ciara stepped down from the earl’s carriage, glad that
the dark velvet hid her face from the other guests for a few moments longer.
All too soon she would be bared for all to ogle.
The Wicked Widow in the flesh.
No doubt her presence would stir a swirl of lurid speculation. She shivered, wishing she could turn and slink off into the
darkness.
As if sensing her thoughts, Lucas tightened his hold on her arm. “Nervous?” he asked.
“A little,” she admitted.
“Don’t be,” came his whispered reply. “All eyes will be drawn to you—”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she muttered.
“On account of your beauty, grace, and regal bearing,” continued Lucas smoothly. “You are looking exceeding lovely tonight,
Lady Sheffield. You should always wear that shade of indigo blue. It sets off your golden hair and ivory skin to perfection.”
The earl was, of course, a practiced flirt, but his flatteries helped her relax as they passed
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