“Well, so do I. Is this what experience gains you, James? Wickedness?”
“No, don’t be ridiculous. Forget Devlin. Now, I see Kellard Reems speaking to your Aunt Maybella. He is quite unexceptional. Dance with him. If he ogles your breas-your bosom-tell me and I’ll kick his teeth down his throat.”
She whispered, nearly choking, “Men say breasts?”
“Forget that.”
But she wasn’t about to forget it. Corrie was staring down at herself with new eyes. “It’s, well, so very unambiguous, that word.”
“Yes, that’s true. Men tend to be unambiguous and straightforward, unlike ladies, who must sugarcoat everything with lace and frills and outlandish words, like bosom.”
“Breasts,” she repeated slowly, fully tasting that wicked word, and James grabbed her arms and gave her a shake, anything to wipe that thoughtful look off her face. “Listen to me, Corrie, you don’t want to be saying that, particularly in front of a man. Do you understand me? A man might-very well, he will of a certainty get the wrong impression about your virtue and dwell upon activities you might share with him. It’s bosom, Corrie. That’s it. Do you promise?”
“Ah, there’s Devlin the vampire. Look at that very nice smile of his. White teeth against that white face of his and those really dark eyes-just like Judith McCrae’s eyes, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think.”
“Yes, all dark and snapping and-I think I’ll ask him what he’s doing at midnight, and offer him my neck.”
He remembered his hand pounding down on her bottom that day. That hand flexed, fingers tingled.
She left him, not even a nod of gratitude that he’d given her valuable advice. No, she’d walked off, fanning herself, because he’d danced her into the floor and she’d loved it. At least she hadn’t given him one of her patented sneers that made him want to rub her face in the mud.
James stood there, frowning, until he felt some fingers on his sleeve and turned to see Miss Milner fluttering her eyelashes at him. He sighed, only a very brief sigh because he was a gentleman, turned, and dredged up a smile.
As for Jason, he danced Miss Judith McCrae toward the huge glass doors that gave onto the Ranleagh balcony and gardens below, and pictured her naked.
She was laughing up at him. What had he said that was amusing? He couldn’t seem to remember. Yes, he pictured her laughing, and naked.
He slowed because the waltz was coming to an end. “Tell me how long you’ll be in London.”
“Aunt Arbuckle wants to return to Cornwall by Christmas.”
“Do you have brothers? Sisters?”
She paused, then said finally with a smile, “Well, I have a cousin. He owns a stud farm called The Coombes near Waterford.”
“Is this male cousin older than you, Miss McCrae?”
“Oh yes, he’s much older.”
The waltz ended. Jason smiled down at this beautiful young girl. He would like to take her for a nice meandering walk through the Ranleagh gardens, but it wasn’t to be. He offered her his arm and escorted her back to her aunt. “My lady,” he said, and gave her a slight bow. “I trust that Lord Arbuckle will feel better soon.”
Lady Arbuckle said, “That is very kind of you, Mr. Sherbrooke,” and Judith dropped her fan.
“Oh dear, I am so clumsy. No, no, Mr. Sherbrooke, I’ve got it,” but of course, he swooped down on the fan and handed it to her, smiling as he did so. “It isn’t broken. A pleasure, Miss McCrae, Lady Arbuckle.” He bowed again and took his leave. He spied Tom walking toward the doorway, looking neither to his right nor to his left. He looked like a hound who’d just scented a stag, nostrils flared. It was lobster patties. Tom could sniff out a lobster patty from a good thirty feet. Jason joined him, and after Tom downed a good half dozen and drank two glasses of the suicide champagne punch, they left the Ranleagh ball to go to White’s, Jason managing to avoid the troop of young ladies and some not-so-young ladies forging his way. He caught his brother’s eye, and nodded.
That nod meant that they had more plans to make, but not right at this moment. James turned his attention back to the beautiful Miss Lorimer, probably the diamond of the Little Season, who waltzed very well indeed and hummed while she danced. James was charmed.
When James next chanced to look up, it was to see Corrie dancing with Devlin Monroe.
“Whatever is the matter, my lord?”
“What? Oh, nothing at all, Miss Lorimer, just looking out for my childhood friend who continues to disobey me.”
“Hmmm,” said Miss Lorimer. “It sounds more like you’re her father, my lord.”
“God forbid,” James said as the waltz ended. He watched Corrie take Devlin’s arm, and walk to the huge banquet table, right to the nearly empty bowl of champagne punch strong enough to wilt a girl’s scruples after one glass. He cursed under his breath.
When he left Juliette Lorimer with her mama and a warm smile, Juliette said, “I think I will have him, Mama. Even if he were boring or dissolute-which he doesn’t appear to be-one could still look at him, and that would bring enough pleasure, don’t you think?”
Lady Lorimer looked at the magnificent creature to whom she’d given birth, and said in her matter-of-fact voice, “Given that you are the most beautiful girl in this ballroom, and James Sherbrooke the most beautiful man, I think such a marriage would produce children so beyond mortal people they would likely be shot so civilization could march onward.”
Miss Lorimer gave a charming laugh. “There’s only one of me, but Lord Hammersmith has a twin brother who is as beautiful as he is. I saw him dancing with a dark-haired girl who didn’t look very interesting at all.”
“I saw her as well. Very ordinary. But it doesn’t matter. You must remember that his brother isn’t the next earl of Northcliffe, now is he?”
Miss Lorimer gave another charming laugh and watched James make his way through the throng of guests, all, it seemed, wanting to speak to him, most of them of the fairer sex. It was a very good thing that she was the most beautiful girl in these as well as other parts. Otherwise she just might find herself feeling a bit concerned.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The state of matrimony is a dangerous disease; far better to take drink in my opinion.
MADAME DE SEVIGNE
ALEXANDRA SHERBROOKE SHOUTED at her husband even as he eased himself through the front door, “Sometimes I want to shoot you myself, Douglas! Have you lost your wits? Look at you, walking down the street, swinging your cane, yes, I saw you out the window, even whistling, I’ll wager, and not one single friend beside you. I will shoot you myself!”
And she ran across the entrance hall and threw herself into his arms, which opened just in time. He squeezed her, kissed the top of her head, and said very quietly, “I suppose it wasn’t too wise of me, sweetheart, but I’m tired of shadows and threats and worries that someone might jump out at me.”
She looked up at him, holding him even more tightly. “You wanted the assassin to come and get you?”
“Yes, I guess that’s about it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver derringer. “It fires two shots. My cane is also a sword. I was prepared, Alex.” He hugged her again then set her away from him. He lightly stroked his fingertip over her eyebrows. She closed her eyes and moved closer. It was a habit of long standing. “Damnation, I want this over.”
“I want your friends around you, do you hear me, Douglas?”
“What? All of us are nearly ready to dodder forward into old age and you still want them around me?”
“I don’t care if they’re drooling, their presence would protect you.”
They walked into the library and Douglas quietly closed the door. “I fear that Willicombe will come running in at any minute, and I want some peace.”