Page 3 of Mr. Notorious and the Nefarious November

“It’s far too late for that—”

“Munro, this is your chance at redemption,” Judith said. “For once, show the world you are more than Mr. Notorious. You might play the part of the doting uncle and upstanding citizen.”

“It’s time you returned to England and ceased gallivanting about the Continent,” Arthur said. “I need your help here. God knows Dudley can’t be pried away from his footstools for long enough to help manage any of our estates or business affairs.”

Munro would have dropped his champagne glass if Judith hadn’t taken it from him. Arthur needed help? The heir and perfect son wanted Munro’s assistance? Had hell frozen over? Were pigs flying? He must have looked completely dumbfounded because Arthur clapped him on the shoulder. “Think about it, Munro. Now is the chance to repair your reputation. In the meantime, move your things to Notley House. Bunny wants you here.”

And then Lord and Lady Notley were gone, and Munro was standing alone, looking for another glass of champagne.

She was here. She had to be. The more he tried to forget about her, the harder the chore. He was afraid to move about the ballroom, lest he come face-to-face with her. He worried if he stood still, he’d spot her dancing with some young, eligible bachelor. He couldn’t stomach the sight of her in another man’s arms. That’s why he’d left England to begin with. He needed to leave Arthur’s town house now, but this was Lavinia’s betrothal ball, and he wanted to be here for her. He hadn’t been a part of her life for years.

And every time he felt cornered or anxious, he took a sip of champagne.

Now he was foxed. More than a trifle disguised. Bosky, jug-bitten, and tap-hackled. Munro was drunk, more drunk than he’d been in years, and that was saying something. But then he should have known better than to drink those last two glasses of champagne. He’d been sober as a judge the past few years, and he’d lost the ability to hold his drink. Now, he was lurching about the ballroom, trying to avoid Dudley, who had already cornered him once to rhapsodize on his newly acquired Louis XV footstool.

Munro opened the French doors, hoping some air might sober him, but he spotted his sister Susan on the terrace lecturing her eldest son, a lad of two and twenty, and Munro turned around so quickly his head spun. Back in the ballroom, the dancing and the music caused the world to tilt on its axis, and he opened the first door he found and stepped into a quiet chamber, smelling of perfume. For a moment, he had no idea where he was, then he remembered this was one of the small parlors adjacent to the ballroom.

He turned and spotted half a dozen female eyes on him, and realized this was the room that had always been used as the ladies’ retiring room during balls.

“Excuse me,” he said. The gaze of every single lady present, except one debutante who was undoubtedly too young to readTheRake Review, dropped to his breeches. Munro took a step back, tripped over a chaise longue, and sprawled on the cushions in what must have looked like blatant invitation.

“Mr. Notley,” purred one older woman in a low-cut crimson gown. “I was hoping I might become better acquainted with you tonight.”

“As was I,” said another woman, this one in a blue gown and with blue eyes to match.

Heaven help him. He was done for now.

“All of you, out.”

Munro couldn’t see the woman who had spoken with such authority, but he would have known that voice anywhere. He hadn’t heard it in seven years, but it didn’t matter. He was thrust right back to 1813 and the night before her wedding. She’d ordered him out of her chamber in much the same tone.

The ladies in the retiring room obviously knew what was good for them because the room emptied in a swish of skirts, leaving the scents of roses lingering. Munro thought about sitting, but he didn’t think he could manage the coordinated use of his limbs quite yet.

And then Beatrice Haddington—he didnotwant to think of her as Beatrice Barnet—stepped into focus. He stared at her, his bleary vision clearing.

“No,” he moaned because she was so beautiful. She wasstillso beautiful. He knew he was behaving badly, but he couldn’t stop his gaze from raking over her. She wore her long, dark brown hair coiled high with a few loose curls grazing her right shoulder. She’d used to wear it in a tumble of curls over both shoulders, but she was a widow of seven and twenty now and no debutante covered in lace and bows.

Her skin was still that olive color he had always thought looked just kissed by the sun. Her forehead was smooth except for the one telltale crease between her brows that told him she was annoyed or concerned. Her dark brows were thick and winged up slightly at the temples. Her green eyes, always her best feature, peered out at him from under her dark lashes. He called her eyes green, but the color had never been so easy to categorize. They were a soft green that might be called blue in some lights. The inner part of the iris was lighter than the outer. Those eyes were so unique, so captivating, he found it difficult to look away from them.

Munro forced his gaze down her small nose to her red lips. He realized she must have painted them. Widows were entitledto do such things, but he preferred her lips their natural dark pink color. She had heart-shaped lips that begged to be kissed—except right now when she pursed them in annoyance.

He blinked at her and realized she was speaking, while he stared at her dumbly—that was probably the reason for the annoyance.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “You’re still so beautiful.”

Her lips opened in surprise, and he decided then and there he would need to think of more things to say to surprise her as he liked the way her lips looked when she did that.

“Don’t try and flatter me,” she said, her voice low and husky. He’d always liked her voice. Even when he’d first met her as a woman little older than Lavinia was now, Beatrice had a voice that made her sound years older. “You’re drunk and have stumbled into the ladies’ retiring room. I thought better of you.”

She had? Munro perked up. Perhaps she was the lone woman over one and twenty who hadn’t readTheRake Review.

“Hullo to you too, Beatrice,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”

“Do not call me Beatrice. I’m Mrs. Barnet.”

“Oh, no.” The words were out before he could even think. He swung his legs over until they thudded on the carpet, and he sat straight on the longue. “I won’t ever call you that.” Now that he was sitting, his eyes were level with her bosom. It was still a very fine bosom—round and high with just a hint of cleavage at the edge of her bodice. Somehow that hint was vastly more tantalizing than the ladies who showed so much more. She wore a cream-colored gown with a gold overlay that seemed to shimmer—though that might have been the champagne playing tricks on his eyes. Though fashion dictated dress waists be placed quite high, her dress had been expertly made to hint at her small waist and generous hips. She was not a tall woman, so he did not imagine she had long legs. He did imagine they were round and soft and—

“Notley. Look at my face.”

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