Page 29 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
Armande displayed no more concern over his losses than if he had been tossing pennies to urchins.
“One cannot expect always to be attended by good fortune,” he drawled. “A bitter fact you may have to learn one day, my young friend.”
“Pooh! If you mean to start preaching like one of my maiden aunts, I’ll have done with you.” Charles proceeded to reshuffle the deck and gave Phaedra an audacious wink. “Your game might improve if you paid more attention to the cards and spent less time stealing glances at Lady Phaedra.”
Had Armande been looking at her? Phaedra wondered. In any case, he did so now, the glint in his blue eyes bringing the heat to her cheeks. “Indeed,” he murmured. “I begin to despair of ever winning the game. Her ladyship does present a danger of breaking my concentration.”
Although his words were light, Phaedra sensed an edge of steel in his voice, another meaning hidden like a dagger beneath a cloaking of velvet. Did he truly perceive her as dangerous? She was stunned to realize she did not want him to do so. She wished he could begin to trust her.
Dipping into a curtsy, she smiled and said, “My apologies, sir.”
As she glided away from him, he offered her that smile of his which was all too fleeting. Lost in her thoughts of Armande it took her several moments to realize someone was tugging at her sleeve. She glanced around to find John, looking distressed.
“My lady,” the footman whispered, “about that Danby fellow. He wants?—”
“More wine?” Phaedra interrupted, grimacing at the bottle of Madeira John balanced upon a silver tray. It seemed the last thing Danby needed, but she shrugged. “I suppose you’d best give it to him. He’s over—” She started to indicate the French gilt sofa where she had last seen Danby sprawled. The cushion still bore the imprint of his head, but the sofa was empty.
“That’s just it, my lady,” John said. “His lordship’s gone upstairs. I think he’s fancying he’s in his own house and is trying to find his bedchamber.”
“Well and have you informed my grandfather?”
“Aye, but all master said was to let him pass out wherever he liked.”
Phaedra rolled her eyes. Always the perfect host, her grandfather! With her luck, it would likely be her own bedchamber that Danby selected. She sighed. “Thank you, John. I shall take care of the matter.”
John looked relieved. “If you would be requiring my help, my lady?—”
“No, you are needed here.” She rustled away from him, intending to summon another of the servants. It would serve Hester right if Phaedra sent her to deal with Danby. She smiled at the notion, remembering all of Danby’s drunken buffoonery at the dinner table, climaxing in his absurd declaration that he knew Armande from Oxford.
Yet exactly how absurd was that statement? She hesitated, temptation beckoning to her. She had no desire to confront Danby herself in his idiotic state, yet might she not be losing a perfect opportunity? If she could find him alone, perhaps she could sober him up enough to find out if he really did remember something about Armande.
A guilty flush spread across her cheeks. She had just been thinking that she wanted Armande to trust her. This was not the way to begin, by continuing to question and pry. She glancedtoward Armande, half-fearful of his uncanny knack for guessing her thoughts. But Charles appeared to be keeping him fully occupied.
How much harm could she do by having just a few words with Danby? Obviously the marquis was not concerned about Lord Arthur for he had made no move to seek out the man. Certainly if Danby posed any real threat, Armande would- Phadera shivered. She harbored little doubt as to what Armande would do. With her customary impulsiveness, she snatched up a candle and darted out of the salon.
The marquis continued to sprawl in his chair, his cards held languidly before him. It would have taken someone far more observant than Charles Byng to notice the tension coiled within Armande-although the young man had discerned the manner in which Armande kept stealing glances at Phaedra.
I must have been all too ridiculously obvious, Armande thought, but he was finding it increasingly difficult not to be, harder not to devour Phaedra with his gaze. Never had he been so achingly aware of any woman, the fresh, feminine scent of her skin, the animated lilt of her voice, those candid green eyes that were such mirrors to her thoughts.
Only moments ago he had caught her studying him, but in a softer fashion, far different from her usual suspicious gaze. In her, he read traces of his own loneliness, a longing so keen, she flooded him with regret that he could not suppress the memory of what had happened to Anne, and set aside his dire purpose in coming to London, enjoy at least one sweet night with Phaedra in his arms.
It had been most fortunate for his composure that the footman had come up and spoken to Phaedra. Better still for his peace of mind when the lady abruptly left the room.
For the first time that evening, Armande felt some of his tension ease. Without Phaedra to distract him, he could focushis attention upon his fellow guests. There were others in this room that bore watching far more than Lady Grantham. Without seeming to do so, Armande flicked a glance toward the gold brocade sofa. He froze in the act of drawing a card.
When last he’d checked, Danby had been sagged against the cushions. But now the fop was gone. Had his carriage been summoned, or was the fool still lurking about somewhere?
Forcing himself to behave as though he had no thought but for his cards, Armande inwardly swore at his own carelessness in losing sight of Danby. He needed to know that the drunk was safely on his way home and no longer sharing any more reminiscences about Oxford. That was exactly the sort of thing to excite Phaedra’s suspicions all over again.
Armande’s mind was suddenly filled with a vision of Phaedra as she had quit the room. Had she left a shade too abruptly? Was her manner a trifle furtive? He drew in his breath with a sharp hiss.
“Is anything amiss, my lord?” Charles asked.
“Non. Nothing, except that it waxes too warm in here.” To himself, he murmured Phaedra’s name, deploring the reckless obstinacy that made her ignore his warnings, yet at the same he admired her courage. His heart wrenched with anger and bitter sorrow, but most of all regret for what might have been.
With a most deadly calm, Armande folded his cards upon the table and rose to his feet.
Phaedra hastened up the sweeping stair to the second floor. Once on the upper landing, she paused, considering which way to turn next. Blackheath Hall was a veritable maze of spare bedchambers, a fact which made it all the more perverse of her grandfather to lodge Armande in Ewan’s room.
