Page 8 of A Rake's Redemption
…
Alex took a champagne glass from a passing waiter and looked around the Viscount Pennington’s ballroom. His wife had sent Alex a handwritten invitation that smelled of her perfume when it had been delivered the day after the almost-disastrous dinner. He understood a second invitation was hidden in the note as well.
He spotted the lady near one of the French windows, wearing a low-cut gown in shimmering gold that complemented her honey-blond hair. She glanced his way and he lifted his glass. She smiled and fluttered her fan and blinked her blue eyes.
Blue eyes. Inis O’Brien had blue eyes, too. What was he going to do with her?
Think on it, he’d said. Hell, he’d not been able to think about anything else the past three days. Alex knew Inis was lying—the pauses in her explanation, the side-glances away from him, her quickness in saying she didn’t want to return to Ireland—but what was she hiding? The only point he’d believed her on was that her parents were dead. Tears aside, her voice had taken a different timbre and he’d seen the pain in her eyes. He’d trained himself to be a master of such subtle signs.
He couldn’t turn an orphan out on the street, especially not one as young and pretty as Inis. And that was the real root of his problem. In spite of telling Caroline he didn’t want a mistress, which was true, he was attracted to Inis. He wanted to tangle his fingers in her gloriously rich red hair and taste her lusciously full lips. He wanted to press the small, delicate curves of her body against his and then undress her to stroke every inch of her satin skin before spreading her thighs wide and giving her real pleasure.
Damnation.
Alex suspected Inis was a virgin and he hadn’t become debauched enough to take a maidenhead casually. He’d assigned her a room on the fourth floor above the other servants’ quarters, where he would not stray. He’d even avoided the stables. Once Jameson, his head groom, had gotten over the shock of a woman handling his horses—and wearing breeches—the man had reported she was quite good. He would have to come to some kind of decision soon, though. He couldn’t avoid her forever.
Alex scanned the room again. Amelia was holding court with the lesser nobility near the unlit hearth at the far end of the ballroom. She liked having the ladies of lower social standing practically dancing attendance on her in hopes of being a regular guest on the invitation list of a duchess. Since he was a fair distance from her, he studied his once-intended. Her platinum hair was swept smoothly into a chignon without any of the loose sausage curls currently favored. Her eyes, glacier blue and so light they looked almost silvery, were highlighted by the pale-blue silk gown interwoven with silver threads. A necklace of numerous diamonds shimmered against her ivory skin. Overall, she looked like an ice queen and totally unattainable, which was perhaps what had once attracted him. She had been as much a prize for George as his title was for her.
His brother was speaking to a group of his cronies not far away. George scowled at him when he took another glass of champagne. Alex was tempted to join the group simply to vex him. Acting foxed would definitely put his stuffy brother’s nose out of joint.
Before Alex could decide, George and his friends left for the drawing room where card tables had been set up. Alex considered thecoup-de-grâceof divesting the idiots of their coin and perhaps acquiring vowels as well. But then he caught a whiff of perfume as Lady Pennington passed behind him and paused for a moment at a doorway before she disappeared down the hall leading to the library. Alex considered the invitation while he took a sip of champagne, then he sighed and turned away.
…
Was she living on borrowed time? Inis finished brushing Goldie and returned the currycomb and hoof pick to the tack room, rather proud of her efforts to polish the saddles that sat on racks as well. For the past three days she’d done everything she could think of to impress Jameson so she could keep her job.
And for the past three days she hadn’t seen even a shadow of Alexander Ashley. Well, except for the afternoon of the day that she’d arrived. She’d come around the side of the house and seen him standing at the front entrance kissing the hand of a woman who was quite fashionably dressed. The lady also seemed to know him quite well, judging from the way she’d used her fan flirtatiously.
Inis grimaced. She’d never learned the correct way of using a fan, except to actually fan herself when it was hot. One governess had explained fluttering the thing with the left hand meant “come here” and with the right “you are too bold,” although why a girl would flirt and then tell the man he was too bold when she’d encouraged him, Inis didn’t understand. An open fan in one hand meant “I am married” and in the other “I love another,” but she could never recall which was which. She did remember a closed fan, tapping one’s face, meant “I love you” and she’d always been careful to avoid doing that. She frowned. The lady with the chestnut hair had tapped Alexander Ashley with her fan. Did that signify something?
Was the woman his lover? Or maybe his betrothed? Why that idea would leave a bitter taste in her mouth, she wasn’t sure. It was none of her business what Lord—Mister—Ashley did in his personal life.
He’d said he’d think on allowing her to stay. She’d been tempted this morning to barge into the breakfast room and ask him, but aside from the fact that aservantnot assigned to breakfast did not barge in, she was also afraid of the answer. Still, the waiting was fraying her nerves. She had to dosomething.
As she stepped out of the tack room, she nearly bumped into Jameson leading a saddled bay gelding. “Is Mr. Ashley going to ride today?”
“I doubt I would be leading this horse out if he were not.”
Perhaps the faeries had not deserted her. “I’ll saddle Goldie and go with him.”
Jameson’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. “Unless Mr. Ashley has invited you—”
“Goldie needs to get used to being out in public, nae?” She didn’t wait for an answer, and brought the filly’s gear out and began saddling her.
Jameson hadn’t budged, but he shook his head when she finished. “This decision is not yours to make.”
“What decision?” Alex asked from the doorway.
Inis’s breathing hitched. He looked even more dashing today than when she’d met him. Buff breeches molded to his thighs, the black riding coat fitted his broad shoulders perfectly, and the snowy cravat accented his dark hair. His eyes were trained on her like a hawk as he came forward.
“What decision?” he repeated. “Have you decided you want to return to Ireland?”
“Nae. ’Tis a fine day for a ride. I would like to go with ye.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I tried to tell her, sir,” Jameson said, “but—”
“Goldie needs to be out, and that gelding has a solid temperament to steady her.” She marched past both men to the mounting block and swung herself up. “I am ready.”
