Page 51 of The Danger of Desire
In that moment, he flashed on the woman shecouldbe if she didn’t have to spend every waking moment worrying about how to take care of her family. He imagined a woman in her youthful exuberance, capable of teasing a gentleman and simply having fun with friends. A woman whose clever mind could be put to better use than card games. A woman who, in her full glory, could take society by storm. If only she didn’t have the weight of the world on her shoulders.
To shake off that unnerving thought, he asked, “Tell me, Miss Trevor, what shouldIwear for this sketch?”
Her pretty eyes brightened. “Why, Lord Knightford, you would trust me to choose your costume?”
“Judging from the sudden glee on your face, perhaps not.”
She tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and drew him across the room. “I can think of a few things I’d enjoy seeing you wear. Sackcloth. Ashes. Perhaps something called humility.”
He chuckled. “Those aren’t very Roman.”
“True. The caesars weren’t remotely humble.” She smiled up at him. “So I suppose we’ll have to settle for a toga for you.”
“I’m game. As long as it’s not short.”
She laughed. “Why? Do you have knobby knees?”
What he had was a scar that might rouse comment. “Something like that.”
“It can’t bethatbad. I tell you what. If you let me chooseyourcostume, I’ll let you choose mine.”
“I don’t think that’s wise.” He leaned down to murmur, “Because my choice for you would be a costume too scandalous for polite company. Or better yet, no costume at all.”
Sucking in a breath, she rewarded him with a vivid blush that set fire to his blood. Amazing that the woman could still blush after her weeks hanging about a gaming hell. He must provoke her into it more often—it turned her cheeks such a lovely pink.
She released his arm. “Well, then, I suppose we’d best stick to choosing our own attire, since we can’t trust each other with even such a small endeavor.”
“Not true. I trust you with many things, big and small.” Warren locked his gaze with hers. “It’s you who won’t trust me with a damned thing.”
Swallowing hard, she walked off to approach a box overflowing with tunics and togas. “Oh, look, this one might fit you,” she said brightly as she held up some regal-looking approximation of Roman garb.
She was changing the subject, her usual response when he tried to get at the truth. Very well. He would let her hide from him a little longer. Because this house party would give him the chance to speak privately with her aunt and sister-in-law as much as he liked, while Delia was busy looking for tattoos on gentlemen’s arms.
Ifshewouldn’t reveal the truth, perhaps they would. Or at least they could give him some hints about how to proceed.
So he would stay and stick this out. In for a penny, in for a pound. He would find out what the tattooed man had done to gain her ire, and then he would make sure that wrong was redressed.
Then perhaps he could put this odd interlude out of his mind with a clear conscience, knowing he’d done all he could for her, and go back to his life of fulfilling his duties by day and wenching and drinking by night. Never alone, yet somehow always lonely.
Funny how that didn’t sound all that appealing anymore.
Thirteen
Late the next morning, Delia wandered among the costumed guests gathered in the breakfast room, helping themselves to steamy heaps of shirred eggs, piles of sausages, towers of toast, and slabs of butter so creamy they could only have come straight from the estate dairy.
But the food didn’t interest her as much as the costumes. While the ladies had dressed demurely, wearing floor-length tunics over their usual petticoats, with gloves hiding their hands and wrists, the gentlemen were more reckless. Some even wore the short-skirted togas that bared their legs from the knees down to the tops of their Roman sandals.
And just as she’d hoped, their arms were all bared, since Roman clothing for men rarely had long sleeves. As she moved about the room, she paused to peek at a wrist here, a forearm there. Unfortunately, she hadn’t yet seen a single tattoo.
She sighed. It had probably been too much to hope that the man she sought would be at the house party. Neither Clarissa nor her husband, Lord Blakeborough, who stood near the door as if debating how soon he could flee the melee, seemed the sort to associate with such a man.
“I see that I’m late to the party,” said a loud voice.
Delia turned to find Warren standing next to his friend by the door, wearing a short-skirted toga. Her heart nearly failed her. Warren did not have knobby knees, not in the least. And though his Roman sandals were the strapped kind that fully covered his calves, she could still tell that they were the well-muscled calves of a man who rode often and well.
My oh my. Warren in Roman warrior costume was truly a sight to behold. The man would make Mars himself look like Prinny bursting out of a kilt. Roman gods would fight to look like Warren.
Not that she was surprised he would be so... amazing in a toga. Warren had a way of putting every other man’s looks to shame.
