Page 6 of The Danger of Desire
“It’s generally more entertaining than a lie, so yes.”
Oh, he had no idea. But in this case, the truth was just outrageous enough that it might spark an honest response. She doubted he was the man she’d been hunting for all these months—it made no sense for a wealthy marquess to be a card cheat—but it couldn’t hurt to witness his reaction. “I wanted to see if the gentlemen had tattoos.”
Gaping at her, he actually missed a step, which she found rather satisfying, since the man danced far too well for any woman’s sanity. It also convinced her that she’d been right in her assumption about him. A guilty man would have sought to hide his shock.
Besides, at least one of his lower arms was unblemished—she’d seen it clearly through the translucent fabric of his wet shirt. Though it didn’t necessarily eliminate him from being connected to the man she sought.
He quickly recovered his composure. “I assume you’re talking about those vile things sailors put on their skin?”
“I wouldn’t describe them as vile. I have a fascination for them, you see.”
“Because you want to acquire one?”
She couldn’t help her burst of laughter. “Of course not. If being left-handed is gauche, only imagine what the gossips would make of my having a tattoo. It’s simply not done.”
“Yet you thought that those fellows—gentlemen of rank, no less—might have them.”
“I hoped they might. How else am I to get a close look at one?”
Lord Knightford had just enough time to stare at her incredulously before the dance parted them once more.
But the music couldn’t drown out the memory of her brother’s rant on the night before his death:I should have known that the scoundrel was a cardcheat when I saw the sun tattoo above his wrist. What lord of any character would defile his body with such a thing?
What lord, indeed?
A lord who would ruin a man for his own profit and drive him to throw himself into—
Delia choked down her futile rage. She’d believed Reynold when he’d sworn never to pick up Papa’s habits. When he’d claimed to prefer caring for their estate, Camden Hall. But he’d proved just as reckless as Papa. Not only had he gambled, but someone had cheated him out of everything.
She would find out who it was. She would trap the scoundrel into cheating again and then threaten to expose him if he didn’t pay back the money he’d stolen from Reynold.
Unfortunately, Reynold had refused to name the card cheat, no matter how much she’d begged him to. All Delia had to go on was the mention of his being a lord with a sun tattoo. She’d been searching for such a man the whole time she’d been in London for her debut, but it hadn’t been easy. No gentleman would bare his arms to a lady except under unavoidable situations—which she’d been trying to create when Lord Knightford had ruined everything and run off her most recent suspects.
Now she’d have to find her information another way. Perhaps from his lordship, assuming he was as much a gossip as his cousin.
He approached her in the dance again. “So you want to see a tattoo in the flesh.”
“Onthe flesh, to be more precise.” She forced a light smile to her lips. It grew harder by the day to hide her desperation for the truth. “Do you know anybody who has one?”
“No one respectable enough to introduce toyou.”
“So, no gentlemen.” Bother it all.
“Gentlemen do not have tattoos,” he said firmly, which didn’t help her at all. “And why on earth would you have a fascination with them, anyway? It’s not exactly a ladylike pursuit.”
“Nightly visits to the stews aren’t a gentlemanly pursuit, either, yet that doesn’t stop you.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I see my cousin has told you quite a bit about me.”
“Enough for me to be aware of your... proclivities.”
“How unfair, since I know nothing aboutyourproclivities, beyond your fondness for tattoos. Do you tipple sherry? Write lurid novels?” He leaned nearer to whisper, “Embroider secret naughty messages on fire screens?”
A laugh sputtered out of her. He was trying to distract her from his own vices by being charming, blast him. And it was working. “I’m afraid I don’t embroider much of anything. I’m horrible with a needle.” She stared him down. “Besides, secret naughty messages seem more your type of proclivity.”
“Trust me, when I spend my nights in the stews, I don’t need secret messages. I say exactly what I mean.”
“So you admit to spending your nights in the stews.”
