Page 6 of A Lady's Lesson in Scandal
‘I may be thirteen years your senior, Reynard. But I’m not in my dotage yet. Let’s leave off the old.’ Though despite his six and thirty years, he felt ancient. Drake stretched his neck, sighing when the vertebrae popped. It was insufferably warm in the Whittenburg’s ballroom, and the overpowering stench of pomade, perfume, and sweat did not improve the atmosphere. ‘But yes, I would happily saw off my own arm to avoid being trapped by any of these misses. Especially that one.’ He nodded toward the statuesque Miss Whittenburg, gliding behind the Duchess of Dorsett as proud as a goddess perched on the prow of a warship.
While many would consider Miss Whittenburg too old, too tall, too bold in her colouring with such a riot of red hair piled high, red lips glistening, red cheeks glowing, Drake found her annoyingly captivating. A man could overfill his hands with breasts so generous.
Where the Devil did that thought come from?
His cock strained against his breeches in an eloquent response.
Absolutely not.
Drake crushed the attraction stirring his long-dead libido with an iron will. He hadn’t felt such interest in a woman since Nora, though Miss Millicent Whittenburg couldn’t be more different from his ex-fiancée. Where Miss Millicent was luscious curves and powerful limbs, Nora’s waif-like figure and angelic colouring made her a true English rose.
Complete with sharp and deadly thorns.
No part of him wished to think about his first – and only – love or how that disaster ended.
Still, he learned well the lesson Nora taught him about the dangers of being vulnerable. The last thing he needed was to become entangled with a woman destined to destroy his carefully constructed calm. The redheaded Valkyrie making a beeline toward him was just such a creature. Drake would do well to turn and run. But he ran from nothing.
Clad in cream silk nearly matching the tone of her skin, it was all too easy to picture her without the dress. His cock heartily agreed with his imaginings.
Dear God, I am not some cad lead around by my prick!
If Miss Millicent knew his thoughts, she would run screaming in the opposite direction. The woman distracted him when nothing ever destroyed his focus. Instead of scanning the crowd for a killer, Drake contemplated the exact texture of her lips. Would they be soft or firm? Sweet or tart? And for that alone, he should keep his distance. He couldn’t afford to lose sight of this mission.
As if to further prove his point, his inner calm evaporated, along with any hope of control, as the women approached. Miss Millicent Whittenburg was wild and unpredictable. Everythinghe despised in the fairer sex. Everything that made him ache in places long forgotten.
‘Ah, Major General Drake. I distinctly remember you abhorring social events. What possibly induced you to attend this soiree?’ Lady Philippa raised an eyebrow in an expression designed to quell a lesser man. He resisted the urge to step backward in retreat.
‘Your Grace, always an honour.’ Bowing his head at the duchess, he noticed Miss Millicent’s skirt had caught, revealing an inch of surprisingly slim ankle. Heat suffused his neck, and he clenched his jaw before she shifted and the buttery silk fell smoothly back into place.
‘And who is your new friend?’ Lady Philippa thrust her chin toward Reynard.
‘Allow me to introduce General Reynard Renquist. We fought together in the war.’ Drake stepped back so Reynard could bow.
‘Ah. Well.’ Lady Winterbourne thwacked a jewel-encrusted fan against her hand. ‘Renquist. Hmm. I know your brother. Though we haven’t seen much of him since he returned from the war.’
‘An honour, Your Grace. Yes, William prefers his own company these days.’ Reynard’s mouth twitched before he turned his mischievous dark gaze on Miss Millicent. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Miss…?’
Women fell to Reynard’s charm like autumn leaves in a brisk wind. He was everything Drake would never be. He looked like a naughty cherub who’d turned into a man, complete with golden, curly locks. Reynard even had dimples, which women were known to swoon over. After years of watching the dashing reprobate use his gilded tongue to talk women out of their lacy underthings, Drake more than expected it. He welcomed Reynard’s skills. It took all the attention away from Drake. Nolady would choose a scarred old man over a dashing young rake. But for some reason, the idea of Millicent Whittenburg blushing in flustered appreciation at Reynard’s practised flirtations filled Drake with a black rage.
He recognised this feeling. He experienced the same rush of impotent anger when he returned from the war to see Nora on the arm of his brother, her ring finger glinting with a diamond wedding band. Jealousy. But it made no sense for him to suffer the emotion now. Certainly not for the bold redhead.
‘Miss Millicent Whittenburg, sir.’ Millicent didn’t blush. She didn’t bat her eyelashes or raise her fan to hide a coquettish smile. Instead, she narrowed her coffee-brown gaze. Sharp intelligence flashed in her eyes. ‘How odd. This ball is being held in my honour, but I don’t remember seeing either of your names on the guest list.’
‘Most peculiar, as we both received invitations.’ Drake straightened his shoulders and leaned into the lie.
The Marquess Henry Whittenburg and his Marchioness may not have summoned them, but Prime Minister Russell made sure Reynard and Drake were equipped with expertly forged invitations. Besides, no one paid attention to the guest list at a ball this crowded. Except for Miss Millicent Whittenburg. Maddening woman.
Facing a lady so close to him in height disconcerted Drake. At six foot three inches, he towered over most people. But Miss Millicent almost reached his chin and held his gaze with the fortitude of a commander.
Did she inwardly recoil at the devastation of his scars? This close, in the blazing light of a thousand candles from the chandelier above, she would see the gruesome stretch of roped tissue as it pulled against healthy skin. The white scar cut across his brow, bisecting his left eyebrow, slashing across the bridge of his nose, and slicing through his right cheek to endat his jaw. There were no surgeons in the Afghanistan prison, but a young bootmaker-turned-soldier had done his best in the dank cell they shared. Drake knew his visage was grotesque, but Millicent’s eyes – darker than cocoa beans and just as rich – didn’t stray from his own icy glare.
Just as she opened her indecently plump lips to no doubt deliver a blistering retort, the orchestra swelled to a crescendo, signalling the end of the set.
‘I believe they are readying for the next dance.’ Lady Philippa drew his gaze away from Miss Whittenburg.
Dear God, surely the duchess doesn’t expect me to dance with her.
Drake cleared his throat, unsure of how to respond. He hadn’t seen Lady Winterbourne since Everly Manor. Her ward was the same Hannah Simmons who married his friend right after the courageous young woman saved Lieutenant General Robert Killian from a killer.
