Page 14 of His Brazen Tart
They cleared the doors, and Piers took a deep breath of the cooler, less stale air. He glanced down at Joan, whose attention was set on searching for their carriage among those crawling up and down the street to collect their passengers. That beauty mark of hers tempted his senses, drawing Piers’ attention to the corner of her mouth and the angle of her jaw. He became too engrossed imagining her plump lips wrapped around his cock that he nearly failed to hear the voice calling out to him.
But that voice was too familiar, too haunting to be ignored.
“Well … good evening, Sir Piers. How lovely it is to see you again.”
Piers stiffened, his hand tightening around Joan’s slender fingers. He turned to find a face from his past bearing down upon him with a false smile and hard, glittering eyes. Heat momentarily flared in his gut—torturous and scalding—but it was quickly replaced with a sudden iciness that shot to the far reaches of his body and froze him over.
His jaw ached from the clench of his teeth, as he was left with no choice but to bow to the only woman in the vicinity who was beautiful enough to hold a candle to Joan. However, no one was more aware than Piers just how effortlessly that cold beauty concealed the true nature of the woman inside. Lady Lysandra Claremont, Marchioness of Hardwick was poison, and she had nearly killed Piers once. He would never allow her close enough to do it again.
He didn’t bother returning her false smile. “My lady. You look … to be in good health.”
He would be damned if he told her she looked lovely. Lysandra fed on attention and compliments, collecting them as a spoiled princess might hoard jewels. It didn’t matter how many she had or how bored she so obviously was with them; she took them as her due and tossed them into her growing pile. Like Joan, she was fair of complexion, but her features were sharp and angular, her lips wide and shapely with a full lower lip, her nose aristocratic. Eyes the color of spring leaves peered out of that deceptively innocent-looking face, surrounded by golden eyelashes the same shade of her lustrous hair.
“As do you,” she replied. Then, she darted her gaze to Joan and then back at Piers, an expectant lift to her eyebrows.
Piers choked back a heavy sigh. They had been noticed by several of their peers, many of whom knew how this woman had made a fool of him. He would be damned if he allowed her to shame him before thetonby forcing Piers to remind them that he wasn’t truly one of them.
“Might I introduce you to my dear friend, Mrs. Durbin? Mrs. Durbin, Her Ladyship the Marchioness of Hardwick.”
Joan, who had already offered a curtsy while Piers was giving his bow, merely held onto his arm and stared at the other woman, her expression devoid of all emotion.
“How do you do, my lady? I am honored to make your acquaintance.”
Piers nearly failed at muffling the amused snort making his nostrils itch. Joan sounded as if she’d never been less pleased in her life. Lysandra, no stranger to innuendo, widened her hard, frigid smile and inclined her head.
“The honor is mine, Mrs. Durbin. It would seem we have a mutual … friend in Sir Piers. How fortunate we both are to know him.”
Piers tensed at the heavy meaning behind her words, his insides twisting in knots at the insinuation. If everyone didn’t already know of their broken engagement and the hold she’d once had over Piers, Lysandra had just ensured Joan was made aware.
He tasted bile and felt he wouldn’t be able to contain it for long. If he opened his mouth, it might come spewing out, all over Lysandra’s ice-blue evening gown. He might have laughed at the image of such an occurrence in his mind, but couldn’t seem to conjure an ounce of amusement at the moment.
“Indeed,” Joan replied, her tone sharp and tinged with a subtle warning. She narrowed her eyes at Lysandra, who maintained her usual mask of indifferent beauty. “Good evening, my lady.”
Whether by luck or divine intervention, his carriage arrived. He felt the heat of his former fiancée’s gaze on his back until he had stepped into the carriage behind Joan. Once shuttered inside, Piers rested against the squabs with a sigh, relieved to be out of Lysandra’s proximity. While he considered himself all healed from her treachery, Piers didn’t enjoy the way being near her made him feel—hot and itchy, as if his skin were pulled too tight over muscle and bone. As if he might explode from the rage she made him feel.
He stole a glance at Joan and found that she was watching him—closely, intently. His usual defenses came up without much effort, and he bristled at the silent question in her stare. The parted curtains of the carriage allowed in just enough lamplight from outside to illuminate her curious expression. Piers took a few seconds to settle himself before speaking, recalling the way their dinner had been ruined the last time Lysandra had come up between them.
“I apologize for that,” he murmured. “Lysandra has always lacked tact and discretion. I shall have a word with her about accosting me in public when I am in your company.”
Joan issued a decidedly unladylike snort and waved him off. “Think nothing of it. She isn’t the first catty lady I have dealt with, and I doubt she will be the last. Besides, she was clearly jealous to see me on your arm. Can you imagine how furious she would be to know what we did in that theater box?”
His lips ticked with amusement as he realized Joan was right. Lysandra had always been the jealous sort. It didn’t matter that she had thrown him away as easily as a soiled handkerchief; she considered Piers her plaything and always appeared none too pleased to see him in the company of someone else.
“It is your turn,” Joan said suddenly.
Piers frowned. “My turn?”
She pursed her rouged lips. “I thought we agreed to tell each other things about ourselves.”
Some deeply embedded part of him recoiled at the notion of baring himself to anyone for any reason. He hadn’t done something so intimate, so dangerous, in years and didn’t intend to start now.
“No,” he replied, lightly but firmly. “You decided to tell me something about yourself. I never agreed—”
“Are you always so difficult?” she interjected. “By Jupiter, I am not asking you to tell me your worst fear or any such nonsense. You may tell me something as simple as your favorite dessert, or color, or book. Conversation doesn’t have to be so strained between us.”
Piers’ palm tingled as he imagined taking her over his knee for talking to him in such a way. He steadied himself for a handful of reasons—chief among them being that Joan was right. He was so used to being defensive that he no longer knew how to make light conversation with anyone.
“I confided in you my hatred for my late husband,” Joan added. “The least you can do is tell mesomething. Anything.”
