Page 3 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
Lady Ophelia had arrived on a cloud of orchids that teased and taunted, promising forbidden pleasures that in spite of his best attempts to ignore, lured him. Of all the women, why the devil did she intrigue him? Perhaps because she offered such a challenge, had erected walls that only the most nimble could scale in order to gain the real treasure behind them. He was adept at reading people, but for the life of him he’d never been able to read her.
Twisting on his heel, he headed to the table where champagne and sundry other refreshments were being poured. He was acutely aware of her gaze homed in on his back. He suspected if he looked over his shoulder, he would see her whispering with the other ladies, warning them off. Little did she realize that she would be doing him a favor if she could ensure that he was left in peace. He had committed to three more dances, and wouldn’t disappoint his soon-to-be partners by heading to the gaming salon before he’d completed his obligations. Nor was he going to give Lady Ophelia the satisfaction of ruining his evening by sending him on errands. One glass was all she’d garner from him.
He didn’t know why, two years ago at Grace’s coming-out ball, he had asked Lady Ophelia to dance. He had thought she had grown into an exquisite creature, and she was Grace’s friend. While she had often looked down her nose on him, she’d been a child then and he’d assumed she’d outgrown childish things. He couldn’t have been more wrong. With a horrified look, she had given him a cut direct. Turned her back on him without even responding to his invitation. It had not spared his pride to realize that others had witnessed the rebuff.
Snatching up a flute of champagne from the table, he wended his way back through the throng, not at all surprised to find that she had moved on. He considered downing the bubbly brew but hard whiskey was more to his liking, and then he heard her seductive laughter. How the devil could an ice maiden have such a throaty, sensual laugh, a siren’s song that arrowed straight to the groin?
Irritated with himself for being drawn to the sound, he glanced back over his shoulder to spy her flirting outrageously with the Duke of Avendale and Viscount Langdon. Their families were well-respected, powerful, and wealthy. He was not surprised to see two other ladies in the group. The gents were sought-after, but just as he tended to avoid social affairs, so did they. Marriage was so far in their distant future that they wouldn’t be able to see it with a spyglass. They were here only because they were close to both Grace and Lovingdon. But now that the happy couple had departed, he suspected Avendale and Langdon would be headed elsewhere for their entertainment.
Unlike Lady O they would invite him to join them.
Ophelia’s laughter reached him again, only this time when the sound went silent, her gaze landed on him like a huge stone, then dipped to the champagne, and her lips tipped upward in triumph, just before she wrinkled her nose as though she smelled something quite unpleasant. Her face settling once more into deceptive loveliness, she shifted her gaze back to Avendale, summarily dismissing Drake in the process.
Unfortunately for her, he was no longer quite so easily dismissed.
Ophelia knew a quick spurt of panic. Darling strode toward her with purpose in his step, his large hands—a workman’s hands—dwarfing the flute he carried. His expression shouted that he was tossing down the gauntlet and she feared she might have misjudged his mood tonight, that managing him might be more challenging than she’d expected, but manage him she would. She would not be cowed, not by him, not by any other man for that matter.
He was a commoner who came from common beginnings. He might wear the outer trappings of a gentleman, but she had no doubt that deep down he was a scoundrel, with a scoundrel’s ways, and a penchant toward sinful behavior.
She didn’t know why that thought caused her to grow uncomfortably warm. It was the crowded room, the gaslit chandeliers, the layers of petticoats, and the tight corset. She certainly wasn’t imagining those hands exploring her body. She was not of the streets. She was a lady. And ladies did not contemplate such things.
But as he neared, something within the black depths of his eyes twinkled as though he knew precisely where her errant thoughts had journeyed and was more than willing to serve as her companion on a sojourn into wickedness. He was not handsome, at least not classically so. His features were rugged, craggy, as though shaped by an angry god. His nose was too broad, his brow too wide. His jaw too square. She could see the beginning of shadow, bristles that hadn’t the decency to wait until later to appear. Why was she wasting her time cataloguing each and every inch of him when she had lords aplenty willing to give her attention?
As he came to a halt in front of her, he gave his gaze free rein to take a leisurely stroll over her person. Breathing became difficult, and she had a horrid fear he would find her lacking. She drew back her shoulders. What did she care regarding his opinion of her, when his opinion was of no worth?
“Your champagne.”
His rough, deep voice wove something dark and sensual around the words. She suspected he wasn’t a silent lover, that he whispered naughty things into a woman’s ear.
“You were so remarkably slow in retrieving it that I’m no longer of a mood to drink it.”
“Surely you’ll not deny yourself the pleasure of allowing these bubbles to tickle your palate.”
He wrapped a wealth of meaning around the wordpleasure. That he would be so bold as to speak to her with such disregard while others were near ... it was not to be tolerated. But for the life of her, she could think of no witty rejoinder because he was studying her as though he could well imagineherticklinghispalate.
“With your tarrying, I believe it has gone flat,” she said, before turning her back on him. “Avendale, I believe you were discussing—”
Drake Darling had the audacity to wedge himself between her and the duke. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw taut. “Lady Ophelia, I must insist that you take the champagne.”
“You,boy, are in no position to insist on anything where I am concerned.”
His gloved finger tapped the side of the flute, while his gaze bored into hers, and she could fairly see the wheels of reprisal turning in his mind. She didn’t know why she sought to provoke him, yet something about him unsettled her, always had. She wanted to put him in his place, to remind him—and herself—that he was beneath her. Her father had taken a belt to her backside and bare legs when he once caught her speaking with Darling. She’d been twelve at the time, but it wasn’t a lesson easily forgotten. She was not to associate with anyone not of noble birth.
“So be it,” he murmured, lifting the glass. He tilted back his head and downed the golden liquid in one long swallow. She could see only a bit of his muscles at his throat working, because a perfectly tied cravat hid the rest from view. But his neck, like the rest of him, was powerful. Moving aside the glass, he licked his lips, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “Not at all flat. Quite pleasant, actually, like the kiss of a temptress.”
Anger, hot and scalding, shot through her. He was mocking her, ridiculing her. It didn’t matter that she had begun this little drama with her earlier request. He was supposed to scurry away when he realized she no longer had an interest in the champagne. He wasn’t supposed to make her wonder if any lingered on his lips, if she might taste it there. “Boy—”
“It’s been a good long while since I was a boy.”
She angled her chin. “Boy, perhaps you would fetch us all some champagne.”
“When hell freezes over, my lady.”
He took a step toward her. She took a hasty step back. Triumph lit his eyes. Blast him. She would retreat no further.
A footman passed by, and without removing his gaze from hers, Darling set the flute on the silver tray the servant carried. Then took another long step forward.
She fought to hold her ground, but she could inhale his intoxicating fragrance now. Earthy and rich, the scent of tobacco or perhaps sin. He eased closer—
