Lord of Shadows (43 page)

She tried smiling an apology, but he’d already turned back to the men in response to a chummy slap on the back that left them all guffawing in good humor.

But another’s gaze had yet to look away. The stranger with Barnaby. The weight of his stare sent heat rising into her cheeks until she realized it wasn’t her face he was fixated upon, but her chest. Hardly the first man to be so bold, though it unnerved her just the same. Let him ogle his fill, then. What did she care? She lifted her chin to return his steady regard with her own.

He stood well above Barnaby, perhaps even of a height with Gordon. But whereas her betrothed possessed a wrestler’s build, this man’s lean muscularity spoke of agility and nuance. A swordsman. Not a pugilist.

His gaze narrowed as he bent to sip at his wine. Tossing
Barnaby a word while keeping her under watch. There was something familiar about him. The way he stood, perhaps. Or the slash of his dark brows. His eyes finally moved from her breasts to her face, a rakish invitation playing at the edges of his mouth. Warmth became a flood of scalding heat. No, she certainly did not know such a forward, insinuating gentleman.

And with a regal twitch of her skirts, she entered the fray.

The hours passed in a haze of conversation and music. She barely sat out a single dance. Traded from partner to partner as each man sought to compliment her beauty and impart his good wishes. Gordon spoke for her first, of course. Led her to the floor, his hand gripping hers as if she might try to escape. He made only one comment upon her choice of adornment. “I’m sorry you didn’t like my gift. If you’d prefer, we can choose something more to your liking.”

Guilt dropped into the pit of her stomach, and she smiled more brightly than she otherwise would have done. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.” He arched a brow, which made her words spill faster. “But it didn’t go with my gown, you see. Tomorrow evening. I promise. I have a new gown it will suit perfectly.” She went so far as to bat him playfully on the arm with her fan.

Gordon offered a pained smile. “Wear your little bauble, Elisabeth. Among this company, it’s quite beautiful enough.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“No need to fly into the boughs, my darling. I only meant that I find you faultless in anything you decide to wear.”

Her prickles smoothed, she gazed up at him in clear invitation. They could slip away for a moment or two. There were alcoves aplenty. And it wasn’t as if they weren’t going to be wed in a few days.

Unfortunately, Gordon stepped back at the same instant she leaned forward, almost unbalancing her. He cleared his throat, a decidedly proper expression on his face. “Careful, Elisabeth. Your great-aunt Charity is casting dagger glances our way.”

She straightened, smoothing her skirts. Tossed a demure smile over the crowd, all as if she meant to almost topple feet over head. “Oh, pooh for Great-Aunt Charity. Glass houses and all that rot. If half the stories about her are true—”

“Still, my dear. It wouldn’t do to antagonize her unnecessarily. I don’t want her thinking I’m a scoundrel.”

“What if I like scoundrels?”

“You’re such a tease, my dear.” He acknowledged an impatient summons from his brother with a wave. “Marcus is after me to make a fourth, dear heart. Will you be all right on your own?” He smiled. “Silly question. Of course you will. You’re a natural at this sort of social small talk. And besides, it’s family. Not a bunch of strangers, eh?” He chucked her chin as he might a child’s before leaving without a backward glance.

She took advantage of the respite to snatch a savory and a glass of ratafia from a passing tray. Nibbled as she watched the crowd of parrot-bright ladies and dashing gentleman. They laughed, danced, drank, and in one or two instances sang. Boisterous. At times rowdy. But always good-natured.

Among this company . . . what had Gordon been
implying? And why did she feel she’d been chastised like a child? She shook off her questions with a sigh and a sharp flick of her fan.

“Abandoned at your own festivities?” came a voice from behind her, thick and dark as treacle. Definitely not Great-Aunt Charity, who possessed a parade ground bellow.

No, Elisabeth knew that voice. That impudent tone.

She swung around to come up against an unyielding chest. Her glass of wine sloshed onto his coat, staining his shirt front dark red. He stepped back with a quick oath. And the moment burst like a bubble. The man from earlier. A stranger. Not him. Not at all. What was wrong with her that she jumped at shadows?

“Forgive me.” She blotted at him with her napkin.

“Here, allow me.” He eased it from her hand as she belatedly realized the unintended intimacy of her actions.

“I . . . oh, dear . . . you don’t think . . . oh, dear,” she babbled.

He dabbed at the spot before crushing the napkin and shoving it into his pocket. “No matter. At least it’s not blood this time.”

What on earth did he mean by that?

He lifted his head, his veiled gaze finally meeting hers dead-on. Eyes burning golden yellow as suns, the irises ringed in darkest black.

She crushed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound choking up through her belly.

His lips twitched with suppressed amusement. As if this were in any way funny. Earth-shattering more like. “Hello, Lissa.”