Rogue Grooms (49 page)

Justin looked back out at the crowded gaming room. Harry was still at the same table with the woman in the feathered mask speaking to him quietly. “Indeed.”

“I come here at least twice a week.”

“The play is that good, is it?”

“Oh, yes. Champagne’s not bad, either. And then there’s Mrs. Archer.” Freddie gave a blissful sigh.

“The owner?”

“Yes. She’s a real beauty. At least I think she must be.”

Was Freddie so drunk that he couldn’t even see the woman straight, then? Justin laughed. “You mean you’re not sure?”

“Well, she always wears a mask. But she has a beautiful voice. And a magnificent bosom. Though she is always so secretive; she will never give any man a second look, so they say. Ah, now see, you’ll be able to judge for yourself.”

A door at the top of a spiral staircase opened, and amid a sudden hush, a woman appeared on the landing there.

She was not especially tall, not above middling height, but she commanded the room just by standing still.

She wore a black silk mask that covered all her face except for her full red lips and an alabaster jaw-line. Her hair, a deep burgundy-red color, was piled atop her head in curls and whorls. The emeralds in her ears winked and dazzled in the light.

Mrs. Archer was very striking. And she did indeed have a magnificent bosom, its whiteness set off by the low bodice of her green satin gown.

Justin very much feared he was gaping, just as everyone else in the room was. But he couldn’t seem to help himself; she was such a terribly striking sight.

“You see?” Freddie sighed. “Beautiful.”

Then Mrs. Archer came down the stairs, her skirt held up daintily to reveal green heeled slippers and the tiniest amount of white silk stocking, and moved into the crowd.

Justin could see only the very top of her red head as she walked about, stopping to speak to various patrons and accept a glass of champagne from a footman.

He blinked and turned quickly away, feeling as if he were trapped in some bizarre, terribly attractive dream.

 

Caroline had never seen him before. She was sure of it. If she had, she would have remembered him.

He stood in the doorway between the dining room and the gaming room, surveying the crowd with a look of almost-boredom on his face. He did not look contemptuous or disdainful, only as if he wished he were anywhere else.

And he was handsome. Very handsome indeed. His hair, a sun-streaked light brown, was a little longer than was strictly fashionable and brushed back in neat waves from his face. Unlike most of the men who came to the Golden Feather, he radiated good health and vitality. His skin was dark, as if he spent a good deal of time outdoors, and his tall, lean figure obviously had no need of corsets or of padding in his coats.

Beside all the other men who flocked around the gaming room, he stood out sharply, as a beacon of things that were honest and decent. Things like a fresh morning breeze, a brisk ride down a country lane, or a good laugh.

Things Caroline hadn’t enjoyed for years.

She smiled wryly, mocking herself for such fanciful thoughts. A beacon of honesty, indeed! Here she had thought herself far beyond having her head turned by a pretty face. If he was here, he could scarcely be so decent as all that. No doubt he gambled terribly, just as Lawrence had. He was just a new patron, perhaps one who had recently come from the country.

Definitely one she should meet. After all, it was her job to make certain everyone who came to the Golden Feather enjoyed themselves.

Just her job.

Caroline made her way slowly across the room toward him, stopping to talk to people, to sip champagne, to check on the dealers at the various tables. All the while, she kept her eye on the stranger, where he stood talking to Lawrence’s old friend Freddie Reed.

As she came closer, she felt a most unusual sensation fluttering in her stomach, tightening her throat. Was it . . . could it be nervousness? Nervousness at the thought of talking to a strange man?

Nonsense
, she told herself briskly. It was only the champagne.

At last she reached them, and came to a halt to smile up at Freddie. “Good evening, Mr. Reed,” she said. “So nice to see you here again.”

Freddie blushed at this special attention, and stammered out, “G-good evening, M-Mrs. Archer! You are looking stunning, as always.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Reed.” She glanced over at his companion, the handsome stranger, and tilted her head inquiringly.

“Oh!” said Freddie. “Mrs. Archer, I would like you to meet my friend, Lord Lyndon. He is just back from India and has never been to the Golden Feather before.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Archer?” Lord Lyndon said, bowing over her outstretched hand. His fingers were warm through her thin glove, his grip steady and sure.

“Welcome to the Golden Feather, Lord Lyndon,” she answered. “I do hope you are enjoying your first evening here.”

“Of course,” he said. “Who could help but enjoy themselves here? You have a lovely establishment, Mrs. Archer.” But his eyes, a vivid sky blue in his sun-browned face, still looked bored and perfectly, blandly polite. His gaze slid ever so briefly over her shoulder before focusing on her again.

“Thank you, Lord Lyndon,” she murmured, wondering what could possibly be so interesting behind her. Another woman, perhaps?

Her vanity was a bit piqued by this inattention. Unaccountably, she wanted this man’s attention; she wanted his gaze to fill with admiration when he looked at her. Usually she disliked male attention and longed to turn away from their flattery, their long, suggestive glances.

“This may be Lyndon’s first visit, but his brother is a regular patron,” Freddie said, interrupting her jumbled thoughts.

Caroline turned to him in relief, away from Lord Lyndon’s mesmerizing blue eyes. “Oh, yes? And who might that be?”

It was Lyndon who answered, in his deep, brandy-rich voice. “Mr. Harry Seward is my brother.” He gestured with his champagne glass toward a table.

Caroline looked back to where he pointed. So that was what had caught his attention. His brother, Mr. Seward, was quite familiar to her. He came to the Golden Feather several times a week, sometimes winning, more often losing. He was a bit of a mischief maker, but she had never had any serious trouble with him. Tonight he sat next to another regular patron, a woman who called herself Mrs. Scott, a bottle of champagne between them.

It was hard to believe that the feckless Mr. Seward was the brother of the serious, solemn man who stood before her.

“We do see Mr. Seward often,” she said.

“So I have heard,” he answered softly. Caroline had the distinct impression that he did not approve of his brother’s pastimes.