Although he was properly attired in a black coat, pantaloons and a crisply tied cravat, he bore no resemblance to the other gentlemen that lounged about the room.
Well over six feet there was a raw, elegant power in his lean form that Simone could sense even at a distance. It was in the manner he leaned negligently against a marble column and in the arrogant tilt of his head. Her gaze narrowed as she studied the pale, finely chiseled features that were framed by his long, satin hair the shade of polished ebony.
His male beauty was enough to steal her breath.
Against her will she found herself lingering upon the aquiline nose, the high thrust of his cheekbones and sensuous curve of his lips. There was a compelling strength and unrelenting pride etched into those features that sent a rash of warning down her spine.
This was not a gentleman who could be toyed with and kept at a safe distance. He was a conqueror who would stride through the world and take what he desired.
Then, she lifted her head to meet the black, brooding gaze and her knees nearly gave way.
There was a searing heat in those eyes that flared across the room and swept through her body. Simone reeled in startled bewilderment as she was helplessly trapped by that dark regard.
Suddenly she understood precisely how a fly felt when it stumbled into the web of a spider.
“Dear heavens,” she whispered softly.
At last realizing that he had lost her attention, Lord Braceton turned to follow her gaze.
“What?”
“Who is that gentleman?” she demanded as she struggled to regain command of her shattered composure.
The older man heaved a heavy sigh. “Mr. Gideon Ravel. He just arrived in London with his two cousins from the Continent. Seems he’s related to some aristocratic family or other. They made quite a stir when they appeared at the Croswell’s ball last week.”
A shiver raced through her. She could imagine that this man would make a stir wherever he might be. Even now her guests were glancing in the stranger’s direction and whispering in low voices. Mr. Ravel remained splendidly unconcerned at the obvious interest in his arrival as he continued to regard her with that unwavering gaze.
Simone unconsciously squared her shoulders as she realized that she was staring at the man like a half-wit.
This was her home.
And no one entered it without her invitation.
No one.
“How the devil did he manage to get past Bartson?” she gritted in annoyance.
At her side Lord Braceton gave a shrug. “Perhaps he came with one of your other guests.”
“Impossible. Only those with invitations are allowed to enter. Excuse me.”
Without awaiting her companion’s response, Simone swept through the mingling crowd toward the gentleman watching her with that faintly mocking smile. At the same moment an elderly gentleman stepped to join the stranger, attempting to claim his attention, although that black gaze remained firmly trained upon her flushed countenance.
A rather cowardly urge to wait until he was once again alone swept through Simone before she was swiftly thrusting it aside.
What the blazes was wrong with her? She was no longer a cowering maiden who cringed at the mere hint of a threat. After the death of her sister she had refused to be frightened of anyone ever again.
Regardless if that anyone happened to be a towering, black-haired devil with eyes of midnight.
Keeping that thought firmly in the forefront of her mind, Simone swept to a halt directly in front of the intruder, her smile intact as the elderly gentleman next to him turned to regard her with a mild lift of his brows.
“Good evening, Lord Tydale,” she murmured, her gaze never wavering from the midnight eyes.
Simone discovered her throat dangerously dry as she felt the smoldering power of the stranger reach out to wrap about her. Botheration. She had never encountered anyone who unsettled her in such a fashion. The realization only sharpened her temper.
“Ah, our charming hostess.” Tydale performed a respectable bow, politely ignoring the fact that his two companions were far too consumed with one another to bother glancing in his direction. “My dear, you are appearing as devilishly delectable as always. You really must confess the name of your modiste. It is unconscionable that the other ladies in the Ton must always pale in comparison.”
Simone’s smile thinned. No one but her servants knew that she designed and stitched her own gowns. Not only because she truly enjoyed creating the lovely dresses, but because she could not possibly allow a modiste to catch a glimpse of her in a mere shift. Her charade would be over as swiftly as it had begun.