To Catch an Earl - Kate Bateman Page 0,18

one else notice him staring at her so fixedly?

His brows rose in a subtle challenge, as if daring her to be the first to look away, and her own innate stubbornness kicked in. A modest young woman would have hidden her blushing face behind her fan. Emmy held his gaze, refusing to allow him to intimidate her.

Blood rushed into her cheeks and she experienced an odd, weightless feeling. Every instinct urged her to lower her lashes and escape the piercing concentration of his gaze. She felt pinned, like a moth on a naturalist’s mountboard.

Then his lips quirked upward, and she watched in astonishment as a smile transformed his face. In the space of a heartbeat he went from coldly austere, almost accusing, to breathtakingly handsome. Her heart missed a beat.

“Em! You’re woolgathering again.”

Luc’s exclamation freed her from Harland’s visual snare. She turned away, unaccountably flustered, as air rushed back into her lungs. She’d done nothing to attract his notice. Why was he singling her out now, after all this time? It couldn’t possibly bode well.

“We should leave.”

Luc raised his brows. “But we haven’t even had dinner. I heard a rumor there was flan—”

“Lord Melton’s watching me. He’s over there, by the orchestra, with his friend Lord Mowbray.”

Luc was too intelligent to turn his head and look. He merely nodded and smiled, as if still engrossed in conversation. “Ah. Do we know why?”

“It is entirely possible that her face and person have attracted his notice,” Camille said. “From what I hear, Lord Melton is one of those connoisseurs we were discussing earlier.”

“I don’t think that’s likely,” Emmy breathed. “The man’s been linked with some of the most beautiful women in town. I hardly think he’d spare me a glance. If I’ve gained his attention, it’s because he’s suspicious, not amorous.”

“Did he see you at Rundell and Bridge this morning?” Luc asked sharply. “I told you it was a bad idea.”

“I am certain he did not.” Emmy maintained her smile despite her irritation. “Give me some credit. But still, I think it would be wise to leave now. I do not relish the thought of being cornered by him at the buffet.”

Luc nodded. “Agreed. ‘Discretion is the better part of valor,’ as Shakespeare said. Help me rise. We can make our escape as soon as dinner is called. My desire for flan will have to wait.”

With perfect timing, two servants appeared at the doors that led into Lady Turnbull’s dining room and announced that supper was served. Emmy, Luc, and Camille used the mass exodus to wend their way across the ballroom. It was slow going; everyone was trying to go in the opposite direction. Emmy turned to locate Harland and discovered that he, too, was pushing his way through the crowd, making a beeline directly for her.

The thought was enough to give her steps an extra urgency. She ushered Luc up the stairs, silently cursing his slowness, and glanced back again, her heart in her throat, certain that Harland would be upon them.

But fate, it seemed, was on her side. The Dowager Duchess of Winwick, his companion’s great-aunt, had waylaid them. Good manners dictated the two men stop and acknowledge the woman, and Emmy smiled when she saw the delighted dowager clasp the elbows of both Harland and her nephew in her gnarly fingers so they could escort her in to dinner.

She spent the trip home to Waverton Street trying to dismiss Harland’s attention as mere coincidence. Doubtless he used the same tactic to put wallflowers such as herself out of countenance. It was probably a game between himself and Wolff, to see which ladies they could discompose the quickest.

The coach had barely pulled up at the front steps when Sally appeared at the door, looking uncharacteristically agitated. She must have been listening for the carriage. She ushered them into the front parlor.

Luc lowered himself into a chair with a grimace. “What’s wrong, Sal?”

“We’ve had a visitor.”

Camille glanced at the clock on the mantel. “At this hour? It’s almost midnight.”

“That’s what I tried to tell ’im,” Sally said, sinking into the vacant seat beside Luc. “But the gentleman”—she spat the word like an insult—“was insistent.”

“Who was it?” Emmy asked.

“Yer blackmailin’ Frenchie, that’s who.”

Camille sucked in a shocked breath, and Luc’s hand clenched on the arm of his chair. “Danton? He didn’t hurt you, did he? By God, if he did—”

Sally shook her head. “Nah. ’E were pleasant enough. Too pleasant, if you ask me. I seen ’is kind at the theatre.