To Catch an Earl - Kate Bateman Page 0,21

unsuccessfully to pull her back.

* * *

Alex was not impressed by Lord Elgin’s marbles. They seemed to consist of an endless procession of headless riders dressed in little more than bath sheets trying to control overly frisky mounts. If the Greeks wanted them back—and he wasn’t sure why they would—they were welcome to them.

He was about to return to the Tricorn when his nose detected the same scent he’d experienced outside Rundell & Bridge. He stilled in shock. His heart began to pound against his rib cage, and for one moment, he experienced an almost overwhelming surge of happiness.

The girl from the garden. She was here! Fate was giving him a second chance.

She must be remarkably close. It had been months since anyone had managed to sneak up on him without attracting his attention; he was usually far more conscious of people coming at him from his blind side. The marble sculptures must have concealed her approach.

He was almost afraid to turn around. “Never meet your heroes,” the old adage said, and the same was doubtless true for mysterious dance partners. What real-life flesh-and-blood woman could hope to compete with three years of dedicated fantasizing? She was bound to be a disappointment. Married. Or plain. Or cross-eyed.

Still, he had to know.

Bracing himself as if for a blow, Alex turned and encountered a froth of brown hair done up in an elaborate feminine style. He readjusted his gaze downward—the owner of the hair was a good foot shorter than himself—and found himself looking into a pair of wide grey eyes set in a pale, elfin face.

The same face he’d studied across Lady Turnbull’s ballroom last night.

He experienced an instant’s confusion and then a wave of bitter disillusionment incinerated every last ounce of optimism in his soul.

He’d always suspected fate was a perverse bitch, but even he couldn’t have predicted this cruel twist. Of course his mystery woman would be the prime suspect in a series of impossible crimes. And of course she would be beautiful, in that subtle, understated way that had always appealed to him most.

Alex bit back a cynical laugh and narrowed his eyes. It made an awful kind of sense. How much energy had he wasted, dreaming of her? He should have known she was too good to be true.

This close, he could see details he hadn’t noticed at Lady Turnbull’s. Her eyes were grey, with pale, silvery flecks. Her nose was small and tilt-tipped—the word “impertinent” sprang to mind—and the bridge of it was unmistakably freckled. She had a beauty spot half an inch below her left eye.

He let his gaze drop lower and almost groaned. Her lips were exactly as he remembered. Those lips had laughed at him from beneath a Venetian mask. Those lips had pressed against his in innocent ardor and left him panting for more.

Those lips were utter, pink perfection.

“Lord Melton?”

Alex blinked. A throaty female voice to his right interrupted his self-flagellation.

“Good morning! I am Camille Danvers, Comtesse de Rougemont. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I knew your mother, years ago. Such a charming lady. I still miss her terribly.”

Remembering his manners, Alex lifted the older lady’s hand to his lips. “A pleasure, madam. And thank you, but I barely remember her. She died when I was but six years old.”

The countess gave him a studied appraisal. “She was a handsome woman, and I must say you’ve certainly inherited her good looks.” She gestured to the tiny traitor beside her. “Allow me to introduce my granddaughter, Emmeline.”

Alex took the hand that was offered, amazed at how small it seemed within his own. They were both wearing gloves, but the shock of the contact still sent a sizzle of something—anger, definitely anger—all the way down to his toes.

He brought her hand up to his lips, and at the last moment, seized by a wicked impulse, twisted it and pressed his mouth to the inch of exposed wrist between glove and sleeve.

The scent of her robbed him of breath, and he took a perverse satisfaction in her shocked gasp as his lips touched the bare skin over her fluttering pulse.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Danvers,” he growled.

At last.

Chapter 8.

Emmy was quite certain her heart was about give out. She snatched her hand back as Harland straightened and resisted the urge to thrust it behind her back. The skin on her wrist tingled.

Harland’s reaction was confusing. When he’d first turned around, he’d been smiling in welcome, but an instant later