Lady Rosabella's Ruse - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,9

a fraction, she had the feeling he would kiss her.

Her lips tingled at the thought of how his mouth might feel on her lips. Her body ached to be held close to that magnificent breadth of chest. A moan of longing rose in her throat and only by dint of will did she stop from giving it voice.

Heaven help her, he was tempting. The man was a rake and a libertine and he thought her a widow. An experienced woman.

Her heart banged a fearful tattoo against her ribs. Her blood ran in rivers of molten lava. Did he know the effect he was having? A swift glance into his eyes told her he had no doubt about what he was doing. He was playing with her. Tormenting her the way a cat toyed with a mouse.

‘Let me pass,’ she said, knowing she was begging for release, not from physical restraint, but from the spell holding her enthralled.

‘Tell me where you went and I will let you pass. If you are sure you really want to go.’

She swallowed. ‘How many times must I repeat myself before you believe me?’

His smile turned hard. He stepped back and bowed. He gestured for her to continue on. ‘Then I must bid you goodnight and hope you find sleep.’

A breath she didn’t know she’d been holding rushed from her parted lips. Ignominiously, she ducked her head and scuttled past him. For some reason, she felt curiously disappointed.

Oh, dear. It seemed she really had wanted that kiss.

The showers of last evening had turned into a steady drizzling rain overnight. Most of the company gathered in the library around two in the afternoon. Tucked in a quiet corner at her employer’s elbow with her needlework, Rosa forced herself to hide her impatience for the day to be over and her night of searching to begin.

Her only fear was Stanford saying something to Lady Keswick and preventing her from going back to Gorham Place tonight. He couldn’t.

Digger snuffled and snorted through his dreams, using her feet as his own special pillow.

While the men conversed about the sports news in desultory tones, the elegant ladies compared notes on various creams and potions designed to improve their complexions. Lady Smythe and Lord Stanford had yet to put in an appearance.

Every so often, Lord Bannerby kept looking at the door with a frown. Poor man. He was clearly suffering.

The door opened and Lady Smythe sauntered in dressed in a morning gown of blue muslin with rows and rows of diamond-pointed lace at the hem and cuff. Her copper-coloured curls created a halo around her head. She looked like a fairy queen. ‘It is still raining,’ she announced.

Observant as well as beautiful. Oh, dear. Was the acerbic wit of these ladies rubbing off? It wasn’t Lady Smythe’s fault her petite beauty made Rosa feel ungainly.

The various groups scattered around the room looked up and offered greetings.

‘What on earth will we do now?’ Lady Smythe said. Her rosy lips formed tragic lines. ‘We were to go riding. I had my outfit all picked out. It took me ages to find something else.’

An excuse for her tardiness? And still no sign of Lord Stanford.

Bannerby leapt to his feet to kiss her hand and lead her to his recently occupied chair. ‘My dear Lady Smythe, we were only waiting for you before we decided on the entertainment for the day.’

Clever Lord Bannerby elicited a brilliant, if brittle, smile. ‘What did you have in mind?’

As if there had been some unseen signal, the company slowly gathered around her.

Lady Keswick cast her newspaper aside. She’d chosen a blond wig today, with ringlets above the ears and tiny curls across her forehead. ‘Now we will see some liveliness.’ Her smile turned her cheeks into rouge-painted apples. ‘I like to see young people enjoying themselves.’

‘Why don’t we put on a play? Daniel has several he is working on.’ Mrs Phillips, a buxom brunette just past her first bloom, looked adoringly at her aesthetic playwright husband. For all his severe appearance, he was a nice man, if rather led around by the nose by his wife. He was always courteous to Rosa, who would have liked to have talked to him more about the theatre. His wife’s glares kept her at bay.

‘Charades is better,’ Fitzwilliam said. ‘A play requires the learning of lines and will take more than a week of hard work.’ He smothered a yawn behind his hand. ‘Who knows, it might be fine tomorrow and then all