in the nude alongside his guests could not be forgotten. Occasionally, his guests could select their desserts from the body of a naked woman. It made for an excellent table scape. Besides, how many stuffy lords could honestly say they had plucked a berry tartlet from a beautiful woman’s rouged nipple?
But the table before him, carefully decorated with flowers and whatnots and sparkling silver and candles and a bloody floating miniature boat in the center, was decidedly not as interesting. To be fair, the Countess of Sinclair was remarkably adept as a hostess. She possessed a natural charm that made every gathering she helmed smoother than the ordinary dull societal events he had occasionally attended in the past because some lord or other wished to solicit advice or to sell him something.
Even so, there was one reason he had decided to attend his second dinner party hosted by Sin and his countess in as many weeks. For as much as Decker loved Sin like a brother, that love had a limit, and engaging in societal nonsense more than once a month was it.
However, Sin had let it slip that Lady Jo Danvers would be in attendance.
What Decker had not anticipated was that Jo would be seated far enough away from him to render conversing with her nearly impossible without hollering over the bouquets of roses and the flickering candles and the damned soup tureen. In keeping with Lady Sinclair’s standard flouting of convention, the guests were seated in order of precedence, but rather injudiciously—at least, to Decker’s mind—sprinkled about the table. That was why, he told himself, he remained so damned nettled as he watched Jo engaging in conversation with the Earl of Huntingdon, who he could have sworn was either already or nearly betrothed.
At least she had taken a break from speaking to Quenington, who was somehow present as well.
No assignation attempts with Lord Q in your future, my girl, he thought grimly as he forked up a bite of rice and smoked fish. Kedgeree, he realized belatedly, having paid absolutely no attention to most of the courses thus far. For dinner? Another one of Lady Sinclair’s idiosyncrasies, he supposed, as it was ordinarily a breakfast dish.
Anyway, he cared naught for the food gracing his plate. All he cared about was her. As soon as he got away from the damned table, and as soon as he could find his way to the drawing room, or the music room, or wherever the hell he could find a moment to speak with her, Lady Jo was his.
Yes, the lady is mine.
That sounded right. It felt right, to his very core, straight to the marrow of him. Even if she was smiling at Huntingdon in a way that made Decker long to smash his fist into the sanctimonious bastard’s teeth. Decker had been waiting to arrange their next meeting because he had wanted to put some much-needed time and distance between that last, incendiary encounter and their next.
But seeing her again this evening proved to him that he could not wait. His hunger for her had only grown in the hours since they had parted ways after he had escorted her into the shadows of Ravenscroft’s townhome.
“Mr. Decker?”
The soft voice at his side tore him, at last, from his frenzied musings. Frenzied? Hell—more like jealous, possessive, mad. Yes, those descriptors were far more apt. He was clearly in need of distraction.
He turned to Lady Helena Davenport, who was tall, blonde, and garrulous—quite the opposite of the pocket-sized, dark-haired, quiet Lady Jo. “Forgive me my deplorable manners, my lady. I am doing my utmost to improve them, but I am afraid it may be a hopeless cause.”
Her lips twitched with amusement, her lively emerald eyes dancing. “Surely not hopeless, Mr. Decker? However, I must confess I am rather dismayed you did not hear my discussion of the latest bonnets from Paris.”
The latest bonnets from Paris?
He could not contain his grimace. “Truly?”
She chuckled, the sound low and throaty. If he were not so thoroughly besotted with Jo, he would have been attracted to Lady Helena. She was an incredibly lovely woman. But she was not the woman who had been driving him to distraction for the last few days. Or, if he were brutally honest with himself, ever since he had first met her.
“I was teasing, Mr. Decker,” Lady Helena said. “You do not look like the sort of gentleman who would appreciate discussing the vagaries of millinery.”