around at the edge of the dance floor watching her like a slavering dog. Everyone knew he didn’t run after females. They ran after him. And the only ones who caught him were those who were interested in nothing but good times and no ties. As far as the world was concerned, she must be no different from his usual fare.
The stakes at his chosen table were high enough to account for his inner tension. Yet the urge to return to the ballroom and see if he had imagined the whole attraction tugged at his mind. He raised the stakes to the groans of his companions. And again when he won. Their gazes turned questioning. He could read their minds. Had he cheated?
With studied slowness, he abandoned his place, picking up his winnings to disapproving stares, and headed out into the mêlée of swirling skirts and sparkling jewels. Despite the crowds, his eyes found her immediately. A mysterious woman who shimmered among lesser gems. Lust grabbed him low in his gut.
Devil take it, whether he was right and she was sent by an enemy or not, he was going to have regrets.
He bit back a curse.
* * *
The supper dance was a cotillion. To Nicky’s delight, Mooreshead proved himself a skilled and graceful dancer. Graceful in a manly way. He was always just where one expected him to be, never turning the wrong way or forgetting a figure. And he conversed easily. No matter how difficult the step, his eyes said he was thinking of nothing but his partner. It was a skill few men managed with any great success. She was impressed.
‘How are you enjoying London?’ he asked as they came together, hands linked in a turn.
‘I find it exceedingly respectable.’
A fair brow shot up. The ice in his eyes warmed with amusement. ‘You would prefer it otherwise?’
The dance parted them and she smiled at her new partner, who turned red and stumbled.
Mooreshead rejoined her at the top of the set and they passed down the lines between the other couples.
‘I do not have a preference for things not respectable,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘But I do find it a little dull.’
‘Then it seems the gentlemen in London are failing you badly.’
Ah, there it was, the offer for them to become closer. They separated at the end of the line. Three figures later, they joined hands for a fast turn. A shiver ran down her spine at their touch despite the layers of their gloves. Anticipation. Followed quickly by annoyance. Yes, the man was attractive. No woman could ignore the classically carved features of his face, or the sensual mobility of his mouth, or even the way the candlelight glinted gold in his hair, but she must never forget he was a traitor with the potential to cause the loss of hundreds of lives. Perhaps even thousands. And not just soldiers. Innocent lives. A cold calm filled her chest. Her work was too important to let her desire for a handsome man make her starry-eyed.
She arched a brow. ‘I presume you think you would do better.’
A take-it-or-leave-it grin lit his face. So devil-may-care her stomach gave a pleasurable little hop. ‘I know I would.’ His deep voice was a velvet caress.
A tingle of warmth low in her abdomen cut short her breath. No. This was not about her desires. Duty came first. And Minette. Only by keeping her distance could she trap him successfully. He had to believe her indifferent. There was nothing more alluring to a man for whom women routinely swooned, than one who remained elusive.
She gave a non-committal shrug. ‘So you say.’
Something flashed in his eyes. Frustration? Annoyance? Or something warmer? Only time would tell. He forbore to make any further comment, leaving her in the dark and awaiting his next move.
The dance concluded. It was time to adjourn for supper and she placed a hand on his forearm. It was a forearm with the strength of steel beneath an elegantly tailored coat of the finest cloth. Her fingers tingled with a longing to explore the detail of that strength. A surprising reaction, since in her experience, beneath their trappings, fashionable men either ran to fat or scrawniness. But not Mooreshead. The man looked to have the physique of a Greek god. It was a theory she would likely have an opportunity to test in the not-too-distant future.
To achieve her goal. Nothing more.
The cream-and-gold room set aside for supper was tastefully arranged with small, round tables that allowed guests to eat and talk in small groups after selecting their own food from the sideboard against one wall. He held both their plates in one large hand, while she selected the morsels she fancied: lobster patties, oysters and little, fancy cakes. He led her to a table in the corner. A perfect place from which they could watch the room as a whole and no one could approach without advanced warning.
It was the table she would have chosen if given the option.
As if by tacit agreement, no one else made an attempt to join them. It was not surprising, for they both lived on the fringes of good society. She knew that about him, even as he must know the same about her.
‘No doubt all the gentlemen you have met tonight have told you how stunning you look,’ Mooreshead said. ‘May I therefore say how honoured I am that you chose to take supper with me?’
‘Why, my lord, you have a silver tongue as well as good looks.’
‘My lady is too kind.’
‘D’accord. It seems we have reached a fine understanding of one another.’
His chuckle in response sounded so natural she was enchanted. Not something she wished to be at all. Not with him. She must keep a straight head on her shoulders.
‘You must have been in England a long time,’ he said. ‘Your speech is impeccable.’
‘Merci. I left France after the death of my husband.’ She too could avoid the provision of useful facts.
He frowned as he attempted the calculation of age and circumstances. He would likely think her young to be a wife, let alone a widow. Appearances were deceiving. He would be horrified to know she’d been wed for nearly five years by the time she was twenty. ‘It must have been a very difficult time,’ he murmured in a tone that invited confidences.
‘I survived when many did not.’
‘You are to be congratulated on your escape.’
It was what she kept telling herself. As they so often did, the images of the fire flashed before her mind. The face of the soldier, Captain Chiroux, a demon’s mask of satisfaction in the glare of the flames. If she had realised... But it was too late to change what she had done. She could only hope Minette had somehow survived, then she would indeed feel fortunate to have escaped from France. If not, then there was only regret.
‘Where have you been until now?’ he asked.
‘Waiting for you.’
His eyes widened. And then he laughed. Yet the shadows deep in those icy-blue eyes gave his laugh the lie. The danger he exuded was not merely that of a male in pursuit of pleasure, though that was certainly there in good measure, the shadows hinted at darker pursuits that chilled her very soul.
She widened her eyes in feigned innocence. ‘I see you do not believe me.’ She gave
