to Francesca Haughston about Irene’s failure to marry. She could well imagine how Maura would have smiled sweetly as she spoke of how sorry she felt for poor, unwanted Irene.
Irene set her jaw and cast a glance over at her companion. Would Francesca Haughston have any interest in doing Maura a favor? She could not imagine that the two of them were friends. Maura had only been around Lady Haughston a few times, and only in large social settings. And it seemed unlikely that Francesca would have sought out Maura’s friendship. However much Irene regarded Francesca as frivolous, she knew that Francesca was not goose-ish. She was a sophisticated hostess, a light of the ton. Her favor was pursued by many, and she was knowledgeable about the world and about people. Francesca surely would not be fooled by Maura’s manner, nor would she be impressed by the fact that Maura was married to Lord Wyngate.
No, Irene thought it unlikely that Francesca would have been particularly interested in doing Maura a favor. And even though she and Irene moved in the same circle, Francesca was seven or eight years older than Irene, and the two of them had never been what Irene would have termed friends, so Irene did not think that Francesca would have been moved by Maura’s pleas into doing Irene a favor, either. Moreover, Irene could not forget that look of surprise on Maura’s face when Francesca had taken Irene away from them. Surely Maura was not that good at dissembling.
But that left the question of why Francesca had sought her out. Irene was not naive enough to think that it was simply because she was interested in Irene’s company.
“Lady Haughston…” Irene said abruptly, breaking into the amusing little on dit that Francesca was relating.
Francesca looked at her, somewhat surprised, and Irene realized that she had probably been rude again. It was a fault of which she was frequently accused.
“I beg your pardon,” Irene said. “I should not have interrupted you. But you have known me long enough to know that I believe in straight dealing. I cannot help but wonder why you asked me to promenade with you about the room.”
Francesca let out a little sigh. “I am aware of your preference for plain speaking. And while I am in general of the opinion that it is as easy to employ tact as to be blunt, I, too, find truth to be the best course. I asked you to accompany me because a longtime friend of my family asked me for a favor. I was asked to introduce you to someone who wishes to make your acquaintance.”
“What?” It was Irene’s turn to look astonished. “But who—Why—”
“I can only assume it is because he admires you,” Francesca answered, and smiled in that small catlike way she had, a little secretive and yet at the same time alluring.
Her words so took Irene aback that for a moment her mind was blank. Finally she rallied enough to retort, “Really, Lady Haughston, I am not fresh from the country. Do you expect me to believe that?”
“I see no reason why you should not,” Francesca responded, widening her eyes. “I do not know his reasons, of course. I did not think it my place to quiz him regarding his motives. However, I find that is commonly the reason why a gentleman wishes to meet a certain lady. Surely you do not count yourself so low that you think no man would find you worthy of his notice.”
Irene regarded Francesca thoughtfully. Lady Haughston had rather neatly boxed her in. Finally she said, “’Tis not false modesty. It is more that I have found I have a certain reputation among the ton that makes gentlemen disinclined to pursue my acquaintance.”
Francesca’s eyes danced with amusement, and her smile broadened. “A reputation, Lady Irene? Indeed, I cannot imagine what you mean.”
“I thought you believed truth was the best course,” Irene shot back. “We both know that I am regarded as something of a shrew.”
Francesca shrugged. “Ah, but while you are not fresh from the country, this gentleman is.”
“What?” Irene, puzzled, started to say more, but Francesca’s attention had focused on something over Irene’s shoulder, and she smiled. Irene dropped the rest of her words as she turned to see what had claimed Francesca’s attention.
It was a man. Tall and broad-shouldered, he strode toward them with purpose, and it seemed to Irene that those around him were dwarfed in comparison. It was not that he was so much larger than the other men, but there was a certain aura about him, a sense of toughness and strength, that set him apart.
His hair was jet-black, thick and a trifle long, giving him the faint look of a ruffian, despite the quality and cut of his clothes. His face was all angles and lines, with high, sharp cheekbones and a firm chin. The straight slashes of his eyebrows were as dark as his hair, and the eyes below them were an intense green.
She did not recognize him and yet there was something about him that tugged at her, some sense of familiarity that she could not place. Irene was aware of a peculiar sensation inside her, a dancing of nerves through her midsection that seemed both excitement and trepidation, mingled with another, unknown feeling that coiled down into her abdomen, hot and disturbing.
Who was this man?
“Ah, Lord Radbourne,” Francesca said, holding out her hand in greeting.
“Lady Haughston.” He bowed perfunctorily over her hand, and then his gaze slid past Francesca to Irene.
His eyes were not leering or bold, simply watchful, but there was a directness in them that was slightly unsettling. There was something different about him that intrigued her. She realized that she wanted to know more about him, that she wanted to talk to him, and the fact that she felt that way both surprised and annoyed her.
“Pray, allow me to introduce you to Lady Irene Wyngate,” Francesca went on smoothly, turning from him to Irene. “Lady Irene, I would like you to meet Gideon, the Earl of Radbourne. Lord Radbourne is Lady Pencully’s great-nephew.”
It dawned on Irene then exactly who their visitor was. He was the long-lost heir to the Bankes family fortune and name, around whom so much gossip had swirled over the last few months. Though she knew no one who could say they had actually met the man, she had heard a great deal about him. She had been told that he was a criminal, found in prison and hauled out of it by a powerful family member. Others had declared that he was mad, still others that he was simple-minded. A few had hinted at perversions the depths of which they could not even name in front of a lady. A number had held that he was deformed, hideous to look at.
Obviously the ones who had made the last assertion were wrong, Irene thought. She extended her hand, schooling her face into a polite expression that she hoped masked the leap of interest she had felt when she realized who he was. “How do you do, Lord Radbourne?”
“Lady Wyngate.” He took her hand, giving her the same brief sketch of a bow that he had given Francesca.
Irene felt a little frisson of excitement run through her hand at the brief touch of Radbourne’s fingers upon hers. It was absurd, of course, she told herself—the merest of touches, nothing more than a polite exchange that had happened on countless occasions. It meant nothing, indicated nothing…yet she could not deny that what she had felt was different from all the other times she had given her hand in greeting.
Irritation welled in her—with this man, with Francesca for manipulating her into meeting him, but most of all with herself for feeling this hitch of excitement and interest. It was most unlike her, and Irene found it decidedly annoying. She was, after all, a woman who always knew what she was about.
There
