evening garb.
‘Good evening, Miss Winslow. Servant, Dunhaven.’
Thea blinked. Anything less servant-like than Richard’s clipped tones would have been hard to imagine. He sounded as though he’d swallowed a razor blade made of ice. Even his bow held an arrogance that reminded her all at once that he was after all the son of an earl, one of the damn-your-eyes Blakehursts: assured, at home in the ton for all his scholarly nature.
The contrast between the two men was startling. Very few would have described Richard’s evening clothes as stylish, but somehow the comfortably fitted coat over broad, lean shoulders had a greater elegance than Dunhaven’s tightly fitted and, she suspected, padded coat. Dunhaven dripped with expensive fobs, rings and a very large diamond blazed in his cravat. Richard’s jewellery consisted of a pearl nestled quietly in his cravat and a plain gold ring.
Dunhaven looked his disdain. ‘Ah, Mr Blakehurst, is it not? How surprising to see you here.’
A spurt of anger shot through Thea at the sneering tone, but Richard merely looked amused.
‘Is it, Dunhaven? I assure you that I overcome my boredom with this sort of thing quite regularly enough for the hostesses not to completely despair of my attendance.’ He smiled at Thea. ‘Good evening, Miss Winslow. May I take you to find some champagne?’
Thea blinked. As simple as that.
‘Certainly, sir. That would be lovely. I’m sure his lordship will excuse me.’
Dunhaven’s hand came across and settled in hard possession on Thea’s fingers, clamping them to his arm. ‘There is no need, Miss Winslow. I shall be happy to escort you and find you something suitable for a lady to drink. Some ratafia, I think you would prefer.’
Not the usual paralysing fear, but anger surged through her. With a sharp movement, she slid her fingers from under Dunhaven’s grip. Telling her what to do was bad enough, but presuming to tell her what she would like was going entirely too far. Besides, she didn’t like ratafia.
‘Dunhaven! Just the man I was looking for.’
The newcomer was familiar to Thea. Tall, with jet-black hair and brilliant, deep blue eyes—surely … Shock lurched through her—yes, it was David’s friend, Julian Trentham … only he had succeeded now to his father’s title—Viscount Braybrook.
He smiled at her and bowed. ‘Miss Winslow. Braybrook at your service. Friend of your brother’s, if you recall? You won’t mind if I steal Dunhaven, will you? Blakehurst here will look after you.’ He glanced at Richard, ‘Won’t you, old chap?’
Richard’s mouth twitched. ‘I think that could be managed.’
Thea’s gaze narrowed, despite her suddenly pounding heart. There was something wicked in Lord Braybrook’s limpid blue eyes. However, she wasn’t fool enough to reject a lifeline, no matter how it presented itself. ‘Of … of course.’ She seized the opportunity to step away from Dunhaven. Richard caught her hand and set it on his arm, anchoring it there and again that shock of awareness jolted through her at his touch. Dazed, she met Braybrook’s gaze, but the bright eyes told her nothing—what would David have told him? Could he possibly know any of the truth?
‘You’ll excuse us, gentlemen.’ Richard’s clipped voice shook her back to herself, and he drew her away through the crowd.
‘What the devil are you playing at?’ he muttered, and nodded curtly at an acquaintance smiling at him. ‘Dunhaven, of all men! He’s desperate to marry again and sire an heir. He’s looking for a bride! A nice, young, fertile bride to bear his sons!’
‘He’s also a friend of my father’s!’ said Thea, blushing scarlet at Richard’s blunt assessment. ‘I can’t just cut him, or snub him, when—’
‘Then let Almeria do it for you!’ came the riposte. ‘Trust me, she’ll be only too happy to see him off with a flea in his ear!’
She didn’t doubt that for a moment, but—
‘Even Lady Arnsworth can’t do that when my father has practically given his blessing to the match!’ she snapped.
‘What?’They were near an open door, and Richard whirled her through it and along a corridor. He opened another door and she found herself whisked into the library. It was empty, lit by a single lamp. Even in her annoyance she could not repress a spurt of amusement. Trust Richard to know the location of the library.
He faced her in the dim light. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Dunhaven is old enough to be your father! You can’t be serious!’
Furious that he could even think she might accept such a match, Thea glared at him. ‘Perhaps you might care to mention that to Aberfield?’
‘I would if I thought it would have the least effect! For God’s sake, Thea! Dunhaven’s a complete wart. He’s so desperate to cut his brother out of the succession, it’s a wonder he hasn’t found a young enough widow with a couple of brats to her credit!’
The moment the words were out of his mouth he knew he’d said the wrong thing. She flinched, as though he had struck her, and the colour drained from her face.
Something white hot jolted through Richard. He caught her arm, steadying her, feeling her tremble. ‘Thea! Are you all right?’
‘He couldn’t!’ she whispered. ‘Even Aberfield wouldn’t do that to me!’
Richard slipped his arm around her waist to support her, and she shook her head very slightly as if to clear it, tensing. Ignoring her attempt to pull away, he guided her to a sofa and eased her down onto it, seating himself beside her.
‘Just sit,’ he told her.
Her chin came up. ‘I am perfectly well, thank you.’
‘Dammit, Thea—you are not all right!’ he said furiously. ‘You nearly fainted!’
‘I did not!’ she snapped. ‘I was merely a little dizzy. It’s … it’s stuffy in here! Look, I must go back—if we’re caught here together!’
There would be the very devil to pay. He’d be offering for her immediately. Surprisingly the idea didn’t send the usual battle alert along his nerves.
‘I can think of worse fates,’ he told her. ‘For both of us.’
The mere thought of Dunhaven touching her in any way at all had something growling inside him—a clawed beast with a distinctly greenish cast to its eyes.
Blue eyes snapped fire at him in the dim light. ‘But you said you don’t want to marry me, so—’
‘The devil I did!’ he growled. And right now, with that pink gown hinting at feminine mysteries, the delicate lace edge at her breasts that tempted a man to slide his finger beneath to tease velvet-soft flesh—he tore his mind free of its imaginings and concentrated on reality.
Reality was glaring at him. ‘Yes, you did. At breakfast!’
‘I never said that,’ he told her bluntly. ‘I told you I wouldn’t marry you for your fortune. First rule of scholarship:
