pushing his hand through his hair again, this time in restlessness. He hadn’t intended to be out of town. He’d hoped to use the Easter lull as a chance to catch up on paperwork, go over the League’s accounts and maybe work with some of the new escorts before the Season. But perhaps a house party was what he needed to shake himself out of these megrims. He did admit, even in his current state of exhaustion, a twinge of curiosity over meeting a woman who’d managed to rout Amery DeHart.
He hoped the party had a decent hostess. He should have asked Amery where it was being held. The right activities were the key to any house party’s success. If not, given his current state of mind, this was going to be the house party from hell, no matter how ‘Continental’ Elizabeth Morgan was.
Chapter Two
This was going to be the house party from hell. Lady Lionel’s Easter getaway was not where the sophisticated and worldly Comtesse de Charentes would have chosen to be of her own accord. The venue promised to be bland and boring, the mediocre tone of the guests currently assembled already attesting to her hypothesis. But the comtesse had a mission and it had to be accomplished here. She was looking for men, two men to be precise.
The comtesse surveyed Lady Lionel’s drawing room with a cool sweep of her eyes, her aloof exterior giving away none of the hot temper that simmered beneath the surface.
Her eyes landed briefly on her quarry: Roland Seymour. Her pulse quickened, her temper rising at the sight of him. The bastard stood twenty feet away and she could do nothing, yet. But when the time came, she was going to rip his balls off. Seymour had stolen money most insidiously from her family and then attempted to compromise her sister into marriage in order for the family to make their money back. But Seymour had made a tactical mistake there. No one touched her sister. One bad marriage in the family was enough. That was where ball-ripping came in. For that, she needed the second man, who was most notable by his absence.
Another sweep of the room confirmed Amery DeHart wasn’t there. She certainly hoped he’d arrive soon. At the least he’d liven things up, at the best she could start to put her plan into motion. Without him, she could not effect the introduction to Seymour she needed.
Aside from what was going to be a tardy arrival, she liked the young escort with his manners and wit. Her plans for his balls were somewhat gentler than what she’d planned for Seymour, although she couldn’t imagine actually bedding DeHart with any large degree of interest. In her experience, young men in bed usually lacked a certain finesse. She appreciated something a bit more refined when it came to the art of amour. Not that she was in the market for an affaire. There was no time for such a dalliance. She was, however, in the market for revenge and that made DeHart’s easy-going mannerisms useful.
She was counting on him to befriend Seymour and then introduce her. His introduction would make it easier for her to insinuate herself into Seymour’s circles without raising suspicions. Once in, she would take things from there.
A stir at the doorway drew the comtesse’s eye. A surge of energy flowed from the hall. Amery must be here at last. It was the kind of excitement his presence could generate. She smiled, relieved. She hated to be kept waiting, it made her anxious. But her smile froze when a different man stepped through the doorway: Channing Deveril. The most arrogant Englishman to walk the earth. Out of all the house parties in England, he’d chosen this one. Well, that made three sets of balls she’d have to deal with.
She wanted to be wrong, but even at a distance there was no mistaking those blond good looks, the tall, slender grace of his movements, the impeccable fashion with which he wore his clothes. Today it was a coat of blue superfine, the buff trousers tightly fitted to show the perfection of his physique and perfectly polished high boots. There was a sensuality to everything he did. Even the simple gesture of greeting their hostess took on an intimate cast as she watched him bow over Lady Lionel’s hand. She had not seen him in over a year, not since they’d parted badly at a Christmas house party she’d hired him to escort her to, and it was like seeing him all over again for the first time, so striking was his appearance. A woman could look at him all day and never tire of the view. But it would not be in her best interest.
The comtesse knew how dangerous all that handsome sensuality was. Beneath the good looks and laughing blue eyes lay a master of bedroom politics. She’d experienced a tangle in those sheets on two occasions. The first time had been in Paris, a brief but explosive affair during her marriage that had not been carnally consummated, but had not been less explosive for the lack of it. It had ended poorly and that had admittedly been her fault for even starting it. She’d been young, desperate, vulnerable. But the second time—oh, the second time she held him fully accountable.
It had been here in England a few years later. She had hired him as an escort who could help her reintegrate into decent society after so many years abroad. It was to have been business only between two mature adults who knew the rules. She had not understood how deeply he held Paris against her, or how compelling he could be, how he could make her believe it wasn’t only business for him. He’d made her believe what he felt for her wasn’t only a job, but genuine emotion, and then he’d dropped the pretence most cruelly. In doing so, he’d had his revenge. She had yet to forgive him. No one made a fool out of the Comtesse de Charentes. Roland Seymour was about to become one example of that and Channing Deveril could be the second if he chose to engage.
She could make it easy on them both and await Amery in the gardens just outside. But the thought occurred too late. Before she could quietly slip outside, Channing spied her and she was caught in the web of his blue gaze.
He inclined his head in her direction in sardonic acknowledgement and query, his eyes registering quickly veiled surprise over her presence. What was she doing here? She returned his nod with the cool, regal smile she’d cultivated for the men of Paris, the smile that invited men to look, but reminded them they touched at their own peril.
Well, at least she could take consolation in the fact that Channing’s presence meant Amery was close behind. It stood to reason that, as friends, Amery and Channing would have shared a coach and come together. It was not beyond the scope of possibility that Channing had been hired by another lady at the party. But a glance beyond Channing into the hall revealed nothing. Perhaps Amery was still out at the coach, making arrangements for his trunks.
A few minutes more passed and Amery had still not appeared, although Channing continued to linger by the door, talking with the hostess. Something was wrong. Lady Lionel’s fair brows had knitted together in consternation, just before Channing took his leave and began to cross the room towards her.
Within moments he stood before her, bowing over her hand much as he’d bowed over Lady Lionel’s. ‘The Comtesse de Charentes, enchanté, although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.’ The blue eyes holding hers were full of mischief, secretly laughing. Channing was always laughing with his eyes, with his mouth. It had, unfortunately, been a rather endearing quality in the past.
‘I have a bit of a dilemma and I thought perhaps you could help? I am looking for a guest, only Lady Lionel is not familiar with her, which I find extremely odd. After all, it’s her party and her guest list.’
‘And you thought you’d ask me,’ she finished with cold politeness.
‘Well, yes, since you seem to know these sorts of things.’
She understood the mischief in his eyes now. It was true. She did know everyone. She’d made it a point to know as many people as possible since her return from the Continent over a year ago. She’d been gone too long and acquaintances had lapsed. She’d done her best to restore those lines of friendship, although not everyone had welcomed her overtures. But it was more than that. ‘These sorts of things’ implied
