Something feral and hungry sharpened its claws in Tony’s gut even as he noticed she had not supplied her name. Damnation, he was mad, because instead of bidding her farewell, he took her hand and pressed his lips to the filmy lace covering her fingers.
The view of creamy breasts rising from plush red velvet, and the shadows in their valley sucked the breath from his chest. Even so, he inhaled the subtle fragrance of lavender. “The pleasure is all mine.” He was surprised at the low growl in his voice
She tilted her head, a flicker of amber in warm brown eyes. Interest. Perhaps even challenge. Definitely not fear.
She withdrew her fingers slowly, lingeringly.
He regretted the loss. “I was looking for something to eat. May I escort you to the dining room?” He blasted well hoped food was laid out somewhere, because he needed something to counteract his light-headedness.
“Why not?” she said, rising.
Only then, did the full glory of her figure reveal itself. Full bosomed, tall for a woman—almost his height in fact—and with long, elegant limbs, she embodied each and every aspect of female charm he preferred.
Perhaps he wasn’t in such a hurry to depart, after all. Dash it. Hadn’t he said less than five minutes ago that he didn’t want any commitments? He held out his arm.
Margaret put her hand on the sleeve of the man holding out his arm with élan, felt muscle and sinew beneath the dark blue superfine coat as they walked. An athletic man, as lithe and sleek as a racehorse. Quite beautiful, in fact. Unlike the bear-like Russians to whom she’d become accustomed, this man oozed finesse. And he was tall. Lovely and tall.
She studied his profile. Handsome in that narrow-faced, rather vulnerable English way, he’d looked too young at first glance. On closer inspection, the cynical mouth and the world-weary silver-gray eyes marked him as older. Around her age, or a little older, some thirty summers, she guessed. He glanced at her, caught her staring. The flicker of heat in the depths of his steely gaze had the same effect as too many glasses of champagne on her blood. A dizzy sort of breathlessness.
“I don’t suppose you know where we might find supper?” he asked with a heart-stopping smile, his deep voice hinting at seduction. The dark, wicked places in her body responded with a delicious thrill. This man positively created havoc on her senses.
“Aah,” she said, indicating the direction. “This is your first visit to Lady Falstow’s infamous establishment.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “But not yours?”
“No indeed.” In a rash moment of utter abandon, she bit back the information that her only previous visit was for afternoon tea. After all, such an admission would weaken the armor of scarlet gown and carefully constructed air of confidence. After five minutes alone with young Radcliffe, she’d decided her wild flight of fancy to experience a little danger, to savor some of the joys she’d missed these past many years, wasn’t really her cup of tea. Now she was wondering if perhaps this man could change her mind. It was a long time since her heart had fluttered, and right now it beat within her chest like a caged wild bird. A heady and youthful sensation she’d almost forgotten.
“This must be it,” Darby said, ushering her into a room at the back of the house. A table set with epergnes and covered dishes lined the wall opposite the door. Artfully scattered small round tables allowed for groups of guests to talk, while equally tasteful screens permitted an element of privacy for those who wished it.
Margaret tensed at the sight of an inebriated noble plying his female companion with champagne. Couples and groups also occupied some of the other tables. An army of burly footmen hovered throughout the cream and gold painted room ready to intercede, as her ladyship had promised, should matters get out of hand. Margaret wasn’t ready for this. She wished they’d remained in the drawing room’s seclusion.
Their hostess, a gargantuan figure in a gown of gold tissue, and shimmering with diamonds, circulated among her guests, her plump face beaming, her be-ringed hands gesturing volubly. She surged towards them in a tidal wave of hastily moved chairs. “There you are,” she cried. “I heard you’d gone off with young Radcliffe. I was about to send Peter—” she gestured vaguely at one of her minions “—to see if you were all right.”
A rush of warmth filled Margaret. It had been a long time since anyone cared about her comfort. “Thank you. As you can see, I am quite rescued already.”
Lady Falstow turned her gaze on Margaret’s escort. “Darby, isn’t it?”
He bowed. “Good evening, my lady. I regret I did not see you when I first arrived.”
“Came with the Everndens, did you not? The youngest brother is going to ruin me.”
“I hope not, my lady.” Darby grimaced as his gaze swept the room. “You have a full house tonight?”
Apparently, he also did not relish the crowd.
“Looking for a quieter spot, are you?” Lady Falstow tapped Darby on the shoulder. “Tell the fellow at the buffet what you would like, and run along to the conservatory where it is quiet.”
A perceptive woman, Lady Falstow. Margaret lowered her lashes, fearing her eagerness to flee the room might show. As Darby headed for the food, she pulled her hostess aside. “What do you know of him?” she asked in low tones.
“A younger son, I think. His friend Stanford’s a bit of a rake. Not sure I know much about Darby.” She frowned.
“Married?” For some odd reason, Margaret held her breath.
The older woman shrugged. “I don’t believe so. I’d have warned you off right away, if that were the case.”
Margaret winced. She needed more than a guess and Darby was headed their way with a bottle of champagne tucked under his arm and two flutes held in one large hand.
Lady Falstow leaned closer. “Take my advice. If you want to enjoy him to the full, don’t play the innocent.” She held out a sliver of metal. “This opens the door to the room I showed you. It is up to you whether you use it.” The heavily ringed hand caught Margaret’s as she reached for the key. “Courage, lass. If you change your mind, ring the bell. You will find one in every room. A footman will arrive in an instant. I promise, you will be fine. Not one of my ladies has ever complained about their treatment in this house.”
Swallowing, Margaret tucked the silver key into her reticule before Darby reached her side.
“Now,” he said with a smile sweet enough to make the older lady flutter her eyelashes. “Where is this conservatory?”
Lady Falstow fanned her face as if suddenly hot, sapphires, diamonds and rubies winking and glittering. “At the back of the house. Run along. The food will follow in a moment or two.”
They wandered in the direction indicated, and Darby opened an etched-glass panelled door.
Margaret gasped. A glass cathedral met her gaze. The domed structure ran the length of the side of the house. Air, warm and moist and redolent with fragrance, filled her lungs. Orange trees, lemons and limes too, lined the walks among splashes of red, yellow and blue blossoms.
“Look at this,” Darby said, indicating a long stem crowned with waxy petals of the palest
