laughed. “Positive.”
“Hmm. Then I suppose I shall have to go to Hortense and Harriet Thayer’s dinner party with Lady Sarah and her husband. Not nearly as much fun as you will have, I wager.”
“Wager? Very amusing, Dianthe. This is but the first step. I doubt I will do much wagering tonight. I only intend to accustom myself to the atmosphere and the customs—perhaps learn a game or two before I pit myself against Lord Geoffrey so that I will not look like a complete novice.”
“Has dear Ronnie asked you about your sudden interest in gambling?”
“He did indeed. It required a little more persuasion than I had anticipated to elicit his help. I simply told him that I wanted to do something new.”
Dianthe laughed. “I think he consented just to keep you from asking one of your other admirers to escort you. Still, it must have sent him into a tizzy.”
More like a rage!
Grace’s bedroom door flew open and Mrs. Dewberry stood there, looking for all the world as if the sky had fallen.
“Oh, Mrs. Forbush! There’s a man downstairs—a Red Indian! He wants in. I’ve tried to send him away, but he will not go.”
Dianthe stood and glanced toward the corridor, her eyes round with excitement. “A Red Indian? How very intriguing. I wonder what he could want.”
“I cannot imagine.” The last thing Grace wanted to deal with at the moment was a confused foreigner. Well, she’d simply have to give him directions and send him on his way. “Where did you leave him, Mrs. Dewberry?”
“In the library, Mrs. Forbush. Couldn’t very well leave him on the stoop, could I? What if the neighbors saw?”
Grace sighed. She was less concerned about what the neighbors would say than she was with the stranger himself. A Red Indian could be dangerous. What if she could not make him understand her, as Mrs. Dewberry had been unable to do? She composed herself and hurried down the stairs. She wanted to be rid of the man before Lord Barrington arrived.
Dianthe followed close on her heels. “I’ve never seen a Red Indian before,” she whispered. “I wonder if they are as fierce as I’ve heard. Should I fetch a pistol?”
“Of course not,” Grace said, bracing to open the library door. “But if he begins to make trouble, fetch Mr. Dewberry. I believe he is in the coach house.” She lifted her chin and opened the door silently.
A man, tall and lean, stood at the side table with his back to her, holding a brandy bottle and a glass. He was dressed in buckskin leather breeches, a jacket with fringed arms and yoke, and moccasins that extended to his knees and, above that, a long, lethal-looking knife strapped to his right thigh. His hair, long and bound back with a leather thong, was a medium brown with glints of light playing through it from the firelight. The set of his shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly and Grace knew he was aware of her presence.
Behind her, Dianthe drew in a soft breath and touched Grace’s arm as if she would pull her back. Grace shook her head to warn Dianthe to silence. She sensed that she could show no weakness or uncertainty.
Taking two steps into the library, she affected what she hoped would pass for a pleasant but firm countenance. “Good evening, sir. Is there something I can do to assist you?”
He turned to her and she nearly gasped. He was definitely not an Indian. He appeared to be perhaps four or five years older than she, his skin was deeply tanned but his eyes were a greenish hazel. He had a strong, straight nose—an aristocratic nose—and full sensual lips. A shadow of whiskers darkened his jaw and, when he moved toward her, the brandy in his glass scarcely shifted for the smoothness and grace of his gait. He moved like an animal, silent and steady. His chest, bare beneath the loose laces of his jacket, was strongly muscled and Grace found her gaze riveted there. She wanted to look away, but she just couldn’t. She was mesmerized.
He smiled and the flash of white teeth completely disarmed her. Her heart pounded wildly and her breathing deepened. He extended one large hand to take hers and bowed over it. His lips were firm and cool, and the contact made her head swim. Heavens! What was wrong with her?
When he straightened, he flashed another of those startling smiles. “Hello, Aunt Grace.”
Chapter Two
F rom her quickly hidden look of astonishment, Adam gathered that she had no idea what to do with the savage in her library. Interesting, the reactions he’d gotten from people who, four years ago, would have entertained him gladly. He surmised by the manner of her dress that he’d interrupted her as she was preparing for an evening out. She was every inch as stunning as her portrait—sultry, lush, distant. Untouchable?
She blinked and a guarded look settled over her perfect features. “I fear you must have me confused with someone else.”
Ah, that was good. Very smooth. Not a single gesture betrayed anything other than a natural confusion beneath the surface. Even her voice was calm. Admiration filled him at her aplomb. He’d known many ambassadors with less self-possession.
He released her hand reluctantly. She was the first Englishwoman he’d touched in four years, and he was startled by the suppressed hunger that surged in him. “My name is Adam Hawthorne—your husband’s nephew. Perhaps he mentioned me?”
Her dusky-rose lips parted slightly, as if she were struggling to say something but couldn’t think how to put it in words. “Adam?” she finally managed to say. “I…we were told that you were killed in an Indian attack.”
“The news of my death was a bit premature.” He grinned.
“Oh, dear.” She pressed one finger to the bridge of her nose in a gesture of distress and her eyes welled with tears. “I—I do not know quite how to tell you this, Mr. Hawthorne, but your uncle…my husband…is dead.”
Her sympathy caught him by surprise and he held his own grief inside. He would deal with that later, and in private. “Would that mean that I am not welcome here?” he asked.
“Oh! Of course you are welcome. You were Mr. Forbush’s only relative. He spoke of you often.”
“Did he?” She referred to her husband as Mr. Forbush? That did not exactly tell of an intimate relationship. Had all the fondness been on his uncle’s part?
“In glowing terms. He was very proud of you.”
He held up his brandy glass and said, “I hope you do not mind that I helped myself. It has been many years since I’ve had strong drink.”
“Of course not. You must make yourself at home.”
Oh, he planned to make himself very much at home. “Thank you, Aunt Grace.” He paused to give a self-mocking grin. “I am sorry if I sound flippant, but it seems awkward to call someone obviously younger than I ‘Aunt.’”
She gestured toward the sofa in front of the fireplace. “I am afraid this whole situation is a bit awkward, Mr. Hawthorne. To say I am surprised is somewhat of an understatement.”
“No less surprised than I to find my uncle had died in my absence.”
She
