To Sin With A Scoundrel (12 page)

“Shall we go up and greet our hostess?” asked Lucas.

Seeing that the curved staircase was already crowded with a long line of guests, Ciara was tempted to hang back. But on recalling
the earl’s exhortation, she nodded. “Yes, go ahead and lead the lamb to slaughter,” she said under her breath.

His light laugh tickled her cheek. “Trust me, you will find that most of these people are sheep in wolves’ clothing. Don’t
let them frighten you.”

Ciara let out her breath, surprised to find how much his banter helped relieve the tension. There was something to be said
for humor…

Lucas escorted her into the line and immediately began an amusing anecdote about the mansion’s history. That is, Ciara assumed
it was entertaining. She caught only bits and snatches as she lowered her lashes and ventured another glance around at her
surroundings.

The architectural details were magnificent—the carved balusters, the ornate moldings, the decorative wall niches filled with
exotic flowers. Equally impressive was the procession of ancestral portraits on the cream-colored walls. Peering down from
their gilded frames, the Saybrook family looked to be a rather stiff-rumped lot, she observed. But then again, the starched
ruffs and pinched corsets of Elizabethan times did not encourage any show of a smile. She could only hope that the current
flesh-and-blood countess, a hostess noted for her style and wit, would be more welcoming.

As for the other guests…

Ciara was aware of the surreptitious scrutiny from all sides. She could feel the heat of the hurried looks against her bare
arms, and could hear the whispers of silk and speculation. Wondering, no doubt, what had drawn the Wicked Widow from her lair.

“Ah, Lord Hadley!”

A throaty laugh from their hostess drew Ciara from her own inner musings.

“How delightful to see you have returned to Town.” With a flourish, Lady Saybrook extended a gloved hand to Lucas. “Things
have been sadly flat around here without you making a few waves,” she added.

“My dear Alison, I shall try not to stir the waters tonight.”

The countess winked. “It looks like you have already caused a tempest in a teapot—or rather the punch bowl.” Turning to Ciara,
she flashed a warm smile. “How delightful to finally meet you, Lady Sheffield. I have heard so much about your scientific
accomplishments.”

“Y-you are too kind, Lady Saybrook,” stammered Ciara.

“I fear you will find me a complete scatterbrain when it comes to scholarship, but I do love gardening.” The countess had
raised her voice so that those nearby could hear every word. “So I do hope you will tell me about your latest work with medicinal
herbs.”

“Gladly,” she replied.

“Excellent. Come sit with me at supper, if you please.” Lady Saybrook waved Lucas toward the dance floor with a flick of her
fan. “Don’t keep her all to yourself, you naughty rogue.”

“I—I cannot believe the countess’s kindness to a total stranger—a stranger with a sordid reputation,” mused Ciara as they
made their way through the crowd. In her experience, the ladies of the
ton
could be even more ruthless than the gentlemen. Too often their satin smiles and velvet voices cloaked a killer instinct
worthy of Attila the Hun. “Perhaps she has me confused with someone else?”

“Alison owes me a small favor or two, the details of which I won’t go into,” said Lucas. “And besides, she’s led a rather
interesting life herself and thinks that rigid respectability is vastly overrated.”

So far, so good.
She breathed a sigh of relief at having made it through the receiving line without suffering a direct cut. However, the respite
didn’t last more than a step.

“The musicians are striking up a waltz.” Turning smoothly, Lucas took up a position on the polished parquet.

“Lord Hadley, must we—” she began.

“Yes. We must.” His gloved hand pressed lightly against the small of her back. “This will be an exercise in futility if we
don’t appear to be enjoying ourselves.”

“But—”

“Don’t look so apprehensive. I won’t tread on your toes.”

Ciara pressed her eyes shut for an instant. “It’s not
my
toes I am worried about, sir,” she said in a low voice. “You forget that I have been out of Society for some time. I don’t
know the steps of this new dance.”

Lucas drew her a touch closer. “Just follow my lead.”

To her surprise, it proved rather simple to do. The earl had an easy, elegant grace, and after the first few spins Ciara relaxed
into his rhythm, matching his moves without conscious thought.

“You see, it’s not so hard to unlace your corset,” he murmured.

Ciara was acutely aware of his overpowering closeness—his hand holding hers, his palm pressed to the small of her back, radiating
heat through the layers of soft glove leather and silk. Already her skin felt a little singed.

“When you allow yourself a little freedom, your movements have a lovely, liquid flow to them,” he went on.

The heat flooded to her face. “Why is it that you always make sexual innuendos, sir?”

“Why is it that references to your beautiful body always bother you?” he countered.

“I—I’m not beautiful,” she stammered.

“Then why is every man in the room staring at you?” said Lucas with a spinning twirl that set her skirts to flaring.

Ciara slanted a peek around. Oh, Lud—people
were
watching them. She drew in a gulp of air.

“You see? Their eyes are drawn to you, like moths to a flame,” said Lucas.

“Fire is dangerous,” she whispered.

“Ah, but danger adds to the allure.” His eyes glittered in the brilliant light of the chandeliers. “As I well know.”

Another glance showed that men were not the only ones watching them dance. For an instant she felt a little giddy. Why, the
belles of Town were envious of
her
. Here she was, the Wicked Widow of Pont Street, dancing with the most desirable rake in London.

“Your cheeks are a very luscious shade of pink,” murmured Lucas. “It’s the same shade as… another hot spot of the feminine
form.” He looked at her through his dark lashes. “Can you guess which one?”

Resisting the urge to fan her face, she asked, “Do you flirt so outrageously with every lady of your acquaintance?”

The corners of his mouth curled up. “But of course. The point of a party is to have a little fun.”

Ciara sighed. “Life seems to be one unending party for you.”

Before he could answer, one of the ladies whirled close with a lilting laugh. “La, Hadley, I hear there is a new ballet opening—it
is called
The Fountain of Youth,
and I’m sure you won’t want to miss it.”

Her partner guffawed.

“Does it never bother you to be the butt of gossip?” she asked, once the figures of the dance drew them away from the others.

“Why should it?” replied Lucas after a slight hesitation.

Though the question was likely rhetorical, Ciara considered it seriously for several measures of the music before finally
replying, “I don’t know… it’s just that if I were you, I would begin to wonder whether people were laughing
at
me, rather than with me.”

“We all must be comfortable in our own skin,” he replied lightly. “My hide is obviously a good deal thicker than yours, for
you see, I don’t really give a damn about what people say or think.” Lucas stepped through an intricate twirl without missing
a beat. “Why do you?”

“I don’t have the luxury of thumbing my nose at Society. This may come as something of a shock to you, Lord Hadley, but there
are two sets of rules in the Polite World. Ladies are held to a far more rigid standard. One misstep can mean ruin.”

Looking around, she suddenly realized that she was a part of the spinning whirl of sights and sounds—blazing colors, winking
lights, trilling laughter, clinking crystal.
All the things she had run from in the past.

Tonight there was no escape—and strangely enough, that didn’t seem as terrible as she had feared. Not with the earl’s hard,
muscled body providing a comforting measure of support. Swept along in the circle of his arms, she didn’t feel quite so vulnerable
or alone.

As the last notes of the violins died away, Lucas led her to a secluded spot by the potted palm trees. “Would you care for
some champagne punch?”

“Yes, thank you.” Ciara had forgotten that dancing could work up quite a thirst.

“I won’t be long.” Before she could protest being left by herself, Lucas hurried off.

Repressing a shiver, Ciara forced her gaze up from the parquet floor. No matter how awkward she felt inside, she must not
appear intimidated by her surroundings. Predators pounced on any show of weakness.

Through the crowd, she saw Lucas pause to exchange a few words with a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman whose chiseled profile
and military bearing made him a rather formidable figure. The stranger turned and eyed her for a moment before nodding gravely
to Lucas.

To her surprise, he suddenly excused himself from his companions and started in her direction. His expression was austere,
aloof—some might even consider it arrogant. As his piercing green gaze honed in on her little oasis amid the palm fronds,
she willed herself not to flinch.

As he came closer, Ciara realized who he was.

The Marquess of Haddan.

A highly decorated war hero, the marquess was also a Fellow of the Royal Scientific Society. He was held in awe by most of
Society, and according to the newspapers, he did not suffer fools gladly—

Her musings were interrupted by his baritone voice. “I beg your pardon, Lady Sheffield. Might I ask if you are free for this
set?”

Seeing as her dance card was conspicuously empty, save for Hadley’s name by the two waltzes, Ciara wondered for a moment whether
he was mocking her. The leafy shadows made his expression hard to read, but in her experience, titled gentlemen sometimes
took perverse delight in playing cruel games.

“I shall endeavor to beat off my many admirers with a stick to make room, sir,” she replied softly.

His rumbled chuckle was surprisingly pleasant. “I have saved you the trouble. It seems my approach has scared them away. Rather
like a magnet whose force has been reversed.”

Ciara gave a tentative smile.

“Your expertise in science is quite impressive, Lady Sheffield,” he went on. “I’ve read several of your essays and would enjoy
discussing them, if you would care to dance.”

“I… I would be honored, sir.”

Once again, she found herself spinning across the polished parquet in the arms of a handsome gentleman. The conversation was
so interesting that she forgot to be nervous, and somehow her steps stayed in harmony with the trilling violins. To her surprise,
Ciara was almost sorry when the music came to an end.

“Thank you,” she began.

But rather than return her to the shadows of the potted palms, Haddan angled his steps for one of the brightly lit refreshment
tables. “I shall hand you off to my friend Woodbridge, if you don’t mind.”

Ciara nearly tripped over her own feet. Known for his charm and wit, Devlin Woodbridge was the darling of London Society.
She couldn’t think of why he would risk exposing himself to censure by standing up with her.

“Oh, please, Lord Woodbridge need not trouble himself.” She drew a deep breath, wondering where Lucas had run off to.
Wretched man—how dare he abandon her to the mercy of strangers.

“No trouble at all.” Haddan stepped back with a small bow. “Ah, here he comes now. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Sheffield.”

Clever.

Smiling, Lucas congratulated himself on enlisting the help of his old friends in reintroducing Ciara to Polite Society. They
could always be counted on to come through in a pinch. Haddan was respected, and even a little feared, while Woodbridge’s
sunny charm assured that he was well liked by most everyone who mattered. A show of favor from such powerful personages would
go a long way in influencing the
ton
.

Yes, let Haddan and Woodbridge do his work, thought Lucas with an inward grin. Leaving him free to saunter off for a stroll
in the garden with the buxom Baroness Blenheim. The lady had indicated an interest in a dalliance…

And yet, as he slanted a sidelong look at the spinning couples, Lucas felt his smugness slip a notch. Ciara and Haddan were
moving through the last figures of the dance with an élan that stopped him short. His friend’s natural reserve must have melted
a good deal since his recent marriage—the marquess had never been one to engage in superficial flirtation, yet he seemed to
be enjoying Ciara’s company.

Bloody hell.
There was no need for Nicholas to smile
quite
so frequently.

Gritting his teeth, Lucas snatched a glass of champagne from a passing footman and began to stalk around the perimeter of
the dance floor. The ladies greeted him with smiles and sly winks. By the time he was halfway down the room, he had collected
several whispered invitations for a late-night assignation. And from the gentlemen came good-natured gibes and guffaws.
Three cheers for Mad, Bad Had-ley, who kept them all so deucedly amused.