Duel of Hearts by Anita Mills

feigned docility.
    Her whole body seething at the thought of meeting Lord Lyndon again, she sought her chamber and plotted her strategy. So Lyndon thought to look her over like a horse at Tattersall’s before he bought? Well, she’d give him something to look at, all right. She did not have much time, to be sure, but she intended to make an impression he would not forget.
    Calling for her dresser the moment she crossed the threshold, she ordered, “Find the paste and rouge pots, Jeanne—I think Annie had some when she threw her hat over the windmill for Mr. Thirkell’s second footman— and rip the lace from the bodice of my blue dress, if you please.”
    â€œThe lace? But, mademoiselle, ’twill be indecent!”
    â€œLet us hope so,” Leah muttered under her breath. “If Lord Lyndon would see a lady, I mean to show him a harpy—’tis what he thinks I am anyway.” Aware of the little dresser’s shocked expression, she added forcefully, “And I would have all the tall plumes you can discover.”

Chapter 7
7
    I t was precisely at eight o’clock that Anthony Barsett lifted Jeptha Cole’s brass knocker. Located in Hans Town, the house reflected the prosperity of the merchant class, with Corinthian pilasters and cornices across the wide porch, huge carved double doors beneath an arch of leaded glass, and exterior proportions that were both pleasing and ostentatious.
    As the uniformed butler opened the doors to him, Tony glimpsed the wide expanse of hall, its highly polished rose marble floor reflecting the lights of the multitiered chandelier above. Stepping inside, he could not resist the temptation to look around him, and he was surprised at the tasteful elegance of the merchant’s home.
    As he looked up, Leah Cole came out into the hall above him and started down the steps, and the sight of her made him wince. Her slim fingers seemed to skim lightly over the polished cherrywood of the curved banister as she descended, her carriage erect, her head held high. She was dressed in a gown of deep blue moiré taffeta, which rustled seductively with each step she took but it was the bodice, or rather the lack of it, which caught his attention immediately. It was as though it had been designed to display her charms—deeply and widely cut, exposing the crevice between her breasts just short of baring the mounds themselves. The gown was as good as sleeveless, with but tiny puffs at the shoulders, giving Tony a good glimpse of creamy neck, throat, bosom, and arms. As his eyes traveled upward, he could scarce credit what he saw, for she’d rouged her cheeks and reddened her lips with the liberal hand of a brothel procuress. And above her painted face, her dark blond hair was a mass of corkscrew curls à la Medusé, springing forth wildly, and above the disarray, rising like a phoenix, was a bizarre assortment of curled ostrich plumes.
    â€œMiss Cole,” he managed, despite a twitch at one corner of his mouth.
    She stopped mid-stairs at the sound of his voice, and her body stiffened noticeably. A frown of displeasure, much like that of one forced to do something distasteful, crossed her face momentarily. “Lord Lyndon,” she acknowledged with a barely civil nod. Her gray eyes traveled over him, taking in the exacting cut of his deep blue woolen coat, his snowy cravat done in a fall of his own design above a crimson silk waistcoat, his smooth-fitting narrow pinstripe trousers, and his plain leather pumps, all a sharp contrast to the affectations of the wealthy merchants’ sons she knew. Her eyebrow rose a fraction, betraying her surprise.
    â€œWell, do you come down that I may apologize, or do I come up?” he asked finally. “I shall feel like the veriest cake up there, but I am willing to lie prostrate at your feet for a well-deserved kick, Miss Cole.”
    â€œI would not advise it, my lord. I should kick you down the