diamond of the first water, she is,” he sighed. “She’ll draw a lot of attention this season. I’m glad you already claimed her.”
“Claimed her?” Matthew choked. He’d done no such thing. Had he?
“Clearly, with whatever it was you said to the chit. You’re a lucky man Eynsford decided to accept your apology, but rest assured by tomorrow morning all of London will know of your interest in the girl.” Did the old man’s eyes soften at the sight of the little witch? They did. Which didn’t make any sense. Lovely as Rhiannon Sinclair was, she didn’t possess a bit of charm in her body. In fact, she was a walking thunderstorm—abrasive and shocking. If Sir Ralph knew the truth of what she really was, the old man’s rapt attention and obvious approval would wither away.
But Matthew doubted he could ever look at her differently, even knowing the power she possessed. The lady was nothing short of a siren. Rhiannon’s lovely neck was exposed by her upswept hair. Matthew could almost see the tapping of her pulse at the base of her throat. He knew he could hear it. Her storm-laden scent, mixed with just a hint of gardenia, grew stronger as she approached.
Matthew tugged at his jacket, feeling somewhat comforted by the simple act of adjusting his clothing. It gave him something to do, after all. He really should step toward her to meet her halfway, but out of nowhere that little pup, Radbourne, stepped into her path and bowed low before her.
“Uh-oh,” Sir Ralph grunted.
“Uh-oh?” Matthew just had to ask.
“Radbourne.” The old man scoffed. Then he clapped Matthew on the shoulder. “A fortune hunter of questionable character. You should probably intervene, especially now that your encounter with the chit could very well tarnish her reputation. It could give you the opportunity to play the gallant.”
Play the gallant, indeed. Damn it all to hell. Hadn’t he already fallen on his own sword to protect Miss Sinclair’s reputation? Letting them all assume he’d made an improper advance had been much easier than explaining the real reason why she’d slapped him.
Matthew froze as he watched the witch bestow a smile upon Radbourne, who looked amazingly similar to the Marquess of Eynsford. The two could pass for brothers, with the shade of their hair the only difference. They were obviously relations of some sort. Matthew had smelled the Lycan and his younger brothers the instant they’d stepped foot in the Pickerings’ ballroom. But he hadn’t realized the man was a fortune hunter. He looked as well turned out as any other man in the room.
Did Miss Sinclair possess a fortune? Did she need rescuing again? Matthew’s thoughts evaporated the moment Radbourne lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against her gloved fingers.
Matthew’s chest clenched again, nearly knocking him to his knees.
“Are you all right?” Sir Ralph asked. “Shall I call for a footman?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Matthew grunted as the pain receded. It was immediately replaced by something he didn’t recognize when Radbourne lingered a bit too long over Miss Sinclair’s hand. Then the beast tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her to the dance floor.
Miss Sinclair graced Radbourne with a smile unlike anything Matthew had ever seen, and red rage clouded the corners of his vision. He hadn’t experienced an emotion like this in a very long time. What did they call it? He couldn’t even put a name to it.
“Jealous, Blodswell?” Sir Ralph asked.
Jealous? Certainly not. He snorted in response.
But he
was
jealous, which was the strangest thing as he barely knew the chit. Matthew couldn’t help but glower as Radbourne led Miss Sinclair into a waltz, his body scandalously close to hers. He watched closely as the young wolf held her hand in his. The bloody pup could probably feel the heat of her through his gloves. Damn his eyes. Matthew took a step toward them.
“I wouldn’t do that if
“Claimed her?” Matthew choked. He’d done no such thing. Had he?
“Clearly, with whatever it was you said to the chit. You’re a lucky man Eynsford decided to accept your apology, but rest assured by tomorrow morning all of London will know of your interest in the girl.” Did the old man’s eyes soften at the sight of the little witch? They did. Which didn’t make any sense. Lovely as Rhiannon Sinclair was, she didn’t possess a bit of charm in her body. In fact, she was a walking thunderstorm—abrasive and shocking. If Sir Ralph knew the truth of what she really was, the old man’s rapt attention and obvious approval would wither away.
But Matthew doubted he could ever look at her differently, even knowing the power she possessed. The lady was nothing short of a siren. Rhiannon’s lovely neck was exposed by her upswept hair. Matthew could almost see the tapping of her pulse at the base of her throat. He knew he could hear it. Her storm-laden scent, mixed with just a hint of gardenia, grew stronger as she approached.
Matthew tugged at his jacket, feeling somewhat comforted by the simple act of adjusting his clothing. It gave him something to do, after all. He really should step toward her to meet her halfway, but out of nowhere that little pup, Radbourne, stepped into her path and bowed low before her.
“Uh-oh,” Sir Ralph grunted.
“Uh-oh?” Matthew just had to ask.
“Radbourne.” The old man scoffed. Then he clapped Matthew on the shoulder. “A fortune hunter of questionable character. You should probably intervene, especially now that your encounter with the chit could very well tarnish her reputation. It could give you the opportunity to play the gallant.”
Play the gallant, indeed. Damn it all to hell. Hadn’t he already fallen on his own sword to protect Miss Sinclair’s reputation? Letting them all assume he’d made an improper advance had been much easier than explaining the real reason why she’d slapped him.
Matthew froze as he watched the witch bestow a smile upon Radbourne, who looked amazingly similar to the Marquess of Eynsford. The two could pass for brothers, with the shade of their hair the only difference. They were obviously relations of some sort. Matthew had smelled the Lycan and his younger brothers the instant they’d stepped foot in the Pickerings’ ballroom. But he hadn’t realized the man was a fortune hunter. He looked as well turned out as any other man in the room.
Did Miss Sinclair possess a fortune? Did she need rescuing again? Matthew’s thoughts evaporated the moment Radbourne lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against her gloved fingers.
Matthew’s chest clenched again, nearly knocking him to his knees.
“Are you all right?” Sir Ralph asked. “Shall I call for a footman?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Matthew grunted as the pain receded. It was immediately replaced by something he didn’t recognize when Radbourne lingered a bit too long over Miss Sinclair’s hand. Then the beast tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her to the dance floor.
Miss Sinclair graced Radbourne with a smile unlike anything Matthew had ever seen, and red rage clouded the corners of his vision. He hadn’t experienced an emotion like this in a very long time. What did they call it? He couldn’t even put a name to it.
“Jealous, Blodswell?” Sir Ralph asked.
Jealous? Certainly not. He snorted in response.
But he
was
jealous, which was the strangest thing as he barely knew the chit. Matthew couldn’t help but glower as Radbourne led Miss Sinclair into a waltz, his body scandalously close to hers. He watched closely as the young wolf held her hand in his. The bloody pup could probably feel the heat of her through his gloves. Damn his eyes. Matthew took a step toward them.
“I wouldn’t do that if
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