improper ones with plunging décolletages and dampened satin skirts. What was it about this one, then, that earned his note? “You are candid,” he said with a small grin. Nothing else explained it.
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve come to appreciate honesty.”
How intriguing. She hinted at lessons learned and he, who didn’t give a jot about anyone, wondered about the story there…
It still begged the question as to whether the lady would be so forthright if she discovered the man whose future title she disparaged stood even now before her. He gave a casual swirl of his glass. “I take it you know the marquess, then?” It really was in bad form to wheedle information from the lady in such a manner. Especially as he already knew the answer. A lady with strawberry blonde tresses and full lips made for more than kissing, he’d well remember her. But then, Cedric had never been accused of anything gentlemanly or honorable. Including attending any polite events where this one might have been.
Pity.
“I know enough,” she murmured, more to herself as she skimmed her palm over a nearby rose-inlaid table.
“Oh?” he drawled.
The lady froze mid-movement, glanced about, and then dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s something of a rake, you know.”
He’d spent years reveling in that very role. If this lady knew the extent of the wickedness he’d been rightfully accused of through the years, she’d have torn out of the room, sore feet be damned. “Actually I do know,” he said dryly.
“Not that I know personally,” she spoke quickly, a red blush staining her enchanting, heart-shaped face.
“Ah,” he said stretching out that single syllable. “The gossip columns.” His name had been quite bandied about those rubbish pages. Where most information contained on those sheets was, no doubt, at worst, lies, and, at best, exaggerations, every scandalous tidbit printed about him had been shockingly accurate.
Genevieve With-No-Surname picked up a nearby porcelain shepherdess. She turned the piece over in her hands, eying it contemplatively. “I have it on the words of someone I trust greatly.” She set the piece down and quickly lifted her head. “Not that I would form judgments on a person based on another’s opinions.”
She should. To not do so would be folly that saw her prey to an even more caddish lord than himself. If such a man existed. Although he’d made it a habit of avoiding those pinch-mouthed, proper companions over the years, something about this rigid lady in her gray muslin skirts and her tendency to ramble held him enthralled. Cedric inclined his head. “What else do you know of our distinguished host?” He was suddenly eager to know just what this innocent slip had uncovered.
She opened her mouth and then closed it. She opened it again. “It is in bad form to speak ill of one’s host.”
Speak ill of? “Now you have me intrigued.” He favored her with a wink and dropped his voice in a like whisper. “Then, it is his father who is the host.”
A frown tipped her lips down in the corners. That subtle movement plumped the flesh of her lower lip. He narrowed his eyes. Well, for her rigid, unassuming appearance, there was nothing proper about that pouty mouth. A surge of lust ran through him as he imagined the wicked delights and pleasures to be found with—
“It is in bad form to speak ill of anyone,” she said chidingly, dousing his ardor with the solemnity there.
He blinked. “Oh, I am sure the marquess is not a man who’d much care.”
The lady drifted closer and stopped before him. “I’m sure, despite the rumors, even he cares, Cedric. Even those that Society believes incapable of feeling anything, care.”
He studied her, momentarily sucked in a spell cast by the light quality of her whispered words. When they at last registered, he gave his head a shake. The lady in her innocent-spoken words revealed her naïveté and also revealed
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve come to appreciate honesty.”
How intriguing. She hinted at lessons learned and he, who didn’t give a jot about anyone, wondered about the story there…
It still begged the question as to whether the lady would be so forthright if she discovered the man whose future title she disparaged stood even now before her. He gave a casual swirl of his glass. “I take it you know the marquess, then?” It really was in bad form to wheedle information from the lady in such a manner. Especially as he already knew the answer. A lady with strawberry blonde tresses and full lips made for more than kissing, he’d well remember her. But then, Cedric had never been accused of anything gentlemanly or honorable. Including attending any polite events where this one might have been.
Pity.
“I know enough,” she murmured, more to herself as she skimmed her palm over a nearby rose-inlaid table.
“Oh?” he drawled.
The lady froze mid-movement, glanced about, and then dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s something of a rake, you know.”
He’d spent years reveling in that very role. If this lady knew the extent of the wickedness he’d been rightfully accused of through the years, she’d have torn out of the room, sore feet be damned. “Actually I do know,” he said dryly.
“Not that I know personally,” she spoke quickly, a red blush staining her enchanting, heart-shaped face.
“Ah,” he said stretching out that single syllable. “The gossip columns.” His name had been quite bandied about those rubbish pages. Where most information contained on those sheets was, no doubt, at worst, lies, and, at best, exaggerations, every scandalous tidbit printed about him had been shockingly accurate.
Genevieve With-No-Surname picked up a nearby porcelain shepherdess. She turned the piece over in her hands, eying it contemplatively. “I have it on the words of someone I trust greatly.” She set the piece down and quickly lifted her head. “Not that I would form judgments on a person based on another’s opinions.”
She should. To not do so would be folly that saw her prey to an even more caddish lord than himself. If such a man existed. Although he’d made it a habit of avoiding those pinch-mouthed, proper companions over the years, something about this rigid lady in her gray muslin skirts and her tendency to ramble held him enthralled. Cedric inclined his head. “What else do you know of our distinguished host?” He was suddenly eager to know just what this innocent slip had uncovered.
She opened her mouth and then closed it. She opened it again. “It is in bad form to speak ill of one’s host.”
Speak ill of? “Now you have me intrigued.” He favored her with a wink and dropped his voice in a like whisper. “Then, it is his father who is the host.”
A frown tipped her lips down in the corners. That subtle movement plumped the flesh of her lower lip. He narrowed his eyes. Well, for her rigid, unassuming appearance, there was nothing proper about that pouty mouth. A surge of lust ran through him as he imagined the wicked delights and pleasures to be found with—
“It is in bad form to speak ill of anyone,” she said chidingly, dousing his ardor with the solemnity there.
He blinked. “Oh, I am sure the marquess is not a man who’d much care.”
The lady drifted closer and stopped before him. “I’m sure, despite the rumors, even he cares, Cedric. Even those that Society believes incapable of feeling anything, care.”
He studied her, momentarily sucked in a spell cast by the light quality of her whispered words. When they at last registered, he gave his head a shake. The lady in her innocent-spoken words revealed her naïveté and also revealed
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