Katie MacAlister: Noble Intentions

He surprised himself by putting his thoughts into words. “My next wife will be a quiet, unassuming, biddable woman who will not draw attention to herself or cause scandal. She will be pleased to stay in the country, take care of my son, and provide me with heirs.”

Harry smiled. “In other words, this paragon of virtue will be everything your first wife wasn’t.”

Weston’s answering smile, icy as a fjord in February, matched the coldness he felt within. “Exactly.” Unbidden, his eyes wandered back to where the tall redheaded woman towered above the handful of dandies dancing attendance on her blond companion.

“Rosse, good to see you.” A deep voice rumbled behind the two men. Rosse and Weston turned to greet the Duke of Sunderland, but the greetings froze on their lips when the duke continued with a frosty, “I can’t say as much for your companion. Bad company you’re keeping, Rosse, bad company.”

Rosse stared after the retreating figure with an unhappy frown. “That was a direct cut, Noble.”

Weston tossed back his whiskey and nodded, rubbing his hands to warm then.

“It was indeed,” he answered, turning back to gaze across the ballroom.

“But damn it, man, it’s unfair! He’s your cousin! If you’d just let me speak about what happened that night—”

Weston made an abrupt movement. “It’s not important, Harry. Sunderland is a fool. I don’t particularly care what he thinks.”

“But — Noble, this is getting worse. You’ve been in town only a fortnight and already you’re being given the cut on the street, in your clubs, and now here! If you don’t take steps soon, you won’t be recognized in polite society.”

Weston snorted, pleased to feel the whiskey burning a path down to his stomach. At least he could still feel that. “Polite society. The day I care about what polite society thinks, Harry, is the day hell will freeze.”

His brows drew together as he watched across the room where Sir Hugh and another man approached the woman who had caught his eye. Tolly was paying far too much attention to the redhead, gazing up into her eyes as if she was the most fascinating woman on earth.

“Looks as if Tolly has cleared the path. Shall we?” Lord Rosse gave his friend an inquiring glance.

“Yes.” Surprised by the sharp bubble of emotion remarkably akin to jealousy, Weston gathered the mantle of boredom he habitually wore and sauntered after his friend across the inlaid wood floor toward the gaggle of tittering misses.

Charlotte’s keen and eager eye, ever on the alert for a titled rake, saw the two men heading toward them from across the room. She was certain after the interested looks the Black Earl had been shooting at Gillian he would claim an introduction and couldn’t decide what attitude to adopt about this unexpected turn of events. A hasty evaluation of the number of suitors gathered around her went far to assuage her plans for reforming the Black Earl, so it was with no sense of pettishness or ill feeling that she turned to mind to plotting the future happiness of her dearest cousin. A quick glance at said cousin showed that Gillian was in her usual state of disarray: her gloves were wadded up into sooty balls, tendrils of unruly red hair were fighting their way out of the once tidy coronet on her head, and her gown showed signs of losing the battle with the fire. Unfortunately, there was no time to rush her off to the ladies’ withdrawing room to affect repairs, but Charlotte was not one to go down without a fight — not when her cousin’s future was at stake.

“Would it be an inconvenience to ask for a cup of punch, Sir Hugh? I fear the warmth of the evening has made Miss Leigh rather thirsty, but she’s much too shy to ask you herself.”

She dimpled charmingly at him as he shot a curious look at an equally surprised Gillian, then let her smile fade as he left to fulfill her request. As soon as he was out of hearing, Charlotte swung around to her cousin and began dabbing at the faint soot marks on Gillian’s bodice. “Cousin, pinch your cheeks.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Charlotte cast a glance over Gillian’s shoulder to where the two men were approaching. “Oh, never mind, they’re too close, they’ll see you. Bite your lips.”

Gillian wondered if the stifling heat of the ballroom was affecting her dear cousin’s mind. “Is it the heat, Charlotte? You look flushed. Are you ill? Shall I call your mother?”

“Oh, heavens no! You know how Mama is, she’ll rattle on about nothing and monopolize all the conversation.” Charlotte waved her fan in a vigorous manner and slapped an artificially bright smile on her face.

“Monopolize the conversation with whom?” Gillian was becoming concerned; although Charlotte was in truth a vivacious, exceptionally headstrong woman, she made it her habit to adopt the pose of a shy, timid maiden when in public, the better, she said, to snare a husband. Yet here she was smiling with a ferocious intensity that would scare the spots off a leopard.

“Smile,” Charlotte hissed at her cousin as she deepened her dimples. “Look pleasant. He’s been watching you. I think he’s interested.”

In a flash, Gillian understood. She’d heard of this. Obviously her cousin had fallen victim to a temporary derangement. She put an arm around Charlotte’s shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. “It’s all right, dearest. Don’t worry, I’ll see that you get home without your mother becoming aware of your…your unfortunate condition.”

“My what?”

Gillian took charge, gently turning Charlotte, intent on making their escape before anyone else noticed her cousin’s sad mental condition, when the sight of Sir Hugh approaching with two tall men halted her. Her eyes widened as they met the gaze of the dark man who stopped in front of her. God’s elbows, he took her breath away!

“Lady Charlotte, Miss Gillian Leigh, may I be permitted to introduce the Earl of Weston and the Marquis Rosse?”

Gillian’s mouth formed an O , but she couldn’t get any words out. The earl’s gray eyes were flecked with bits of silver and ringed with the darkest, lushest lashes she’d ever seen. She felt her toes curl in her green satin slippers when the Lord of Lusciousness raised her hand to his lips. As his touch sent frissons of fire down her hand, she thanked heaven she had ruined her gloves.

The earl raised one beautiful glossy black eyebrow. “Indeed. It makes an introduction so much more personal when the lady has a bare hand.”

Gillian felt the flush sweep up from her chest as she realized her Unfortunate Habit had once again made itself known. “Oh, blast!”

A second dark eyebrow climbed upward. The flush reached Gillian’s face. “I’m sorry, my lord, it’s my Unfortunate Habit, you see. It makes me speak without thinking.” She tried for an insouciant smile, but it came out watery instead.

The corners of the earl’s mouth twitched. Gillian’s knees threatened to buckle at the sight of it. She tried to drag her gaze from his mouth but was fascinated by the sensual curve of his lower lip. Lips like that ought to be made illegal. Sending blasphemous thoughts heavenward about the unleashing of such a stunning creation willy-nilly upon unsuspecting and highly susceptible women, she made a desperate attempt to calm her wildly beating heart. It wasn’t as if she was a silly, naive miss who knew nothing of the way of things — heaven knows, she had been to Boston! She was a woman experienced in the ways of the world, after all. She would not shame herself by expiring on the spot, overcome by one man’s masculine beauty.

The bespectacled man next to Lord Adonis bowed over her hand, but she missed what he said, so enthralled was she by the earl. She let her eyes wander over the sharp, masculine planes of his features and wondered how he felt about the softening effect the cleft in his chin gave his otherwise harsh face. She knew how she felt about it. Looking at it made her lips burn with the desire to scatter kisses along his jaw and dip her tongue into the indentation…oh heavens, what was she doing, thinking such sinful thoughts? Another wave of heat washed over her as she clutched her hands together in an attempt to get hold of her wild imagination. She shouldn’t be thinking about kissing an earl. Especially an earl who, if the gossip flying around the ballroom was true, quite possibly murdered his wife.