Twice the Temptation Page 3

  “Oh, for heaven’s…” she sputtered. “Fine. Evangeline.”

  “Evangeline,” he repeated. “Very nice.”

  “Thank you. I’ll tell my mother that you approve her choice.”

  Connoll lifted an eyebrow. “You’re not precisely a shrinking violet, are you?”

  “You accosted me,” she retorted, putting her hands on her hips. “I feel no desire to play pretty with you.”

  “But I like to play.”

  Her cheeks darkened. “No doubt. I suggest that next time you find someone more willing to reciprocate.”

  Connoll reached out to fluff the sleeve of her cream-colored muslin with his fingers. “You know, I find myself rather relieved,” he said, wondering how close he was treading to the edge of disaster and still willing to careen along at full speed. “There are women of my acquaintance who would use my…misstep of earlier to gain a husband and a title. You only seem to wish to be rid of me.”

  Evangeline Munroe pursed her lips, an expression he found both amusing and attractive. “You were blind drunk at nearly ten o’clock in the morning. In all honesty, my lord, I do not find that behavior admirable, nor do I wish to associate myself with it on a permanent basis.”

  “Well, that stung,” he admitted, not overly offended. “Suffice it to say that I am not generally tight at mid-morning. Say you’ll dance with me tonight at the Gaviston soiree, Evangeline. I assume you’ll be attending.”

  “Are you mad?” She took a step closer, lifting up on her toes to bring herself closer to his height. “I have been attempting to convince you to leave since the moment you arrived. Why in God’s name would that make you think me willing to dance with you? And I gave you no leave to call me by my given name. I only told you what it was under duress.”

  “I’ll leave, but not until you say you’ll dance with me tonight. Or kiss me again, immediately. I leave the choice up to you.”

  She sputtered. “If I were a man, I would call you out, sir.”

  “If I were a woman, I would kiss me again.”

  Unfortunately, the morning room door opened before she could reply to that. “Good afternoon, my dear,” a smooth, feminine voice cooed. “Oh, I see you have a caller. Pray introduce me, Evangeline.”

  The chit drew herself in again, while Connoll belatedly took a half step away from her. “Of course. Mama, this is the Marquis of Rawley. My lord, my mother, Viscountess Munroe.”

  The lady stood several inches taller than her daughter, but their hair was dipped in the same honey, and their eyes were the same hazel. Any other man might have commented that they looked like sisters, but from her too-young hair style and low-cut gown, Lady Munroe seemed to be asking for just such a compliment. Connoll bowed. “My lady. Your daughter and I had a carriage accident this morning, and I came to inquire after her health.”

  “Oh. This is the gentleman you spoke of, Gilly?”

  Gilly. He liked that, but it seemed so…friendly for such a spiny chit. Another piece to a puzzle he’d only just discovered, and couldn’t let go of.

  “It was nothing, Mama,” Gilly was saying, “as I told you. And now Lord Rawley has offered to pay for any damages.”

  “That’s quite gallant of you, my lord.” The lady swept forward, offering her hand. “Even considering that you were at fault.”

  Connoll squeezed her fingers, then released her. After eight-and-twenty years he wouldn’t be worth a pinch of snuff if he couldn’t detect a matchmaking mama from across the street, much less across the room. And this mama didn’t like him. “I was, indeed. Hence my offer.”

  “Very kind. Would you care for some tea?”

  Unfriendly female or not, he still wanted a better acquaintance with the daughter. “I—”

  “I’m afraid Lord Rawley has already informed me that he has an appointment elsewhere,” Evangeline cut in.

  He shook himself, not feeling ready to take on both of them without some preparation. “Yes, I do. Would you do me the honor of walking me to the door, Miss Munroe?”

  Her expression tightened. “With pleasure, my lord.”

  As he offered his arm, she wrapped her fingers around his sleeve and practically towed him toward the foyer. Once they were out of the morning room, he drew her to a halt. “So that we may be perfectly clear,” he said in a low voice, gazing down at eyes turned green by the lamplight, “you don’t like me.”

  “I do not like you,” she agreed.

  “I am quite wealthy, you know,” he offered with a half smile. “Obscenely so. And I’ve been told all of my features form an orderly portrait.”

  “Yes, they do,” she admitted, ignoring his renowned powers of seduction and pulling him toward the door again. “I daresay you are quite handsome.”

  Ah, now they were getting somewhere. “I’m glad we can agree about something. Say you’ll dance with me.”

  “I do not dally with drunkards,” she whispered, releasing him as the butler pulled open the front door. “I find them to be dull and forward and not at all amenable to sound reasoning.”

  Connoll stepped onto the front portico and opened his mouth to inform her what he thought of chits who stood too high in the instep and considered themselves above any reproach, but she took the door in her hand and closed it on him.

  He looked at the door for a moment, then descended to take Faro’s reins from a waiting groom. So she wanted him to admit defeat and scuttle away without putting up any kind of fight at all. Obviously she had no idea who he was. For a bright chit, she’d made a miserably simple mistake. He didn’t like to lose. A female who kissed like that even when taken by surprise had no right to be so stuffy. Evangeline Munroe could definitely stand to be taken down a peg or two. Or twelve.

  With a grim smile he sent Faro in the direction of Grosvenor Street and home. When she arrived at the Gaviston soiree tonight, she would realize that she’d just engaged in a duel with a master.

  Chapter 3

  “You’ve met the Marquis of Rawley?” LeandraHalloway whispered from behind her fan. “I didn’t know he was even back in London.”

  “Where was he, then?” Evangline asked, curious in spite of herself.

  “That depends on who you ask,” her friend returned, still keeping her voice low and conspiratorial. “Some say he and his latest mistress were at one of his estates in Scotland.”

  Undoubtedly this latest mistress went by the name of Daisy. She nodded. “Oneof his estates?”

  “Oh, yes. He has several. But my cousin says that Rawley wasn’t in Scotland at all, that he was actually in France up to something or other.” Leandra fanned herself. “I have to say, I don’t care where he’s been. All I know is that if it had been me he fell on, I would be the Marchioness of Rawley by now.”

  “Oh, please. You would be welcome to him.” Evangeline waved as another of her friends entered the ballroom. Thankfully Rawley hadn’t yet appeared; perhaps he’d gotten drunk again and forgotten that he wanted to dance with her.

  “But you do know that his mother was a Spencer. He owns half of Devonshire, and at least four estates in Scotland.”

  “Wealth is well and good, but I can’t speak for his manners, because he doesn’t have any.” Evangeline took another sip of lemonade; it was tepid, but in the stifling, crowded ballrooms he felt grateful for any refreshment at all.

  Yes, Rawley had a charming smile, and very handsome features, and a devastating kiss, but none of that made him the sort of man she would wish to have pursuing her. He clearly thought himself irresistible, and that self-importance could make him nearly impossible to guide or to control, in addition to his other myriad faults. Still…“He’s a Spencer, then?”

  “You don’t even know his given name, do you? I thought you must be mortal enemies already, the way you’ve been talking about him, Gilly.”

  “Please, Leandra.” He’d been crossed from the list too quickly for her to have learned anything but the very broadest strokes.

  Her friend dimpled again. “V
ery well.” She cleared her throat dramatically. “He’s Connoll Spencer Addison, Viscount Halford, Earl of Weldon, Marquis of Rawley. And I’m glad you don’t like him, because Ido . Of course, he’s never asked me to dance with him.”

  “How do you know him, when you haven’t been in London any longer than I have?”

  Leandra shrugged. “Mama and I made a list at the beginning of the Season,” she admitted, lowering her voice still further. “You know, of men whose attentions I might encourage. His name was right at the top. It was very disappointing that he wasn’t even here.”

  Hm. Obviously her and her mother’s requirements had been very different from the Halloways’. It made sense, though; Leandra’s family needed money, while her own necessities ran toward—how did her mother phrase it?—power and respectability tempered with malleability. Rawley seemed the antithesis of that. And she wouldn’t have a habitual drunk about, anyway.

  “Enough about Rawley,” she exclaimed, flipping her hand. “Did you see my new treasure?” She gestured at her throat.

  “I’ve been attempting not to stare at it since you walked in,” her friend returned with a grin. “It’s exquisite!”

  “It’s called the Nightshade Diamond. It’s an heirloom, handed down to me from my Aunt Rachel.” And whatever her aunt might claim, Evangeline could already dispute its supernatural powers. Nothing untoward had occurred all evening. Even better, Rawley had yet to make an appearance.

  “I see someone else who’s staring,” Leandra murmured, angling her fan past Evangeline’s shoulder.

  She turned around, putting on a warm smile as she saw who approached. “Lord Redmond. I’d nearly given up hope of seeing you this evening.”

  At one and fifty, Lord Redmond was two years older than her own father, but he fell into the category of what she termed “distinguished,” if a bit portly. He favored her with a deep, reverent bow. “If I’d known for certain you would be here, Miss Munroe, I would have arrived sooner.”

  “You are too kind, my lord,” she returned, offering her hand for his kiss.

  “Not a bit. You know how I worship you.”

  Yes, she did. He said it often enough. “In that case, I think you should ask me to dance.”

  He smiled, drawing in his gut as he offered his arm. “My pleasure.”

  “Gilly, you aren’t going to save a dance for…your cousin?” Leandra broke in, her lips twisting.

  “Certainly not. He’s not even here.”

  As she accepted Redmond’s escort to her place in line for the country dance, Evangeline made another swift survey of the crowded room. The Gavistons’ soirees were always notoriously well attended; the baron and baroness seemed determined to invite everyone with an address in the west of London. And yet she still saw no sign of the Marquis of Rawley.

  He’d been rather bold, demanding a dance from her and then not bothering to make an appearance. If he thought she would spend the evening doing nothing but anticipating his arrival, he was sadly mistaken. Her only emotion where he was concerned happened to be relief that he’d taken himself elsewhere.

  Across the room her mother gave an encouraging nod as the viscountess sent her husband off to fetch her a refreshment. When she’d been younger, Evangeline had spent countless hours in observation and instruction, learning precisely how to go about being the mistress of the house—asking without asking, expecting without demanding, directing without ordering, and seeing very clearly who truly ruled the family.

  Using those same methods herself, she’d narrowed down the selection from her multitude of suitors—weeded out the roses from amid the nettles, as her mother said—and found the two men with the right combination of wealth, power, and potential, and of course a hearty need for her guidance. Redmond or Dapney. Either would do, though contrary to her mother’s opinion she thought that with Redmond she would find a usable…desperation to be seen as charming by someone less than half his age, a need to be wanted that Dapney at one-and-twenty simply didn’t yet feel.

  As she wound up and down the line of dancers, everyone seemed to be sending admiring looks at her neck. Bad luck, indeed. She’d never felt more admired. Redmond could barely keep his gaze off her long enough to notice where he was going. If everything continued this well, she could expect a proposal from him within the fortnight. And then Lord Rawley wouldn’t dare presume that she’d enjoyed kissing him and might wish to do so again.

  “Explain to me again why you need me to be here?” Connoll asked, flipping open his pocket watch for the third time. “I told you I had a previous engagement.”

  “I need you to be here,” his companion said, “because what I know about art wouldn’t fill a snuffbox. My grandmama is coming to visit, and she expects to see some refinement burgeoning in my soul if I ever hope to inherit. That’s what she said in her last letter, anyway. Just to frighten me into finding some culture, I think. You said you would help me, Conn. You promised.”

  “For God’s sake, Francis, don’t you think it’s a bit late now to try to develop refinement? You had none the entire time we were at Oxford.” And besides, he’d threatened dancing tonight. He needed to follow through with it, or a certain forthright chit would gain even more ground on him.

  Francis Henning frowned, the expression further rounding his generous cheeks. “Idid have refinement back then. I shared quarters with you.”

  Connoll snorted. “Then we’re both sore out of luck, my friend, because I was just today informed that I have no refinement left to my person. Apparently I drowned it in a very large snifter of brandy.”

  “Nonsense, Rawley. I saw that stack of paintings in your hallway. You know what you’re about, even if you’re mad enough to travel to Paris for your precious art.”

  “Keep that between us, will you?” Connoll cautioned in a low voice. “A confirmation of my travels, whatever the reason for them, could make me very unpopular.”

  “I’ll be quiet as a mouse about it if you’ll help me tonight.”

  Damnation. “Very well.” He signaled for a glass of claret. The red liquid was not his preferred drink, but on the off chance that the auction ended quickly and he had time to escape to the Gaviston soiree, he would not give Gilly Munroe another opportunity to call him a drunk.

  “What about this one, then?” Henning whispered, elbowing him in the ribs.

  He shook himself. “Hogarth,” he observed, eyeing the painting as the salon’s employees set it on an easel in preparation for bidding. It was tempting just to concur and be done with it, but he’d given his word. “It’s fine quality,” he said, “but it’ll cost you a pretty penny, Francis.” He looked down the list of items up for auction. “You might hold off until this one.” He pointed at a name.

  “William Etty. Is he famous?”

  “Not yet. He’s still quite young, but I think you’ll find his work affordable, and a good investment. He has a remarkable eye for color.”

  “Splendid, Rawley. You’ll have to make me some notes so I’ll know what to say about it.”

  “Yes, well, I can do that tomorrow. May I leave now?” He still had half a chance of arriving in time to take a spot on the chit’s dance card.

  “No, you can’t go,” Henning squawked, his soft features paling. “I won’t know how much to bid, or when to drop out—if I should drop out. Or whether—”

  “Breathe, Francis,” he interrupted, stifling another frown as he put his watch away.

  “For God’s sake, don’t abandon me now, Conn. I’ll have an apoplexy and drop dead, and then I’ll never inherit Grandmama’s money.”

  Connoll sank back into his uncomfortable chair. “Very well. But you will owe me a very large favor.”

  His friend smiled happily. “I already owe you so many I’ve lost count.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Oh.”

  The butler had the bad manners to look annoyed when Connoll arrived at Munroe House shortly after nine o’clock the next morning. “I shall have to inquire w
hether Miss Munroe has risen yet, my lord,” he intoned.

  Connoll nodded. “I’ll wait. A cup of tea would be welcome, though.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  The butler showed him to the same room where he’d waited for her yesterday. Yes, it was early, but considering Evangeline’s view of him, he wanted to make it perfectly clear that he did not as a rule stay out all night drinking.

  Evangeline Munroe. Good God, she had a mouth on her, which made her the type of woman he generally avoided like the plague. His life had enough twists and turns without making every conversation into a battle. On the other hand, if she’d wept and fainted after their carriage accident yesterday, he doubted he would have bothered to make an appearance this morning—or at all, for that matter.