London's Most Wanted Rake. Bronwyn Scott
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England, he’d chosen this one. Well, that made three sets of balls she’d have to deal with.
She wanted to be wrong, but even at a distance there was no mistaking those blond good looks, the tall, slender grace of his movements, the impeccable fashion with which he wore his clothes. Today it was a coat of blue superfine, the buff trousers tightly fitted to show the perfection of his physique and perfectly polished high boots. There was a sensuality to everything he did. Even the simple gesture of greeting their hostess took on an intimate cast as she watched him bow over Lady Lionel’s hand. She had not seen him in over a year, not since they’d parted badly at a Christmas house party she’d hired him to escort her to, and it was like seeing him all over again for the first time, so striking was his appearance. A woman could look at him all day and never tire of the view. But it would not be in her best interest.
The comtesse knew how dangerous all that handsome sensuality was. Beneath the good looks and laughing blue eyes lay a master of bedroom politics. She’d experienced a tangle in those sheets on two occasions. The first time had been in Paris, a brief but explosive affair during her marriage that had not been carnally consummated, but had not been less explosive for the lack of it. It had ended poorly and that had admittedly been her fault for even starting it. She’d been young, desperate, vulnerable. But the second time—oh, the second time she held him fully accountable.
It had been here in England a few years later. She had hired him as an escort who could help her reintegrate into decent society after so many years abroad. It was to have been business only between two mature adults who knew the rules. She had not understood how deeply he held Paris against her, or how compelling he could be, how he could make her believe it wasn’t only business for him. He’d made her believe what he felt for her wasn’t only a job, but genuine emotion, and then he’d dropped the pretence most cruelly. In doing so, he’d had his revenge. She had yet to forgive him. No one made a fool out of the Comtesse de Charentes. Roland Seymour was about to become one example of that and Channing Deveril could be the second if he chose to engage.
She could make it easy on them both and await Amery in the gardens just outside. But the thought occurred too late. Before she could quietly slip outside, Channing spied her and she was caught in the web of his blue gaze.
He inclined his head in her direction in sardonic acknowledgement and query, his eyes registering quickly veiled surprise over her presence. What was she doing here? She returned his nod with the cool, regal smile she’d cultivated for the men of Paris, the smile that invited men to look, but reminded them they touched at their own peril.
Well, at least she could take consolation in the fact that Channing’s presence meant Amery was close behind. It stood to reason that, as friends, Amery and Channing would have shared a coach and come together. It was not beyond the scope of possibility that Channing had been hired by another lady at the party. But a glance beyond Channing into the hall revealed nothing. Perhaps Amery was still out at the coach, making arrangements for his trunks.
A few minutes more passed and Amery had still not appeared, although Channing continued to linger by the door, talking with the hostess. Something was wrong. Lady Lionel’s fair brows had knitted together in consternation, just before Channing took his leave and began to cross the room towards her.
Within moments he stood before her, bowing over her hand much as he’d bowed over Lady Lionel’s. ‘The Comtesse de Charentes, enchanté, although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.’ The blue eyes holding hers were full of mischief, secretly laughing. Channing was always laughing with his eyes, with his mouth. It had, unfortunately, been a rather endearing quality in the past.
‘I have a bit of a dilemma and I thought perhaps you could help? I am looking for a guest, only Lady Lionel is not familiar with her, which I find extremely odd. After all, it’s her party and her guest list.’
‘And you thought you’d ask me,’ she finished with cold politeness.
‘Well, yes, since you seem to know these sorts of things.’
She understood the mischief in his eyes now. It was true. She did know everyone. She’d made it a point to know as many people as possible since her return from the Continent over a year ago. She’d been gone too long and acquaintances had lapsed. She’d done her best to restore those lines of friendship, although not everyone had welcomed her overtures. But it was more than that. ‘These sorts of things’ implied Channing had his suspicions about the identity of Elizabeth Morgan. His mind was fast like that.
‘I will be glad to assist if I can.’ Alina smiled politely, but inwardly her concern was growing. Where was Amery? Her gambit was off to a shaky start. ‘I do need to let you know, however, that I am waiting for someone. He should arrive momentarily.’ It was a weak ploy at best. If Channing had come with Amery, he’d already know that.
Wherever Amery was, Alina wished he’d hurry up. Even so, it was too late to avoid explanations. She’d given Amery a false name when she’d applied for the League’s assistance this second time, wanting to avoid Channing. ‘Who are you looking for?’ she asked Channing. The faster she could help him, the sooner he’d leave her alone.
‘I’m looking for a Mrs Elizabeth Morgan. Perhaps you know her? Amery DeHart was to meet her.’
She’d been right to worry, not that she’d let Channing see it. Her stomach churned as she realised the implications of Channing’s presence. If Channing was looking for Elizabeth Morgan, it meant Amery wasn’t coming. She had two choices: either brazen it out and confess or deny knowledge of the name and send Channing home, which would leave her on her own with Seymour, unless the perverse man decided to stay and make the house party miserable for her anyway, something he just might do given their track record.
She opted for the former, her chin going up a notch in defiance. ‘Amery DeHart was supposed to be meeting me. I am Elizabeth Morgan.’
Channing’s face hardened. She could see that he’d already grasped the basic tenets of the situation. The quick acuity of his mind made him a dangerous opponent, a reminder that everything she’d counted on would have to be rethought. Amery would have done her bidding with no questions asked. But Channing would ask. He’d want to know why she was using one man to meet another. He would demand explication and perhaps much else—after all, he was a man of extraordinary passions. You are not in the market for the ‘much else,’ she told herself sternly. Things had a habit of going badly when she and Channing were together.
His mouth formed one word. ‘Liar.’
She took the verbal blow with aplomb. ‘Fabulous. I see you’ve come to ruin another house party.
Ah, so she hadn’t forgiven him for the débâcle at Christmas—not last Christmas, but the Christmas before that. ‘Angry and beautiful, just as I remember you,’ Channing said calmly, knowing it irritated her to no end that he wouldn’t rise to the bait of her temper.
Her pale blue eyes flashed with an icy fire. Beautiful was something of understatement when it came to describing Alina Marliss, Comtesse de Charentes, an Englishwoman turned French countess, and now a returned Englishwoman. She was like a living diamond with her platinum hair and flawless skin. She sparkled from every facet. Not all of those facets were physical. Her personality sparkled as well. She could be positively charming when she chose. She was not choosing to be so now when she was on the defensive. Channing decided to push his offence.
‘You lied. You gave Amery a false name. Why don’t we stroll in the garden and you can tell me all about it? I find it quite interesting you needed to give an alias when you already have so many other names to choose from. Now we can apparently add Elizabeth Morgan along with Miss Alina Marliss and the Comtesse de Charentes.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ she hissed, falling in step beside him, but she did not, he noted, take his arm. The minx was determined to declare her independence at every turn.
‘I thought a widow got to keep the title as a matter of honour. Was I misinformed?’ Channing answered in low tones. He’d known beforehand how much she despised the title. She’d tried to shun it, but society had forced her to