Clarissa lifted an eyebrow. “I do hope you’re not implying that my only attractions are my fortune, Edwin.”
“If he is, he’s blind,” chirped a pup lounging against the wall. “You’re the jewel in England’s crown, Lady Clarissa, with eyes of emeralds and ruby lips and hair of spun gold.”
“Jewels? Gold?” she said tartly. “Sounds as if you still have my wealth in mind, sir.”
The young man blinked. “I only meant—”
“She knows what you meant.” Edwin met her gaze, which he found more the quality of warm, rich jade than cold emeralds. “And she knows perfectly well what I meant, too. She’s just toying with us both.”
She smiled sweetly. “Am I, indeed? Do I detect a note of criticism?”
“You do not. I’m merely making an observation.”
Her smile broadened as she moved up next to him. “Take care, sir. With each of your ‘observations’ about me, you slide closer to criticism.”
Lowering his voice, he stared down into her lovely face. “You will not win this wager.”
“Ah, but I will.” She tapped his chest with her fan, provoking a slow, steady simmer in his blood. “You can no more stop taking me to task than you can stop breathing.”
“It’s better than turning you into a pile of jewels.”
He and Clarissa were close enough to kiss, to embrace, to behave in the most wildly inappropriate manner. He could smell her cinnamon-scented breath, see the taunting tilt of her smile. The others disappeared for him, and all he could think was how badly he wanted to seize her and kiss that impudent mouth over and over until he’d broken through to the real Clarissa, whoever that might be.
Her smile faltered a little, and a dark awareness flickered in her eyes, as if she’d read his thoughts and guessed exactly all the ways he wanted to taste and caress and plunder her.
Then a feminine voice sounded from the doorway. “Are we interrupting anything?”
Clarissa started, then glanced over and renewed her smile. “Do come in, Lady Anne. How good to see you.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” the young lady said, “but I brought a friend with me.”
“Of course I don’t . . .”
As her words died, Edwin saw a change come over Clarissa. When she began to flutter her fan in front of her bosom again and her posture stiffened until she looked like a deer poising for flight, the simmer in his blood cooled to ice.
Edwin turned to find Durand standing there with Lady Anne.
Bloody, bloody hell.
Nine
Clarissa’s stomach churned as Count Durand raked her with a slow, wolfish glance. Edwin must have seen it, for she heard him mutter an oath and felt him start forward.
Catching his arm, she said under her breath, “Not now. Not here.”
He stopped, thank heaven, though she could feel the barely leashed tension in his muscles even through his coat sleeve.
She forced herself to speak again. “I trust that you’re enjoying the burlesque, Lady Anne?” She refused to address that blackguard Durand directly.
“It’s very silly but I love it!” Tonight Lady Anne wore one of her more outrageous hats, which was sillier than anything Madame Vestris could have come up with for the stage. “The count’s box is only a short way down from yours, so we thought we’d come see what you thought of it.”
“I take it that you and the count are well-acquainted,” Edwin said to Lady Anne, his hard voice as much a mockery of civility as Clarissa’s smile.
“We were introduced only this afternoon,” the count answered for her, “but of course I invited the lovely lady and her mother to join me in my box this evening.” He patted her hand. “How could I resist?”
Lady Anne blushed a bright pink. “Oh, you are such a flatterer, sir.”
He flashed that sly smile that Clarissa had grown to loathe. Unfortunately, when he did it, his eyes were fixed on her, not Lady Anne.
Then he approached Clarissa’s mother, who rose with a rustle of taffeta skirts. “Lady Margrave, enchanted to see you again. You’re looking very well.”
Mama had been impressed with Durand in the beginning, until she’d started noticing how much he upset Clarissa. After that she’d always taken her cue on how to treat him from Clarissa.
But tonight she was behaving oddly, even for her, with an almost unnatural friendliness. “Why, thank you, Count Durand, that is very kind of you to say. I’m feeling particularly strong this evening. Haven’t needed my salts once.”
Then she cast a knowing look at Edwin, and Clarissa realized what she was about—she’d fixed her sights on the earl as a husband for Clarissa, and she meant to use Durand as a weapon in that endeavor.
“That’s good to hear.” The count swept the room with a look, then said, in a voice loud enough to carry at least to the boxes on either side, “I suppose you’re excited about your daughter’s recent betrothal to Lord Blakeborough.”