Gayle Buck by Hearts Betrayed Page A

she did not. His fevered dreams had been fretted by visions of her laughing eyes and her incredible throaty chuckle. He had even believed that he could feel her warm pliant lips on his.
    But she had not come. She had not visited the bedside of the man who had pledged his heart and his very soul to her. She had denied the love of the man whose body was scarred and made too ugly for her to bear.
    Lord Randol set down his glass with violence. Dear God, how he loathed her. He hated her for what she had done. But most of all he despised himself for being drawn to her still. Her glance, her every gesture, was a siren song to him.
    He had never been able to forget her. His sole comfort had been that he was not tortured by the sight of her. But now she was in London. And he was incapable of ignoring her existence. He wanted to hurt and humiliate her. He wanted to punish her for her betrayal. The fumes of the brandy parted in his mind to reveal a startling vision of himself making passionate love to a beautiful woman whose face was Michele’s.
    Lord Randol abruptly stood up. He swayed slightly. With stiff and careful steps he walked toward the club entrance. One of the waiters offered to hail a hackney, but his lordship indicated tersely that he intended to walk home.
     

Chapter Eight
     
    The ball ended in the small hours, and not surprisingly, the Davenport household rose late the following day. Michele wakened only when her maid pulled back the curtains and sunlight spilled into the bedroom. “What hour is it?” she asked, cracking a yawn and stretching. When the maid informed her it was nearly noon and that Lady Basinberry awaited her in the breakfast room, Michele scrambled out of bed.
    Less than an hour later she had finished her toilette and descended to the breakfast room. “Good morning, my lady,” she said cheerfully, going in to seat herself at the table. Lady Basinberry was sipping her tea and nodded a greeting. A footman asked Michele quietly what she would like served to her from the sideboard, and she requested biscuits and eggs.
    Lady Basinberry set down her cup. “Lydia will be down shortly. I wished to have us all together so that we can discuss the invitations.”
    “Invitations? Have some arrived, then?” For answer, Lady Basinberry swept a hand in the direction of a silver tray overflowing with cards. Michele was astonished. She picked up one to glance at the ornate script. “All of these have come this morning?”
    “The butler informed me that a positive stream of them commenced at first light. Our little ball was a complete success,” Lady Basinberry said complacently. At that moment she saw her younger niece in the doorway. “There you are, Lydia! Come see the invitations that you and Michele have garnered.”
    Lydia sat down at the table and declined anything but toast and chocolate. She eyed the immense stack of cards. “Heavens! We shall be running all Season. How ever will we be able to attend all of these functions?”
    “We shan’t, Lydia. We shall decline a share of them,” said Lady Basinberry as she perused a card. “I believe this is one that we shall decline. I have never liked Emma Wain, and fortunately her musical evening is the same date as the Countess of Kenmare’s dinner party, which we most certainly shall attend. Michele, the countess enclosed a personal word for you.”
    Michele took the card to read the short note. She smiled. “The countess is very kind. I am flattered that she thinks so well of me.”
    “I understand from those who are best acquainted with her that the countess is exceptionally warmhearted. It is wonderful indeed that you are known to her, for her influence will go far in introducing you into the ton.” Lady Basinberry smiled and there was a frosty twinkle in her faded eyes. “And Lydia will certainly not suffer by the association.’’
    “Aunt! You are making Michele’s friendship with Lady Kenmare sound dreadfully mercenary,” Lydia