The Darkest Sin by Caroline Richards Page B

direct, my dear,” he said, reaching out playfully to stroke her hand in its silk glove, “but If you are looking for an engagement, perhaps you should try Lord Rushford. The man clearly has deep pockets and remains stubbornly solitary.”
    â€œDeep pockets perhaps,” Constance mused, a curve to her rouged lips, playfulness still in her tone despite her companion’s disappointing confession. “Much as I find the concept appealing, you and I both know that Rushford is reluctant to, shall we say, engage. Since the scandal.” She paused significantly, looking at Lord Braemore as though she had secreted a priceless gem away in the bodice of her gown. “Not that I don’t relish a challenge,” she continued, lowering her voice further, “although I sensed there was something different about him this evening. I did snag him by the lapel of his jacket for the briefest moment earlier,” she added. “I couldn’t say precisely what struck me as unusual.” She narrowed her feline eyes contemplatively.
    â€œHe seemed as indifferent to the world about him as ever when I last espied him in the library.” Cecil sniffed. “Cold water for blood, that one.”
    Constance shivered dramatically, the silk tassels on her bodice keeping time. “I shouldn’t be too sure of that. I hear he does have a fearsome temper. Albeit rarely on display.”
    Cecil’s brow inched higher. “Now do not tell me that you have frequented the boxing club, eh?”
    â€œI’ll never tell,” Constance said archly. “Except to say Rushford is quite the specimen of a man, particularly in full bout. Little wonder the late Duchess lost her head over him. Sacrificed everything.” She shook her head. “Rumor has it that it required five men to hold him back from killing the Earl. Of course, he was distraught.” She wagged a finger at Lord Braemore. “And you believe he has ice water running through his veins. I should love to prove otherwise.”
    Rowena was overcome by a sensation so physical that it threatened to bend her body in two. How strange, she forced herself to observe, that she should be so affected by the thought of Rushford with a woman.
    She startled at a hand on her elbow. Turning away from the couple whose heads were bent closer in conversation, she prepared a bright smile for the gentleman who sought her attention. Fixed squarely in a shaft of light slanting from a tableside candelabra, he looked as though he had simply materialized there, a tall man of middling age with an imposing physique.
    â€œI trust I am not interrupting,” he said. The light cast his features in sharp relief, revealing eyes both inquiring and intelligent. Rather too inquiring and intelligent, thought Rowena, extending a gloved hand.
    â€œNot at all,” she said, lying, attempting to school her mind and emotions into a semblance of order. “I was merely admiring the delightful painting,” she said, gesturing to the canvas over the mantel.
    â€œRather unfortunate, isn’t it?” the gentleman asked rhetorically, a grin lighting his stern features, his eyes glinting over the prow of a bold nose. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cherub quite that shade of pink.”
    Rowena shook her head, unable to stop a widening smile. “Indeed. Although I shouldn’t think that the club is much concerned about the selection of paintings for these walls.”
    The gentleman relinquished her hand with an abbreviated bow, admiration in his gaze. “You are honest in your estimations, madam. And now that we have established the fact that we share impeccable taste in art, if I might be permitted to introduce myself? Lord Richard Archer.”
    His humor gave Rowena a false sense of courage. “Miss Warren,” she said briefly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” That she was an unaccompanied female did not seem to