Violence throbbed in the air, in the muscle in his cheek and in the rapid rise and fall of her shapely breasts. By God, if they were not in a public place, he would show the author of Bastian of Bloodmoor just what her favorite villain was capable of doing to her. The idea, Sebastian realized, with stunning surprise, was more than a little stimulating.
And far from cringing away from his rage, the unusual Miss Prudence seemed enthralled by it. She was looking up at him with the oddest expression on her starkly beautiful face, and if he had not known better, Sebastian could have sworn he saw an answering flicker of excitement behind those ridiculous spectacles.
“Well, well, and what have we here?”
At the sound of Lord Neville’s voice, Sebastian automatically straightened and composed his features. Lord Lawrence Neville—Nevvy to his circle—was a parasite, a man with no discernible income of his own, who lived off the largesse of others. And why did anyone support him? Somehow, Neville had managed to set himself up as an arbiter of fashion, along the lines of Beau Brummel, only with a cruel streak a mile wide.
The jaded members of the ton enjoyed hearing Nevvy sharpen his tongue on their peers, as long as they were not his victims, and so each slavishly tried to please him. Thus he gained more power and grew more vicious.
Although Nevvy despised Sebastian for not playing his nasty little game, he rarely dared to make snide comments to the earl’s face, for he was not entirely foolish. Sebastian had made it clear that he would tolerate only so much, and Nevvy had a healthy regard for his own skin.
But, apparently, the public location and Sebastian’s escalating troubles had emboldened the fellow, for he stepped closer, smiling evilly, despite Sebastian’s dismissive glance. “Are you hawking your own book now, Ravenscar? Who is your poor victim?”
Without waiting for an answer, Nevvy turned to Prudence. “Have a desire to meet Count Bastian in person, do you, miss?” he asked. “Better beware—he’s a very dangerous man.” Laughing at his own joke, Nevvy obviously expected Prudence to join him, but she only stared at him openly.
Apparently she was a bit bemused by the fellow, for Sebastian watched her gaze travel past Nevvy’s quizzing glass to the absurdly high points of his shirt with more than polite interest. She appeared, Sebastian decided, to be making a character study of Sir Neville, for use in her next book. Suddenly, Sebastian felt in control of himself again, his extraordinary outburst replaced by an equally unusual interest—and no little amusement.
“I fear I do not follow you, sir,” she said.
Watching her brave Nevvy’s temper, Sebastian could not help but admire the chit. Most women would cringe if Nevvy turned his attention on them—or else fawn shamelessly over the toad. Prudence, refusing to be rattled by the man’s assessing look, remained her own, unique self, polite but poised in the face of his less-than-flattering scrutiny.
“My dear child,” Nevvy said, with one of his most unpleasant smirks. “Have you not heard? The book is about the earl here.”
Prudence looked so dumbfounded by Nevvy’s claim that Ravenscar felt light-headed. Or was it lighthearted? Could it be possible that the girl had not purposely vilified him? Perhaps Prudence, with her ink-stained hands and sometimes faraway gaze, had been so wrapped up in her writing that she was unaware of the similarities between her villain and the object of Cornwall’s latest scandal.
She turned to Sebastian, her eyes round behind the glass, her cheeks flushed a becoming rose color. “My lord, is this a jest?”
Sebastian gave her a cool smile. “Of course, Miss Lancaster, but you are not acquainted with Nevvy’s peculiar brand of humor. May I present Lord Lawrence Neville? Miss Lancaster.”
Nevvy nodded curtly, his lip curling contemptuously at the slight to his wit. “One wonders where you have been, Miss Lancaster, for all of London is talking about Bastian of Bloodmoor and his likeness to Ravenscar.”
There was no mistaking that Prudence was startled. Unless she was a very fine actress…She sent him a quick, alarmed glance that heartened him entirely too much before she regained her composure.
“I have been, Sir Neville, in Cornwall,” she replied. “You see, I fear there has been some mistake. This book is a work of fiction. It is not about anyone.”
Nevvy lifted his quizzing glass and peered through it, in order to give her the full force of his disdain. “Come, come, Miss Lancaster.” He clucked. “And how would someone buried along the coast know a thing about the latest literary offering?”
“I can readily answer that,” Prudence said, drawing a deep breath, “for, you see, I wrote it.”
Sebastian took one look at Nevvy’s expression and was surprised to feel genuine laughter building in his chest. Although the sensation was decidedly unfamiliar, it was uniquely satisfying, for watching the darling of society reduced to gaping like a chawbacon struck him as infinitely amusing.
“And I can assure you, it is not about Lord Ravenscar,” Prudence continued firmly. She lifted a hand, as if to reach for Sebastian, and he knew a brief but heady anticipation. She must have caught herself, however, for her gloved fingers fell before touching his sleeve, much to Sebastian’s disappointment.
Nevvy’s eyes narrowed, and Sebastian could almost see the man’s small mind working like a primitive gear. Undoubtedly, Nevvy would have liked to cut Prudence completely in payment for her audacious attitude, but, as the author of such a popular book, she was far too valuable a commodity to dismiss. It would be quite a coup for Nevvy to present her to society, and apparently Nevvy was coming to that conclusion, for he soon smiled at Prudence in an ingratiating fashion.
“What a pleasant surprise! I am thnlled to meet you, Miss Lancaster. I am honored, truly honored. You simply must let me introduce you to a select few of your admirers,” Nevvy gushed.
Listening to Nevvy’s invitation, Sebastian felt an unaccustomed surge of protectiveness. He knew an urge to grab Prudence by the arm and carry her off to his town house, or even to Wolfinger, as his namesake might have done. He shook it off. Why the devil did he care what became of a woman who, intentionally or not, had made a mockery of him?
“Prudence, are you all right?”
What now? Sebastian thought. He looked over Prudence’s blond head and Nevvy’s darker one, to see a pompous-looking man with thinning hair stepping toward them purposefully. Even more annoying than the man’s approach was the way Prudence turned to greet him with a bright smile. Who the devil was he? He looked like one of those dreadfully stiff, starched bores one saw seated at the edge of the shabbiest cardrooms, playing piquet for pennies.
“Yes, of course, Hugh. Lord Ravenscar, Lord Neville, I would like you to meet my cousin, Mr. Hugh Lancaster, and this is my sister Phoebe.”
Sebastian, who had not even noticed the arrival of the silly chit his brother had so admired, nodded coolly. She met his gaze with a mutinous expression that made it plain she still thought him a murderer. Habit made him glare at her until she glanced away fearfully, clutching at her reticule as if she thought he might snatch it from her in a burst of petty thievery.
“Mr. Lancaster, are you the one who coaxed your cousin to London? You cannot know how delighted I am to meet such a famous authoress!” Nevvy continued, fawning shamelessly over his prize.
Sebastian, whose initial interest was rapidly deteriorating into boredom, was pleasantly surprised by Hugh’s blank look. Apparently he was not the only one who noticed it, for Prudence colored again under Hugh’s curious gaze. The bright spots, Sebastian decided, were really quite becoming.
“I am not in the habit of revealing myself,” she explained hurriedly.