‘Countess.’ He held her hand in a firm yet gentle grip and made a bow of exactly the correct depth.
‘Mrs Featherstone tells me you have been in town a month,’ he continued. ‘I regret my tardiness in making you welcome to London. Had I known the world was about to change, I assure you, I would not have left for anything so dull as a visit to the country.’
His voice was deep and well modulated and his eyes danced with laughter. At himself and at the world in general. Or so he would have it appear. She was once more conscious of shoulders that owed nothing to the skill of his tailor and a betraying pulse low in her belly. A woman’s appreciation for a magnificent male. A warning that she must be wary of a man who so easily aroused her feminine desires. Such female weakness could only endanger her mission. But desire was not something she feared. It was a two-edged sword she knew well how to wield and she would have no hesitation in using its blade to put an end to his disloyalty.
She inclined her head. ‘A charmingly expressed sentiment, my lord, but a gross exaggeration.’
He chuckled and placed a hand to his heart. ‘’Pon my honour, my lady, you wound me.’
‘It was not my intention.’
Mrs Featherstone touched her arm. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment, Countess? I particularly wished to have words with a friend of mine this evening and she arrived a few moments ago. I fear I may lose her in this crush.’
A planned excuse to leave her alone with her mark. ‘Of course,’ Nicky said. ‘I shall be well entertained by his lordship in your absence.’
‘I shall do my best,’ Mooreshead responded and bowed as her companion departed. A moment later, his charming smile held sensual promise. ‘In the interests of my duty to entertain, may I request your hand for this next dance, Countess?’
The urge to give in to the obvious strength of will in those piercing blue eyes, his absolute confidence she would not refuse, was an irresistible pull. A delicate touch, she reminded herself. Too eager and he would grow wary. Or bored. She gave a regretful sigh. ‘Thank you, but, no, I am promised to another. Perhaps later?’
On cue, the young man who had sought the first dance the instant she entered the ballroom approached. He bowed and held out his arm with an expression of triumph. ‘My dance, I believe, Countess.’ His expression cooled as his eyes met those of Mooreshead. He gave a nod of his head. ‘My lord.’
‘She’s all yours,’ Mooreshead responded with the air of a man who had the right to relinquish possession. ‘I will return later for our dance. The supper dance, I believe we agreed.’
She shook her head at the way he had finessed taking her to supper, but smiled. ‘Bien sûr. Until then.’
Mooreshead bowed and sauntered away
Well, that had been easier than she’d expected. Almost too easy.
She would have to be careful not to rush her fences and make him overly wary. A man who walked in the dangerous world of intelligence would not be easily fooled.
* * *
Fascination with a female. It happened occasionally. Even to a man as jaded as him. It was her boldness he liked. And the intelligence behind the seductive knowing in her cornflower-blue eyes with the starburst of grey in their centres. They were eyes that seemed older than her years.
Even so, under other circumstances, he would have sheared off at the obvious ploy by the Featherstone woman. It might be a coincidence that the countess had clearly decided to inveigle her way into his company at the same moment Gabe had been warned of treachery afoot. It might also be a coincidence that her appearance coincided with new orders from France. But when both occurred at one and the same time? Coincidence it was not.
The gauntlet had been tossed at his feet. He couldn’t afford not to pick it up with matters at such a crucial stage. How annoying that despite himself, he was interested in her. As a woman. He huffed out a breath and forced himself to think logically. He needed to know why she’d been sent. What it was they suspected. He strolled around the ballroom, speaking casually to those acquaintances who would spare him a word, garnering the latest on dit. The life blood of the ton. Apparently little was known about the Countess Vilandry apart from the fact they all thought her divine.
She was the fashion. Her style admired by men and women alike. No doubt about it, the countess warranted a closer inspection.
His groin tightened at the thought of the pleasure such closeness might bring.
Inwardly, he froze. Not for years had he had such a visceral response to a woman. He certainly never let them get close. Marianne had cured him of any wish to open his heart. So why was this one different?
Something sharp and unwelcome twisted in his chest. The emptiness of his self-imposed isolation? The knowledge that there wasn’t a woman alive who would want him? Was that why he was attracted to her? Because she was a creature of lies and darkness, like him?
He mentally cursed and shook off the shadows of the past. The task was simple. Find out if she was the one Armande had warned of and, if so, eliminate the problem.
With the supper dance still a good hour away, he wandered into the card room, passing the minutes until it was time to claim his dance by joining a game of faro. It certainly wouldn’t do to be seen hanging around at the edge of the dance floor watching her like a slavering dog. Everyone knew he didn’t run after females. They ran after him. And the only ones who caught him were those who were interested in nothing but good times and no ties. As far as the world was concerned, she must be no different from his usual fare.
The stakes at his chosen table were high enough to account for his inner tension. Yet the urge to return to the ballroom and see if he had imagined the whole attraction tugged at his mind. He raised the stakes to the groans of his companions. And again when he won. Their gazes turned questioning. He could read their minds. Had he cheated?
With studied slowness, he abandoned his place, picking up his winnings to disapproving stares, and headed out into the mêlée of swirling skirts and sparkling jewels. Despite the crowds, his eyes found her immediately. A mysterious woman who shimmered among lesser gems. Lust grabbed him low in his gut.
Devil take it, whether he was right and she was sent by an enemy or not, he was going to have regrets.
He bit back a curse.
* * *
The supper dance was a cotillion. To Nicky’s delight, Mooreshead proved himself a skilled and graceful dancer. Graceful in a manly way. He was always just where one expected him to be, never turning the wrong way or forgetting a figure. And he conversed easily. No matter how difficult the step, his eyes said he was thinking of nothing but his partner. It was a skill few men managed with any great success. She was impressed.
‘How are you enjoying London?’ he asked as they came together, hands linked in a turn.
‘I find it exceedingly respectable.’
A fair brow shot up. The ice in his eyes warmed with amusement. ‘You would prefer it otherwise?’
The dance parted them and she smiled at her new partner, who turned red and stumbled.
Mooreshead rejoined her at the top of the set and they passed down the lines between the other couples.
‘I do not have a preference for things not respectable,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘But I do find it a little dull.’
‘Then it seems the gentlemen in London are failing you badly.’
Ah, there it was, the offer for them to become closer. They separated at the end of the line. Three figures later, they joined hands for a fast turn. A shiver ran down her spine at their touch despite the layers of their gloves. Anticipation. Followed quickly