“How is it?” she said.
“Young and tender, the way I like it,” he drawled.
Her thick, gold-tipped lashes fanned against her reddened cheeks.
“If you like the pheasant, you must try the other dishes,” Miss Primrose exclaimed.
More dishes were circulated his way. As he sampled the cuisine, he was keenly aware of the charged energy between him and Miss Polly, and he couldn’t help surreptitiously observing her. Burnished by the chandelier, her hair was an intriguing mix of blond, bronze, and gold. Some of the heavy tresses had escaped their pins, wispy tendrils framing her face. It was the kind of sensual boudoir coiffure that ladies spent hours trying to achieve.
Miss Polly, however, seemed annoyed by her hair. She batted the fallen strands, and when that didn’t work, she tried shoving pins at them. It was like watching someone try to catch water with a net. She seemed utterly unaware of her natural appeal: the undone locks made her look as if she’d just risen from a pleasurable romp.
The rest of her looked well suited for bed play as well, and God only knew why she’d chosen to disguise her assets behind the dowdiest dress he’d ever seen. But he wasn’t fooled. A connoisseur of the female form, he’d bet his estate that she had curves that would make a courtesan weep with envy.
In fact, if she’d chosen to make a living in pleasure, her mouth alone would have secured her fortune. Even without paint, it was a coral shade and deliciously plump. The plush ledge of her bottom lip would be a perfect place for a lover to rest his tongue… or some other part of his anatomy.
Christ, why did his mind have to go there? But once thought, the notion could not be swept aside. The image of feeding his cock betwixt Miss Polly’s sultry mouth, his fingers threaded through her bedroom hair, sent an alarming sizzle through his blood.
“Ah, here comes the dessert.” Mrs. Kent’s voice pierced his haze of unacceptable lust. “We are in for a treat. Not only do we have Emma’s lovely cake, but Chef Lenôtre has prepared les petites duchesses for us tonight.”
As the footmen arranged the desserts on the table, which included a large cake covered in fluffy white icing and a silver tier of pastries, Kent said with an Englishman’s suspicion of all things foreign, “A do-shess? What’s that?”
“A roll of pastry filled with cream. It’s delicious. Do try,” Mrs. Kent said.
“None for me, thank you.” Miss Primrose gave Sinjin a coquettish look. “A lady must watch her figure, after all.”
“I’ll have cake and a pastry,” Miss Polly said. “Where are the serving tongs?”
“A duchesse is meant to be eaten with one’s fingers. That’s why Chef has wrapped them in paper for us,” Mrs. Kent explained.
With a shrug, Miss Polly reached out and selected one of the baked confections. It was about six inches long, and positively—there was no better way to describe it—phallic. With morbid fascination, Sinjin watched as she brought the icing-glazed length to her mouth. The tip of the pastry lingered on her bottom lip for the briefest moment—as he’d suspected, that luscious ledge made for the perfect resting place—before she slid it inside.
Goddamn. Sweat gathered beneath his collar.
She bit down, and before his disbelieving eyes, whipped cream squirted out the end. It splattered in thick, milky gobs on the tablecloth. When her tongue swiped out to catch a spot of filling clinging to her upper lip, he barely stifled a groan.
His trousers were suddenly, excruciatingly tight.
“Is it good?” the Duchess of Strathaven asked.
When Miss Polly gave an enthusiastic nod, the duchess and marchioness both reached for a pastry. As they nibbled away, their respective husbands watched on with transfixed gazes. Strathaven adjusted his collar repeatedly, his color high, whilst Tremont’s eyes had glazed over.
Thankfully, the delicious torture of dessert ended before anyone unmanned himself, and Miss Primrose said merrily, “Time for presents!”
Brightly wrapped packages were duly brought in and placed in front of Miss Polly. As she carefully unwrapped each one to the smiles and exclamations of her kin, Sinjin felt his earlier awkwardness return. Not only was he intruding upon a family celebration, he had no prior experience with such affairs. His father and stepmama had never marked the occasion of his birth; in fact, that day was less than a month away, and he doubted that they would even remember.
Hell, sometimes he even forgot.
Now, watching Miss Polly’s genuine joy as she thanked the Tremonts for a pretty music box, Sinjin felt a strange longing to… participate. To not be the uninvited outsider watching on.
“Let me guess who that is from.”
Miss Primrose’s dry comment made him look at the last of the gifts that Miss Polly had unwrapped. A door-stopper of a volume on… fossils? Egad. He might be a novice at birthdays, but even he… wait. He could do better than that.
“Miss Kent,” he said impulsively, “I have a little something for you as well.”
She blinked at him. “You, um, do?”
He reached into his pocket, dug out the locket. Slid it eagerly across the table.
“This is for me?” She picked up the necklace, the simple filigreed pendant gleaming in the light of the candelabra. Her brow furrowed. “But how did you know to get me anything?”
Heat crept up his jaw. You didn’t think this through, you idiot.
In the past, women had never questioned his gifts, but they’d been light-skirts and lovers, and Miss Kent was neither of those things. She fell in a category of female that he’d steered clear of—and obviously for good reason. Chits like her were naught but trouble. Faced with her question, he couldn’t very well admit the truth: he’d given her a trinket that he’d happened to have in his pocket, a memento sent by some woman he’d tupped, whose identity he couldn’t even recall.
“It was my mother’s,” he heard himself lie.
“Then I couldn’t possibly—”
“It’s a trifle,” he said brusquely.
“But if it belonged to—”
“Just take it.” The words emerged filtered through his teeth.
Her eyes narrowed upon him… as if they could see through him. His face heated like that of a schoolboy caught cheating on a test. After a tense moment, during which he wished with every part of his benighted soul that he’d never given her the stupid thing, she slid his offering beneath her other gifts. As if she couldn’t stand the sight of it.
The tinkling of crystal diverted everyone’s attention to Miss Primrose, and not a bloody moment too soon. She set the fork down beside her glass and announced, “I’d like to propose a toast. To Lord Revelstoke, the hero who rescued me from the jaws of death.”
His embarrassment heightened. God knew he was the furthest thing from a hero.
“Quite unnecessary, Miss Kent,” he muttered. “I was glad to be of service.”
“You are far too modest, my lord. I owe you my life,” she gushed. “If it weren’t for you, I might not even be sitting here.”
Kent’s brows drew together at his daughter’s pronouncement. During the locket incident, he’d looked distinctly disapproving, but now his expression shifted, conveying the depth of his love for his child. It was a look that Sinjin had never received from his own father.
“I am in your debt, Revelstoke,” Kent said gravely.
“I did as any gentleman would have.”
“If there is any way I can repay the favor, you need only ask,” Kent returned with equal firmness.
The offer hung in the air; it was the opening Sinjin needed.
“There is no favor to repay,” he said, “although there is business I wish to speak with you about, sir.”
Mrs. Kent rose, and the gentlemen immediately followed suit.
“Ladies, shall we withdraw to the drawing room?” she said.
“Why?” Her Grace’s brow furrowed.
Her reaction suggested that the family typically bucked the tradition of segregating sexes afte
r dinner. Which wasn’t all that surprising. From what Sinjin had witnessed thus far, this was no conventional family. Although he was hardly a stickler for convention, at the moment he wanted the women gone—and Miss Polly especially. She was too much of a distraction.
“Perhaps the men would like some privacy to go along with their port and cigars,” Mrs. Kent said meaningfully.
“That is precisely why we ought to stay,” the duchess protested. “Privacy is when all the interesting things happen.”
Nonetheless, under Mrs. Kent’s guidance, the ladies filed out. Miss Polly brought up the rear. The last thing he saw before the door closed was her suspicious gaze upon him.
“Now, my lord,” Kent said once the men were seated again, “I gather the purpose of your visit is not entirely social?”
Sinjin glanced at Kent’s brothers-in-law.
“My family can be trusted,” the investigator said.
In for a penny. He drew a breath. “I have come to retain your services, sir.”
“For what purpose?” Kent looked curious rather than surprised.
Sinjin had the inkling that it would take a lot to disturb the other’s equilibrium, and he found that stalwartness comforting. Also, he had nothing to lose.
He steeled himself. “I want to hire you to prove that I’m not mad.”
Chapter Eight
“I’ll finish up from here. Thank you, Nan,” Polly said.
With a bob, the maid departed, and Polly continued with her evening ablutions. As she brushed her hair the requisite one hundred strokes, her thoughts kept returning to Revelstoke. Anger and humiliation smoldered, her gaze falling upon the locket on the vanity in front of her.
Does the dashed Lothario think I’ll be fooled by his stupid tricks?
His mother’s locket, indeed.
When she’d questioned him about the trinket, she’d seen the unease, the flash of guilt in his aura that labelled him a liar. He’d probably assumed that a wallflower like her wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, would simply be overjoyed to receive anything from the God of Revelry. Why he’d even bother trying to win her favor, however, was beyond her. Perhaps charming the opposite sex was a compulsion for him. Or maybe he wanted to impress her family with a seemingly thoughtful gesture.
Thoughtful. Hah. She’d wager he had dozens of those baubles, one in every pocket to use on unsuspecting females.
There was definitely something not right about the man. She shivered, thinking of the jumbled, agitated mass of his aura when he’d first arrived. Fear, anger… even desperation had been in the mix. He’d reached for his wineglass time and again, and whether or not he realized it, the alcohol had fueled his disordered state, making the emotions pulse like dark veins beneath the strained skin of his self-control.
Despite her dislike of the earl, she hadn’t been able to stand by and allow him to go further down the path of self-destruction. He hadn’t welcomed her interference—she flushed, recalling his innuendos which were clearly meant to put her in her place—but at least he’d stopped drinking, and the food had steadied his aura.
But why had he come? And what in heaven’s name did he want with Ambrose?
The door opened, and Rosie slipped in. Dressed for bed, her blond tresses loose over her chintz wrapper, she had a dreamy look in her eyes. She flopped backward onto Polly’s bed.
“Revelstoke is staying the night,” she announced in dramatic tones. “I heard Papa tell Pitt to have the spare room in the mews readied.”
The thought of Revelstoke spending the night sent a frisson through Polly. At the same time, she frowned in confusion. “Why would Ambrose put a guest in the mews?”
“Strange, isn’t it? And terribly inhospitable, if you ask me. I don’t know Papa’s reasons, and the truth is I don’t care.” Rolling onto her belly, Rosie propped her chin in her hands. “The point of the matter is that Revelstoke said he would call and he did—and he’s chosen to stay, even if it’s in a room above the stables.” She gave a swoony sigh. “Isn’t it romantic? He must be truly smitten with me.”
Seeing the sunburst of hope around her sister, Polly bit her lip. The last thing she wanted was to destroy Rosie’s optimism after the disappointments of the last Season. Rosie had been through enough with gentlemen failing to come up to scratch and damaging her reputation in the process. By some miracle, the gossip labelling her a flirt had died as quickly as it had started, but the girl’s self-confidence had been visibly shaken. Although Rosie tried to hide her reaction, Polly could see desperation and despair seeping in, dimming her sister’s glow.
She didn’t want to see the other hurt again. And Revelstoke was clearly trouble.
She sat next to Rosie on the bed. “You must have a care. There’s more going on with Revelstoke than appears on the surface. Whatever he and Ambrose spoke about, I’m sure it’s trouble.”
“Did you… sense something?” Rosie said, her jade eyes wide.
Hesitating, Polly gave a nod. “His emotions are as dark and complicated as any I’ve seen—and don’t ask me why,” she said before the other could interrupt. “You know I can’t read his mind.”
It was yet another drawback of her ability. Just because she could see emotions didn’t mean that she understood what elicited them. It made for frustrating guesswork, akin to reading a book with every other paragraph missing. Sometimes she was right, and sometimes she was wrong—the most prominent example of the latter being the case of Lord Thomas Brockhurst.
She’d made the assumption that the attraction in his aura had been for her, but obviously she’d been mistaken. Perhaps he’d been thinking of someone else when they were together. Or perhaps he had been attracted to her but not enough to overcome his repugnance of the flaw she’d so imprudently disclosed.
Why, oh why, did I tell him about my aberration?
There was no use regretting what could not be undone. Just as it was futile to try to understand Brockhurst’s true motives. In the end, she knew one thing for certain: she would never share her secret with any man again.
“So what if Revelstoke has a few demons? Part of his attraction is how deliciously wicked he is. Just ask any of the ladies salivating after him.” Rosie sat up, curling her arms around her raised knees. “And wouldn’t it be grand if I were the one to conquer his demons?”
“Or he could ruin you utterly. He’s a dangerous and degenerate rake,” Polly pointed out, “and one of the wildest ones, according to you.”
“You know what they say about reformed rakes making the best husbands. Why, look at Strathaven. He’s utterly devoted to Emma.”
“Yes, but that’s different. His Grace was interested in Emma from the start—”
“Isn’t Revelstoke interested in me?” A tremor entered Rosie’s voice. “Did you see attraction in his aura, Polly? Tell me, please.”
Polly’s insides knotted. At the dinner table, she had glimpsed desire in Revelstoke’s tumultuous aura; what man wouldn’t find Rosie appealing? But the earl’s glow had swirled with a host of other darker feelings, including the shame she’d seen back at Mrs. Barlow’s.
What does he have to feel ashamed for—what is he hiding? Polly wondered with a shiver. Moreover, the fact that Revelstoke was attracted to Rosie didn’t mean that his intentions were honorable. Polly herself knew from experience that a man might feel one way and act another. In the hierarchy of rakehells, Brockhurst probably fell somewhere in the middle; imagine the havoc that Revelstoke, the god of rakes, could wreak upon a vulnerable girl like Rosie.
Desperation spurred Polly to say, “The earl’s aura was agitated, full of anger and fear. My best guess is that he’s in some sort of trouble, which is why he sought out Ambrose—”
“But attraction was in his aura?”
Polly hesitated… and gave a reluctant nod.
Relief shone in Rosie’s eyes, her uncertainty passing like clouds. “I just knew he liked me! Oh, Polly, I’m so happy. He’s exactly the sort of husband I’ve been wai
ting for, and this time I shan’t let the opportunity pass me by. Imagine me, a countess,” she said giddily. “Those sticklers of the beau monde will have to eat their words, and can’t you just see the looks on the other debs’ faces? Why, they’ll be pea green with envy that I landed the biggest catch of all!”
“Have you heard anything I’ve said?”
“If Revelstoke’s in trouble, I’m sure Papa will help him out of it,” Rosie said airily.
Polly struggled to find a foothold in Rosie’s impenetrable adoration of Revelstoke. And she knew of only one way. As much as she dreaded dredging up the humiliation, she had to—for her sister’s sake. “There’s something else… something I haven’t told you.”
Rosie’s head canted to one side.
Taking a deep breath, she said, “That night, when I overheard Brockhurst talking about the wager… Revelstoke was there, too.”
“He was?” Her sister blinked. “Why didn’t you mention that you’d met him before?”
“Because we didn’t actually meet. Revelstoke was on the other side of the hedge with the others. And he said some… unpleasant things.” Polly’s throat clenched. “About me.”
“I don’t understand. How could he say such things if he doesn’t know you?”
“Well, he didn’t say them about me, as such,” she was forced to admit. She related the incident in its mortifying entirety. When she was done, she was trembling.
Rosie said, “Oh, Pols,” and wrapped her in a hug. As she soaked in the comfort of her sister’s embrace, the other went on, “I’m so sorry you were subjected to that cruelty, I truly am. But you oughtn’t take Revelstoke’s words to heart, nor blame him for them.”
Polly jerked. That was the last response she’d expected.
Pulling back, she whispered, “Pardon?”
“When gentlemen are around one another, they say stupid things,” Rosie explained. “And do stupid things. It’s how they prove their manhood.”
“By being… stupid?”
Never Say Never to an Earl (Heart of Enquiry Book 5) Page 7