Twice the Temptation (5 page)

 
At one and fifty, Lord Redmond was two years older than her own father, but he fell into the category of what she termed “distinguished,” if a bit portly. He favored her with a deep, reverent bow. “If I’d known for certain you would be here, Miss Munroe, I would have arrived sooner.”

 
“You are too kind, my lord,” she returned, offering her hand for his kiss.

 
“Not a bit. You know how I worship you.”

 
Yes, she did. He said it often enough. “In that case, I think you should ask me to dance.”

 
He smiled, drawing in his gut as he offered his arm. “My pleasure.”

 
“Gilly, you aren’t going to save a dance for…your cousin?” Leandra broke in, her lips twisting.

 
“Certainly not. He’s not even here.”

 
As she accepted Redmond’s escort to her place in line for the country dance, Evangeline made another swift survey of the crowded room. The Gavistons’ soirees were always notoriously well attended; the baron and baroness seemed determined to invite everyone with an address in the west of London. And yet she still saw no sign of the Marquis of Rawley.

 
He’d been rather bold, demanding a dance from her and then not bothering to make an appearance. If he thought she would spend the evening doing nothing but anticipating his arrival, he was sadly mistaken. Her only emotion where he was concerned happened to be relief that he’d taken himself elsewhere.

 
Across the room her mother gave an encouraging nod as the viscountess sent her husband off to fetch her a refreshment. When she’d been younger, Evangeline had spent countless hours in observation and instruction, learning precisely how to go about being the mistress of the house—asking without asking, expecting without demanding, directing without ordering, and seeing very clearly who truly ruled the family.

 
Using those same methods herself, she’d narrowed down the selection from her multitude of suitors—weeded out the roses from amid the nettles, as her mother said—and found the two men with the right combination of wealth, power, and potential, and of
course a hearty need for her guidance. Redmond or Dapney. Either would do, though contrary to her mother’s opinion she thought that with Redmond she would find a usable…desperation to be seen as charming by someone less than half his age, a need to be wanted that Dapney at one-and-twenty simply didn’t yet feel.

 
As she wound up and down the line of dancers, everyone seemed to be sending admiring looks at her neck. Bad luck, indeed. She’d never felt more admired. Redmond could barely keep his gaze off her long enough to notice where he was going. If everything continued this well, she could expect a proposal from him within the fortnight. And then Lord Rawley wouldn’t dare presume that she’d enjoyed kissing him and might wish to do so again.

 
“Explain to me again why you need me to be here?” Connoll asked, flipping open his pocket watch for the third time. “I told you I had a previous engagement.”

 
“I need you to be here,” his companion said, “because what I know about art wouldn’t fill a snuffbox. My grandmama is coming to visit, and she expects to see some refinement burgeoning in my soul if I ever hope to inherit. That’s what she said in her last letter, anyway. Just to frighten me into finding some culture, I think. You said you would help me, Conn. You promised.”

 
“For God’s sake, Francis, don’t you think it’s a bit late now to try to develop refinement? You had none the entire time we were at Oxford.” And besides, he’d threatened dancing tonight. He needed to follow through with it, or a certain forthright chit would gain even more ground on him.

 
Francis Henning frowned, the expression further
rounding his generous cheeks. “Idid have refinement back then. I shared quarters with you.”

 
Connoll snorted. “Then we’re both sore out of luck, my friend, because I was just today informed that I have no refinement left to my person. Apparently I drowned it in a very large snifter of brandy.”

 
“Nonsense, Rawley. I saw that stack of paintings in your hallway. You know what you’re about, even if you’re mad enough to travel to Paris for your precious art.”

 
“Keep that between us, will you?” Connoll cautioned in a low voice. “A confirmation of my travels, whatever the reason for them, could make me very unpopular.”

 
“I’ll be quiet as a mouse about it if you’ll help me tonight.”

 
Damnation. “Very well.” He signaled for a glass of claret. The red liquid was not his preferred drink, but on the off chance that the auction ended quickly and he had time to escape to the Gaviston soiree, he would not give Gilly Munroe another opportunity to call him a drunk.

 
“What about this one, then?” Henning whispered, elbowing him in the ribs.

 
He shook himself. “Hogarth,” he observed, eyeing the painting as the salon’s employees set it on an easel in preparation for bidding. It was tempting just to concur and be done with it, but he’d given his word. “It’s fine quality,” he said, “but it’ll cost you a pretty penny, Francis.” He looked down the list of items up for auction. “You might hold off until this one.” He pointed at a name.

 
“William Etty. Is he famous?”

 
“Not yet. He’s still quite young, but I think you’ll find his work affordable, and a good investment. He has a remarkable eye for color.”

 
“Splendid, Rawley. You’ll have to make me some notes so I’ll know what to say about it.”

 
“Yes, well, I can do that tomorrow. May I leave now?” He still had half a chance of arriving in time to take a spot on the chit’s dance card.

 
“No, you can’t go,” Henning squawked, his soft features paling. “I won’t know how much to bid, or when to drop out—if I should drop out. Or whether—”

 
“Breathe, Francis,” he interrupted, stifling another frown as he put his watch away.

 
“For God’s sake, don’t abandon me now, Conn. I’ll have an apoplexy and drop dead, and then I’ll never inherit Grandmama’s money.”

 
Connoll sank back into his uncomfortable chair. “Very well. But you will owe me a very large favor.”

 
His friend smiled happily. “I already owe you so many I’ve lost count.”

 
“I haven’t.”

 
“Oh.”

 
The butler had the bad manners to look annoyed when Connoll arrived at Munroe House shortly after nine o’clock the next morning. “I shall have to inquire whether Miss Munroe has risen yet, my lord,” he intoned.

 
Connoll nodded. “I’ll wait. A cup of tea would be welcome, though.”

 
“Very good, my lord.”

 
The butler showed him to the same room where he’d waited for her yesterday. Yes, it was early, but considering Evangeline’s view of him, he wanted to make it perfectly clear that he did not as a rule stay out all night drinking.

 
Evangeline Munroe. Good God, she had a mouth on
her, which made her the type of woman he generally avoided like the plague. His life had enough twists and turns without making every conversation into a battle. On the other hand, if she’d wept and fainted after their carriage accident yesterday, he doubted he would have bothered to make an appearance this morning—or at all, for that matter.

 
It was a conundrum, and clearly Miss Munroe had the answers he required. He didn’t know the questions, and yet here he was again, for the second time in twenty-four hours. Perhaps he’d been traveling too much lately and the overabundance of bad roads had rattled his brains.

 
“I don’t know whether to say good morning or good evening to you, Lord Rawley,” an enticing female voice said from behind him.

 
He turned around, smiling as he noted that not only was she attired to perfection in a trim green walking dress, but she even wore a bonnet. “Today it’s good morning,” he returned, sketching a shallow bow. “I came to apologize.”

 
“We’ve already established that you were drunk, my lord. Please don’t trouble yourself.”

 
That again. “I’m apologizing for not dancing with you last evening. I made plans to attend, but a friend unexpectedly called on me to request my help with a pressing matter.” Of course, for Francis Henning nearly everything was pressing, but he recognized true desperation when he saw it.

 
Something briefly passed through her hazel eyes. Surprise? “Oh,” she muttered, taking a half step backward. “There’s no need to apologize for that, either. I hadn’t expected you to remember, much less to attend.”

 
He followed her retreat, ignoring the cluck of her lurking maid. “I did remember, and I did mean to attend. So I apologize.”

 
“I…then I accept.” She cleared her throat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for my morning walk.”

 
“I’ll join you.”

 
She took another step toward the morning room door. “That isn’t necessary, my lord. You owe me nothing.”

 
“I’m not offering anything but my presence and my wit, both of which are reputed to be quite pleasant. After you.” He gestured her toward the foyer.

 
Evangeline frowned, then covered the expression again. “Very well. I do walk quite briskly, though.”

 
“Duly noted.”

 
Not troubling to hide his amusement, mostly because that seemed to baffle her, Connoll collected his greatcoat, gloves, and hat before he followed her out the front door. Moving up between the chit and her maid, he offered his arm.

 
“I prefer to keep my hands free,” she said, and struck off in the direction of Hyde Park.

 
He fell in behind her. “I like mine full,” he commented.

 
“And your brain addled.”

 
Connoll sighed. “You likely won’t believe me, but while I do drink socially, the state you found me in yesterday was quite unusual for me.”

 
“You’re correct. I don’t believe you. You seemed perfectly at ease sprawled in the street and kissing me as though we were both naked. Or you and this Daisy were, rather.”

 
He flinched. “I would consider it a favor if you would not mention her name in conjunction with mine again.”
If he needed another reminder about what an unhelpful thing it was to be as intoxicated as he’d been, that provided it.

 
Gilly shot him a sideways glance. “Why, are you worried about your so-called reputation?”

 
“No, I’m worried about hers.” He drew a breath. “She had the bad taste to fall in love with some gentleman who will be far too adoring toward her. I did not receive the homecoming I expected, and instead spent the night at a very ungentlemanly club known as Jezebel’s. We—you and I, that is—ran into one another shortly after my driver dragged me out.”

 
“I see.” They walked in silence for several moments. “Were you in love with her?”

 
A surprising question from a seemingly practical chit. “No. But I was fond of her. I still am. And so I shall stay away from her.”

 
“Then I wish you were fond of me, so you would do me the same courtesy.”