Afraid that her unabashed perusal of him was causing the suspicion, she tilted her head and said, "I hope the rest of your afternoon is less eventful."

James bowed slightly. "And yours as well."

They parted. As she walked away, she did not feel him looking after her. Curious, and hoping that if he sighted her glancing back at him, it would spark interest, she paused and turned. Edward James was striding away briskly.

Shrugging, she continued on to Desjardins's carriage to wait.

Chapter 6

The Baroness Orlinda was infamous for the scope and grandeur of her bawdy gatherings. Still, Simon was fairly certain that tonight's mythological theme would be difficult to surpass in sheer audacity and imagination.

The large ballroom was littered with potted trees and bushes to re-create the feeling of being in a forest. The four sets of French doors leading out to the balcony were thrown wide, allowing the evening breeze and the splashing sounds of the massive courtyard fountain to waft in. Sheer blue panels were draped between select pillars, simulating an afternoon sky and providing clever shielding for the occasional hidden chaise. Even the servants were dressed to enhance the mood, their bodies draped in white linen and their heads crowned with rings of leaves. The air was redolent with the scent of exotic candles and filled with the flirtatious laughter of reveling guests.

Simon found the whole affair highly diverting, yet he did not partake. He was not one to enjoy providing voyeuristic entertainment and his fouled mood from the morning continued into the evening. The sensation of being a puppet on Eddington's strings was not a pleasant one. More than ever, Simon wanted to start anew and find a calling that soothed his restless spirit.

Perhaps his age was wearing on him. Where once he'd found his livelihood and its lack of structure to be liberating, now he found it stifling. He had no home, no roots, no family. He could do nothing about the latter things, but he could purchase a home. Ireland called to him, as it did to all her sons. If he reclaimed his wealth and rid himself of Eddington, he could return to her verdant shores and establish the roots denied him by his parentage.

A sharp trill of feminine laughter drew his gaze to a draped alcove where two women watched an amorous couple make use of a convenient chaise. From there his gaze roamed in a slow sweep of the ballroom, searching for Lysette, Desjardins, or the unfortunate Mr. James. The riot of colors on display was distracting, as was the creativity displayed in the masks most guests wore. It was odd that such a small shield could create the feeling of anonymity, but there was no denying that it did. Many of the guests in attendance would show much more restraint were they to expose their faces to view. And censure.

As he looked toward the main entrance to the ballroom, Simon stilled. An angel peaked out from behind a large fern, her pearlescent gown glimmering with the glow of blazing candlelight.

Watching him.

She stiffened when he spotted her, then side-stepped into full view. A silent challenge.

You may have found me, her pose said, but I am not ashamed to be caught staring.

Simon grinned.

Lysette.

Unwigged, her golden tresses were instantly recognizable, as were the enticing curves of her figure.

Then he frowned, confused.

She was… different; he could sense that straightaway. There was an air of expectation about her, a vibrating excitement that he detected from across the room. He had seen her become enlivened by only two things: death and drama. And truly, that had been more akin to morbid glee.

Then there was the mask she wore…

Crimson. Vibrant. He would never have chosen that color for her. In the months they had spent together, she had worn either pastels or dark colors. Lysette did not like to attract attention, a wise predilection when one's livelihood consisted of secrets and lies.

Intrigued, Simon moved to a nearby pillar and leaned his shoulder against it. He smiled. She froze. He imagined her breath caught, a guess reinforced when her lips parted on a gasp. Her reaction and the subtle alteration of her stance were further curiosities.

She was attracted to him.

He watched her return his stare with unabashed frankness, which was not surprising. She had always challenged and annoyed him deliberately. Yet now, that did not appear to be her aim. Lysette's hands rubbed nervously at the sides of her gown, her breasts lifted and fell with rapid breaths, her tongue stroked like a lover's caress along her full bottom lip. All the while she looked at him. Rarely blinking, as if entranced.

Long minutes passed, yet he could not look away. She was a vision of heaven and hell, a devilish angel who apparently could fascinate men at will.

The question was: Why did she decide to fascinate him now?

And there was no denying that he was fascinated.

His smile faltered as his body tensed. Bloody hell. What was she doing? More to the point, what was she doing to him? The woman had bluntly offered him sex once and he had felt no interest at all. Now, he was fighting the urge to snatch her close and claim that lush mouth he'd previously found incapable of more than frustrating him.

There had always been an invisible cloak around her that discouraged intrusion. Stay away, it said, and he'd been only too happy to oblige. Now the mantle she wore was an enticing one. Surprise me, it whispered. Thrill me. The change was drastic. Wariness turned to eager anticipation.

It seduced him. She was seducing him.

Her perusal was heating his skin, creating the urge to shift uncomfortably, which he refused to do.

Her assignment was to lure Mr. James, damn her. Why, then, was she luring him instead?

The only way to find out was to ask her.

He straightened abruptly and strode toward her in a direct path, his purpose so determined that other guests moved out of his way.

"Mademoiselle."

His voice came out lower, more intimate than he had intended, and she shivered, a sure sign of her cognizance of the growing sensual awareness between them.

"Mr. Quinn," she greeted in return, her voice husky and inviting.

As his blood thickened, Simon's gaze narrowed. He caught her elbow abruptly and pulled her toward the exit. Wisely, she did not protest.

He led her through the crowd and down a hallway, opening a closed door and pushing her ahead of him into the room. The interior was dark, and for a moment, her resemblance to an angel was magnified by the contrast of her white gown in the darkened room.

Lysette stepped farther into the large, liberally furnished library. Simon entered behind her, aroused by the exotic scent of her skin, a new fragrance he'd never smelled on her before.

He was infuriated by her effect on him. Despite his doubting of his sanity and his wariness of her motives, he was hot for her. The feeling of acting outside of his will was too similar to his situation with Eddington.

He pushed the door closed and the latch clicked into place, securing them alone together.

"What game are you playing?" he asked gruffly.


* * *

As the unmistakable sounds of sexual congress reached her ears, Lysette altered the use of her fan from a shield to its intended purpose, that of cooling her heated cheeks.

She stood in the far corner of the Orlinda ballroom, her back to the wall, her front shielded by a fern. As far as hiding places went, it was superb. She had a clear view of the main entrance to the ballroom, yet no one could see her unless they came within a few feet. The only reason for Edward James's attendance would be to see her again. He would seek her out. If he came.

Lysette doubted he would. When Desjardins related the details of his conversation with James, it did not sound hopeful. James had been dismissive of such entertainments and claimed to be too busy to spare the time. The comte was certain the protests were no more than tokens. He claimed James had appeared flustered and distracted.

"I think that is his normal deportment," she argued. "He seemed to find me interesting in the way one would a pretty butterfly-fleeting and not the least bit absorbing."

"We shall see," Desjardins said smugly. "I am rarely in error about such things."

So here she was, concealed in a corner of the crowded ballroom to avoid unwanted attention, forced to listen to the sounds of an overly amorous couple.

Although she knew that many considered lovemaking to be pleasant, she could not agree. It was painful and degrading at worst. Unsavory at best. It was an invasion, an act of domination. She could not collect why some women enjoyed it. She assumed it was the thought of possible tangible gain, for a happy man was often a generous man.

As the moaning intensified, Lysette cringed, feeling painfully awkward despite being armored in her favorite pale yellow gown. The sleeves were longer and the bodice higher than current fashion dictated, yet it was undeniably a lovely confection. She had hoped it would deter those seeking easy sport, bur it appeared that mere attendance was a statement of willingness.

"Mademoiselle Marchant."

The deep, coarse rumble of James's voice rippled down her back like heated water, sensual and saturating.

She pivoted with wide eyes, startled by his stealthy approach. It had been a long time since anyone caught her unawares.

Her mouth curved in a genuine smile. "Mr. James, what a pleasant surprise."

He wore an evening ensemble of blue velvet so dark it was nearly black. His cravat was once again modestly tied, yet perfect. He was wigged, but the style was simple. His mouth was hard, his gaze harder. She should have been intimidated by such severity or frightened by his intensity. Instead she felt a different kind of stirring. Something hotter, more disturbing.