Vivian Roycroft by Mischief on Albemarle Read Free Book Online Page A

abandoned breathing as impossible for the evening. No, this particular lady's main worry with that dress had to be its color, for that rose pink shade, while beautiful in itself, did not occupy a comfortable position on the color wheel in relation to her own coppery tresses. In the wrong lighting, such as a drab or overcast day, that combination of colors could be a walking disaster.
    In the brilliant candlelight of the many massive chandeliers, it was stunning.
    Any man who didn't torture himself by drinking in the vision of that nymph was leaving his discernment open to question. At best.
    And Fitzwilliam stood with his back to that corner. Drinking champagne. Ignoring his Highland rogue friend's musically unaccompanied demonstration of a reel. As best anyone could ignore massed yards of orange-and-black plaid wool as its wearer capered like a goat on a mountain crag.
    In truth, the rogue wasn't bad.
    The three young ladies had clustered together since their arrival, their heads bent, chattering and laughing, Miss McTaggart in pale pomona green and Miss Violetta in deep evening primrose. Calling to friends, responding to the hopeful gentlemen who braved Lady de Lisle's glower, but mainly speaking amongst themselves in a huddle that proclaimed " Secrets! " to any who observed. And while Miss Beryl never glanced toward Fitzwilliam's corner — not even when the wild man interspersed his reel with a shouted battle cry, capable of penetrating all but the thickest social armor — neither of her lovely companions were able to resist the temptation of that most interesting portion of the room.
    Finally Miss Beryl straightened from their huddle. Even as the other two ladies exchanged glances that didn't seem all that confident, she gave them a firm, decisive nod.
    His cue, without a doubt.
    The thick crowd parted in front of him like the Red Sea, bows and curtseys and whispers spreading before his path along the assembly room's long wall. His chosen pathway, beneath the line of massive chandeliers, threw the brilliant candlelight fully onto his face and dress, doubtless highlighting the fine woolen swallowtail, the silk of his white breeches, the subtle gleam of the signet ring on his left hand, his only jewelry. Carefully he'd instructed his valet regarding his evening's attire, and perfectly had that worthy man heeded and obeyed. That night, Beau Brummell wouldn't cut a finer figure.
    Just as he'd intended.
    Only once along that long wall did he pause. Susan York had only come out this year, was mere weeks past her presentation, and still the awed excitement of an assembly room brought a delicate rose-hued flush to her fresh young face. Eyes wide, she bobbed a graceful curtsey, small and blond, straight and graceful, so much like—
    And Mistress York's eyes narrowed, in that unmistakably predatory maternal-matrimonial manner. His Grace bowed to Miss York, caught her glance in passing, and rewarded her sweet innocence with a smile, and then he moved on.
    The long wall of the Hanover Square ballroom was long indeed. By the time His Grace reached Miss Beryl's corner, there could be no doubt that he commanded the attention of every person within. All eyes had traced the last steps of his path, and the assembly stilled, watching and waiting.
    Hoping to ascertain the identity of his next victim.
    Far be it from him to disappoint them.
    The three young ladies dropped into lithe curtseys, and he bowed in response. Impossible not to smile at Lady de Lisle's astonished expression. But he fashioned the impulse into his most charming smile, not his rakish leer. Not yet time to bring forth that weapon.
    The remainder of the assembly's noise died away. The Hanover Square ballroom fell still.
    One heartbeat. Two. Three.
    In a single second, five hundred hands produced five hundred fans — there, the rustle and flutter of fans flipping open, and the increasing, increasingly excited babble of discreet murmurs, surely behind those genteel