The Rake's Revenge. Gail RanstromЧитать онлайн книгу.
in the least. But I must be certain, and that is why I have come to you for guidance.”
“Oui. I can see that this is the critical matter.” Afton turned up the next card. “Là! The magician! You ’ave the decision to make. You must remain clear-headed, n’est-ce pas?”
“Clear-headed?” Miss Barlow appeared to be baffled.
“Oui. Do not ’urry to judgment. ’Ow you Anglaise say— ‘Act in ’aste, repent at leisure’?”
“Oh, piffle! I haven’t the time to mull things over, madame. I must decide what to do very soon.”
Another glance at the clock showed the relentless march of time. Feeling a fair amount of urgency herself, Afton turned the third card up. “The lovers! Ah, this explains everything.”
“The lovers!” Miss Barlow exclaimed, leaning forward. “Oh, I knew it! Tell me more, madame. What do you see for us?”
“He is…’andsome. ’Is coloring is—”
“Dark! Oh, yes! The most handsome of men! You are so terribly clever, madame. Tell me, is it true love?”
“The card foretells love, and a choice to be made, chérie. Between the flesh and the spirit. Not the same things, eh?”
“No!” Miss Barlow agreed. “My flesh—my heart—tells me one thing, and my spirit and good sense tell me another.”
Afton turned up another card. The moon. The card called for use of the nonrational—instinct and intuition—over rational reasoning, a poor prospect where Miss Barlow was concerned. Nevertheless, it was her fortune. “Use your instincts, chérie. Your ’eart tells you what is best.”
Miss Barlow winced. “If only I could be certain.”
Afton turned up the next card and was surprised at the way the cards were reinforcing one another. It was almost enough to make her believe in the tarot. Almost. “This—” she tapped the card with her finger “—is the chariot, chérie, and foretells travel or distance. Per’aps emotional, per’aps physical.”
“Travel! Oh, yes, madame! I shall travel, indeed. Oh, this is what I have been searching for. Now I know what I must do,” Miss Barlow resolved firmly as Afton nearly pushed her through the door of the small salon. “I shall follow my heart.”
Chapter Five
S tanding near the fireplace in the Spencer ballroom, Rob watched Miss Lovejoy dance a quadrille with Seymour. She was stunning in a willow-green gown trimmed at the bodice and hem with embroidered pink rosebuds. Her hair was secured at the crown with green satin ribbons and then fell in a shining, pale copper riot of curls to her nape. Had she splurged on ribbons for her own hair as well as her sister’s? Money well spent, he observed.
He was still disturbed by his response to her in the tearoom. When she had savored her sponge cake with a little moan and then licked the cream from her lips, she’d been completely irresistible. He’d wondered what it would be like to have Afton moan like that for him. Rob had been seized with such a strong physical response that he’d been afraid he would fall upon her like a ravenous wolf. It would seem he was inching nearer the proverbial edge.
“Lord Glenross?”
He turned to find Mrs. Forbush at his elbow. She wore a gown of silver-gray trimmed in lavender, which displayed her sultry elegance to dazzling advantage. “How are you this evening, Mrs. Forbush?”
“Quite well, thank you. I saw you standing here and thought to take this opportunity to invite you to attend my salon next Friday.”
An invitation to Mrs. Forbush’s much-vaunted and exclusive “Friday salon” was an unexpected compliment, but… “Christmas?”
“I have a number of unattached friends in London for the holiday. I thought we could make our own little family. If you’ll come ’round after church, we shall have a merry celebration. Your brother is welcome, too.”
“Douglas has accepted an invitation from his fiancée’s family,” Rob said. He suspected he would find congenial company at Mrs. Forbush’s gathering—a gathering of strays, orphans and wanderers. And Afton Lovejoy. “I, however, shall be pleased to accept,” he said, watching Miss Lovejoy curtsy to Seymour.
Mrs. Forbush followed his glance. “I’ve invited Sir Martin, as well. Do you think he is interested in my niece?”
“Miss Dianthe?”
“Miss Afton,” she said.
Rob felt a nasty flash of annoyance. “Would his interest be reciprocated?”
Mrs. Forbush smiled. “Afton is a paradox, Lord Glenross. She is uncommonly intelligent, and she can appear so worldly and wise, yet she is really quite innocent. At the moment, she is focused on family matters and does not realize the interest in her. I do not know if she would welcome attention from that quarter. I just pray she will not drift into the wrong relationship.”
“Wrong?” When the implication sank in, he turned away from the dance floor to look into Mrs. Forbush’s deep brown eyes. “Do you think Seymour is the wrong sort? Or me?”
She smiled again, an enigmatic expression rife with hidden meaning. “Oh, heavens! I would never say that Sir Martin is not the right sort. I just meant that perhaps he was…well, not the right match for Afton.”
Rob frowned. Surely Mrs. Forbush couldn’t be matchmaking. “What—who—would be the right match?” he asked.
“Someone strong enough to protect her. Someone who has the necessary depth of character to appreciate her. Someone who has a capacity for deep and abiding love. A man of honor.”
“Ah, then you cannot mean me,” he muttered, startled by the slightest twinge of disappointment. After all, it wasn’t as if he wanted to make a match.
Grace laughed. “Which of those things disqualifies you, Glenross?”
“All of them, I regret to say.” And if I had any intentions toward your niece, Mrs. Forbush, they would definitely not be honorable.
“I confess I have misread you, Glenross. I thought your interest in Afton was, perhaps, more than merely superficial. So then, what does account for your interest in her, my lord?”
He watched Seymour lift Afton’s hand to pass her beneath his arm. The willow-green fabric smoothed over her décolletage and caused the soft flesh to swell and strain against the row of rosebuds. Oh, what honeyed heaven did those rosebuds guard? He cleared his throat. “Can one not simply enjoy the scenery?”
“Indeed. As long as one does not mind a locked gate between himself and the scenery.”
“A locked gate?”
“Shortly, by virtue of the interest she is attracting, that particular scenery will belong to someone else, and trespassers will be shot.”
He studied Mrs. Forbush’s bland smile. Was she issuing a warning?
“Ah well, ’tis not of a pressing nature, my lord.” She waved her gray silk fan in a languorous arc. “I am certain you will have entire hours, perhaps even a day or two, to think on the matter.”
Entire hours? Was Seymour’s proposal that imminent? Odd how thinking of Afton as someone else’s exclusive provenance could cause Rob no little amount of irritation.
“Mmm,” he answered in a noncommittal undertone as the dance ended and Seymour began escorting Miss Lovejoy back to her aunt. “I am relieved I have entire hours to contemplate my future.”
Mrs. Forbush laughed, the sound warm, bubbling and entirely unconcerned, as if she already knew the outcome.
“There’s the McHugh with your aunt,” Sir Martin said, “looking ever so fierce and forbidding.”
Afton smiled. “Fierce