His gaze lingered on that philtrum a moment longer. It was a part of the anatomy that had never claimed his attention before. At least not that he could recall. And yet, he could declare with some authority that an illustration of hers—in a medical journal for example—would make for a particularly interesting study.
“Your Grace?”
“Hmm?” His eyes lifted to meet hers, and then he nodded. “Ah, yes, the fireworks. I enjoy a pyrotechnic display as much as anyone. Although nothing is quite so satisfying as combining the components together oneself and watching the cylinders spin and explode in a shower of sparks.”
Distractedly, he mused that the use of copper salts would create a firework that would burst in a blue color to match her irises.
The arches of her fine dark brows rose three-eighths of an inch in a subtle query. “Do you often make your own?”
“Not since I was young, when we used to hold festivals at Caliburn Keep,” he said and noticed a subtle curve of her lips in response. “Have I amused you with that information?”
“I was merely imagining you as a boy with smeared lenses, a hank of hair falling over your forehead and a propensity to blow things up.”
He studied his adversary, trying to decipher the purpose of such a remark. Was this part of her process—the flirtatious smile? The playful tilt of her lashes? The softness in her expression? It must have been. And yet, he didn’t know why he felt somewhat discomposed by it.
He shoved a negligent hand through his hair, then reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, only to realize that, as usual, he’d forgotten it.
“Here,” she said and took the spectacles from his grasp.
Standing in semi-seclusion between a pair of tall conical cypress trees, she proceeded to polish them with a dainty square of lace-edged linen, hidden inside her glove. She even lifted them to her mouth, her lips parting on a soft huuhh of air that formed a steamy vapor on the lens.
Lucien did not know why he should feel as though she had breathed directly on him. Or why the flesh beneath his collar became unduly warm. After all, he was aware of her maneuvers—the semblance of ease and familiarity she deployed when they were separated from others—and he would no longer allow it to distract him.
“Your imagined portrait is not quite accurate,” he said after he took the frames and settled them in place again. “I have only worn corrective glasses for the past seven years and three months. Not as a child. But yes, I did have a propensity to blow things up, as you say.”
Her attention returned once more toward the path, where a number of guests were milling along the arcade waiting for the fireworks spectacle, and they resumed their strolling pace.
“You certainly like to be precise,” she said, her hands clasped casually behind her back. “And yet, it seems to have escaped your notice that we have not been formally introduced. You address me as my lady, but that is not a station which I have earned.”
“Perhaps you remind me of a certain lady I know by reputation. A Lady Avalon. Have you heard of her?”
He waited for her complexion to pale at being called out. Or even for her to flash a boastful grin. But she did neither.
“I do not believe I have,” she said, her head tilted to one side, her lips pursed. “Though, perhaps she is the one you would rather have in your company.”
“I only wish to be with the woman beside me in this very moment—whoever she claims to be.”
“Then who I am in truth matters little to you?”
At the slightly brittle edge in her tone, he had the sense of the conversation beginning to turn. Not wanting to light the fuse that would send him spinning in a Catherine wheel of his own demise, he eased away from his desire to have her reveal herself.
He wanted that book more than anything. However, as with any desired outcome, it would only be found if one adhered to the steps of proper procedure. And the only way he would learn what she’d done with it was if she were comfortable enough to lower her guard. Therefore, if she needed to play coy in order to believe that she was in control, then so be it. “If you prefer, I will address you as Miss Parrish.”
Her brows lifted—he calculated one-sixteenth inch higher than before—in an indication of some surprise but not complete shock. Clearly, she had been expecting something. “You’ve been inquiring about me and my companions.”
“Nothing more than rudimentary research.”
“Then, I should probably tell you that I am not Miss Parrish either.”
She was challenging him again. He could see it in the glint in her eyes, provoking him into disclosing all he knew about her. Regrettably, it wasn’t much. Certainly not enough. At least, not yet.
“No?” he asked casually. “So, you are neither Lady Avalon nor Miss Parrish. Then, what shall I call you—ma louve déguisée en agneau?”
She laughed, flashing two rows of straight white teeth, the evenness only interrupted by the pointed elongation of her upper and lower canines. “A wolf in sheep’s clothing?”
“That is what you are, is it not?”
She hummed thoughtfully, pressing her lips together to hide her smile. “Perhaps. Or, at least, I shall endeavor to be tonight.”
He followed her gaze across the sward to where Miss Hartley was batting her lashes at his cousin. Pell, in turn, was puffing out his chest as if he were a hunter who’d just captured her with his net. He had no shame.
His cousin shouldn’t even be wasting his time with the woman. If Miss Hartley was a friend to an infamous adventuress, it stood to reason that they were cut from the same cloth. She was likely toying with him to suit her own purpose.
Just as Lady Avalon was doing with Lucien.
From the start, he never imagined that she or her companions were traveling under their own names. Parrish was just as likely to be a nom de plume as Lady Avalon. He’d already hired an investigator in England to look into it when his butler first mentioned their names.
“Would you answer a question, Your Grace?”
“As long as I am permitted one in return.”
She nodded in agreement. “A fair trade, then.”
But before she could pose her query, a footman toting a silver tray of glasses filled with a pale liquid stopped by them. Lucien handed one to her then waved the servant along. He didn’t want the interruption. Not when he was so close to drawing her out.
As the footman strolled away, she studied Lucien over the rim of her glass and took her time speaking the words lingering behind those keenly perceptive eyes. “You said you know of Lady Avalon. Am I correct in assuming that you’ve never met?”
“I’ve never met her before,” Lucien clarified, wondering where this turn would take them. But he sensed that she was enjoying herself, practically daring him to outmatch her. “As I said, I know her reputation. She is infamous in certain circles.”
“Oh? For what reason?”
“Seducing men—”
His companion suddenly coughed and sputtered, nearly spilling her lemonade.
“—in order to steal their secrets,” he concluded.
Taking the glass from her, he set it aside on a pointlessly ornamental sundial. This was an interesting development. She appeared flustered at the mention of her conquests. But why? Shame? Guilt?