As she moved from partner to partner, she watched him. Each lady he partnered seemed to fall under his spell as soon as he took her by the hand, her body melting into his arms before he moved onto the next. By the time Lilah rejoined him, her jaw ached from gritting her teeth.
Jealousy was an ugly emotion, particularly in a woman, and to be reduced to such a state was not to be borne. But he showed little sign of noticing the maelstrom of emotions that boiled inside her.
“It seems you’re familiar with Mr. Smith’s work,” he said. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised by it.”
This time she was prepared for his inquisition.
“How so?” she asked, keeping her voice level.
“Because you share the same sentiments. But I must admit to being disappointed in you.”
She swallowed her fear, waiting for the recrimination. Would he expose her in front of the whole company? He had every right to, given the defamatory comments about the Molineux family, which had filled her latest essay.
“I’ll settle with your disappointment,” she said. “Better that, than be one of the numerous women dependent on your approval.”
To her astonishment, he laughed. “If I understand you correctly, Miss Hart, you believe I’m patron to a long string of mistresses, and that I’m an object of desire for half the women in the room tonight.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“I shall leave you to decide whether I’m an object of desire, Miss Hart.”
“If I’m such a disappointment, you’ll not care for my opinion,” she said.
“Forgive me, I meant no disrespect,” he said. “My disappointment comes from knowing that the pretty words you use to declare your opinions are, in fact, those of another. Do you admire Mr. Smith’s talents?”
Why could he not think of something else to discuss? His interest in Jeremiah Smith needed to be diverted.
“I haven’t really considered it.”
“Even though I admire the passion in his words, I despise the man.”
“You do?”
“But you’re an admirer of the man as well,” he said, his smile slipping. “Does he know you’re such a devotee of his work as to quote it yourself without citation? Do you use his words when penning your poems?”
“Of course not.”
“Good,” he said. “If you wish to succeed as a writer, you must use your words, not someone else’s.”
Were the situation not so distressing, Lilah would have laughed at the irony of it. He expressed nothing but admiration for her work, though he did not know it to be hers. But were she to reveal her identity as Jeremiah Smith, he would despise her.
“Miss Hart, are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He shook his head. “Forgive me, perhaps I was a little harsh. There’s no shame in using the words of another. Often, we do it without realizing, particularly if those words resonate with us. But though you share Mr. Smith’s sentiment, I hope you don’t despise the Molineux line—or at least the newest ascendant—as much as he.”
“I assure you that I do not despise you, Your Grace.”
He smiled. “I shall be content with that, Miss Hart. In one aspect, I do admire you.”
“Which is?”
“Your honesty,” he said. “Most women seek to flatter. But you give your opinions freely and without deception or intent to tell me what you think I wish to hear. It’s a quality I value most of all.”
The dance concluded, and the couples drifted toward the edge of the room.
He took her hand and kissed it. “For your frankness alone, I honor you, Miss Hart. To atone for my earlier rudeness, I’ll offer my services once more in seeking a publisher for your poetry, if you’d be so kind as to let me read them.”
His eyes shone with sincerity, and she acquiesced. Beneath the boorish exterior and the Molineux name lay the heart of a good man.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll ask Dexter to invite you to his next card party. You may read them then.”
“Excellent!” he said. “Perhaps I might even ask Smith’s publisher to look at them.”
“Please don’t.”
“Why not?”
She hesitated. “I don’t think the City Chronicle would publish poetry written by a woman.”
“Use a pseudonym,” he said. “I have the perfect name for you.”
“Which is?”
“Terence West.”
“It sounds rather silly.”
“But perfect for you,” he said. “You’re my West Highland terrier, which snaps at a man’s ankles.”
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.”
“I’ve no intention of doing either,” he replied. “As you are honest with me, I wish to be honest with you.”
He gave her a deep bow, brushed his lips over her hand, and withdrew. He may be a savage, but his sincerity had the potential to disarm her. Ignoring the stab of guilt at her own deception, she curtseyed and rejoined her party.
For the remainder of the evening, she accepted Sir Thomas’s gallantry. He was pleasant enough.
But what might it be like to relinquish control, if only for a moment, and yield to pleasure at the hands of a man capable of awakening such need within her?
Chapter Ten
Lilah followed her sister and their guests into the drawing room, where the card tables had been set up. Sir Thomas sat at a table and placed a stack of coins in front of him. He beckoned to Lilah, but she ignored him. He was a little too competitive at cards. Fortunately, Dorothea had already offered to partner with him.
The tables filled up, and the players placed their bets and shuffled cards. Soon, the air filled with the clink of coins and the exclamations of joy or sighs of frustration as the players settled into the evening.
Lilah reached for a glass of wine and settled in a side chair to observe the players.
“Do you not play cards, Miss Hart?”
The rich Scottish burr sent a thrill through her.
“I’ve read one of your poems,” he said.
“I only gave them to you this evening.”
“I must confess being ungracious toward my hosts as to have spent part of the evening reading the first one. You have some talent.”
She sipped her drink. “Are you flattering me?”
“Not at all.”
“Then you’re being gallant.”
“I’m not a gallant man, Miss Hart. I prefer frank honesty over flattery. Were your poem the worst I’d ever read, I would tell you. As it is…” he hesitated, “…the words show accomplishment, but they lack something.”
“Which is?”
“Passion, Miss Hart,” he said. He shifted his knee until it touched hers, and she could feel his body heat through the fabric of her gown. She lowered her glass, and he leaned toward her.
“Shall I fill you?” he asked, his voice a low whisper. She gave an involuntary cry, and he nodded toward her glass. “You’ve finished your wine.” He reached for the glass, and a shock of need coursed through her as his fingers slid over hers.