Page 38 of What a Lord Wants

Oh, he was certain she had. Which was why she’d sought him out to warm her bed five years ago when he’d been visiting Rome, then again two years ago when she was first widowed and her husband barely in the ground. And why she’d contacted him as soon as she’d arrived in London a few days ago.

But he was no innocent himself. He’d hoped that an evening with Sabrina might satiate him enough to resist Eve’s unwitting temptations so that he could finish the painting.

He’d been a damned fool.

She arched a brow. “But I expect to leave this party with the same gentleman who brought me.”

Duly chastised, he smiled grimly. “Of course.”

At that moment, Eve turned around.

His gut knotted at the full sight of her. From the back, she’d been intriguing in the sparkling light of the chandeliers. Now she was simply magnificent.

Her gaze moved slowly over the crowd, and not in that expression of curious boredom worn by most of the ladies in the room. No, she was hunting, her gaze passing over every man in the crowd, dismissing each and moving on.

Then she spotted him, and her gaze locked with his across the room. Electricity jolted through him at the flicker of recognition that lit her face. Neither of them moved, their gazes pinned on the other.

Sabrina brought her lips close to his ear, and her throaty laugh tickled across his cheek. “But what happens between now and then is none of my concern.”

In surprise, he tore his gaze away from Eve. Apparently, Sabrina understood a great deal.

“Thank you.” He gratefully took both of her hands in his and lifted them to his lips to kiss the backs of her fingers. “I do need to speak with her. I won’t be long.”

She reached up to straighten the knot in his cravat. The familiar gesture was most likely meant to remind him of the intimate hours they’d spent in each other’s company. But he wouldn’t be going to her bed tonight.

From the patronizing way she smiled at him, she realized the same. “Thinking back on when you arrived to collect me,” she mused, “my evening ended the moment you saw me. You compared me to her even then.”

He began to protest, but she cut him off with a finger to his lips.

“Do not lie and insult us both.” Her hand dropped away. “Your desire belongs to another. There is no harm in that.” She sent a casual glance in Eve’s direction over her shoulder. “But what truly irritates me is that I have lost to an Englishwoman.”

She glided away. He watched her until she disappeared into the crowd, her head held high and with a presence as regal as ever.

Inhaling a deep breath, he turned back to Eve.

She held his gaze for several seconds, making clear that she knew she had his full attention. Then she turned and walked away, to cross the room toward the sweeping marble stairs that led up to the piano nobile and its grand reception rooms. At the bottom of the stairs, she glanced back, just long enough to issue a silent invitation for him to follow.

So of course he did, up the stairs and around the circuit of connecting rooms…through the dining room, card room, music room…until she led him to the long, narrow gallery that fronted the width of the palatial townhouse. She hadn’t looked back since she’d climbed the stairs, yet she knew he was following her, he was certain. The two of them were that attuned to each other, even now in the midst of a crush.

Instead of continuing the circuit into the adjoining room, she walked down to the far end of the gallery, where she stopped and pretended to study the painting in front of her. What she was really doing, he knew, was finding a spot tucked away from the rest of the party where they could speak privately but not so intimately as to raise suspicions. And where he couldn’t throttle her without witnesses.

That was his Eve, all right. Beautiful, brilliant, and the most surprising woman he’d ever met.

Except that hehadn’tmet her. Not this society lady. He had no idea who this woman was.

But he was damned well going to find out.

He stopped at her side and turned his attention to the painting, as if he hadn’t noticed that she was standing there. Then he leaned in to read the signature, although he didn’t care at all who the artist was.

He rolled his eyes. It was a damned fruit bowl.

“Explain,” he demanded in a low voice.

“You first, Your Lordship.”

He stiffened. She didn’t have the right to be indignant. Not when she’d played him for a fool. “Then you know who I am.”

“I know who you’re pretending to be.” She didn’t look at him, feigning just as much interest in the painting as he. “Who are you really—English lord or Italian painter?”