Page 5 of Dangerous

Sayer approached him with a tray bearing fobs, pins, rings, watches, and quizzing glasses. Adam slipped on his rather gaudy signet ring—a large ruby in a heavy gold setting—selected the plainest of his silver quizzing glasses, and opted for a single fob bearing a sapphire cabochon. Once he was accoutered, he stood back and studied his reflection in the tri-fold dressing mirror. Three identical men in flawless evening attire looked back at him. All three appeared slightly puzzled and a little annoyed. He frowned. There was still time to change into something else and go to his club.

“Your carriage is ready, my lord,” Sayer informed him, holding out his cloak and hat.

Adam would have sworn his valet, a man who could have taught the Sphinx a thing or two about discretion, was pleased. It didn’t take a genius to imagine the talk flying around the servants’ quarters just now. No doubt they all—even the impassive Sayer—were thrilled by the notion their master was emerging from self-imposed exile and reentering society. After all, how pleasant could it be to work for a man most of London considered a cold-blooded murderer?

They would view this ball as the first step toward rehabilitation. Next he would take a wife and soon he would have a nursery full of children. Children he wouldn’t keep hidden away in the country, as he did his three daughters.

Adam took his hat and gloves from his valet’s hands. “Don’t wait up for me, Sayer.”

He strode through the silent corridor and down a semicircular set of marble stairs, his lips twisting. Tonight would be the social equivalent of death by a thousand cuts. He would spend the entire evening tolerating the calumny of his peers just to make the acquaintance of a woman he had no desire to meet and no intention of marrying—a woman who resembled either an aging matron or an opera dancer, depending on which set of gossips one gave credence to.

Or perhaps she was something even worse? After all, what must be wrong with her if her own father would seek a man like Adam for a son-in-law?

* * *

Mia stared at her reflection as LaValle fussed with her hair. The Frenchwoman was high in the instep, but she was skilled at her job. She’d tamed Mia’s unruly red curls and dressed them in a way that made her appear taller, if only by an inch or two.

If Mia could change one thing about her appearance it would be her height. At just five feet, she had to look up to anyone over the age of ten. She knew her diminutive size was the reason men felt entitled to order her around. She was childlike in size, so men treated her like a child.

She was not, however, dressed like a child. Her gown was a clinging jade-green silk masterpiece, with a single, almost insubstantial, petticoat. The dress would most likely scandalize her father, but Mia had ordered it from the dressmaker of his choosing, so how could he take issue with it? The full-length garment was quite tame when compared to what she’d worn at the sultan’s palace, where she’d spent a good deal of time either naked or near enough. The desert was hot, and cool stone walls only provided so much relief. Frequent dips in the bathing pools helped one stay sane during the sweltering summers.

LaValle fastened the famed Carlisle emeralds around her neck and stepped back. “Voila!”

Mia examined her reflection in the glass, tilting her head from side to side. She had endured endless taunting as a young woman in the sultan’s harem. Even after she’d established her authority, her red hair, small frame, and freckled skin had been subjects of amusement for the dark-eyed, lush-bodied beauties who’d vied for Babba Hassan’s attention. The attractive, polished woman who looked back at Mia in the mirror was a far different person from that terrified, gawky young girl; she looked ... regal.

Just then her cousin Rebecca entered her dressing room. She stopped in the doorway and lifted a gloved hand to her mouth. “Oh Mia, you look perfect—just like a doll.”

The older woman was dressed in a nondescript brownish gray, a color that did not suit any woman alive. Mia sighed. Her cousin was not beautiful, but she had a pretty face and soft gray eyes. In a gown of blue or lavender she would look quite attractive.

“Thank you, Cousin Rebecca. You look lovely, too,” she lied, standing on tiptoe to give her a peck on the cheek.

Rebecca turned pink and patted Mia awkwardly on the arm.

It saddened Mia that her family seemed unwilling—or unable—to express affection. Physical affection had helped her survive in the sultan’s palace. She’d cuddled her son constantly when he was a baby. They’d remained close as Jibril grew up, although he’d drawn the line on public embraces when his half brother Assad had teased him that hugs were for children.

Mia pushed away her longing for her son and offered Rebecca her arm. She smiled up at her tall cousin. “Are you ready?”

* * *

The large drawing room was crowded with auburn-haired relatives and a conspicuous number of single men. Mia was engaged in conversation with the buck-toothed son of a northern earl—a middle-aged man who could not keep his eyes from the bodice of her gown long enough to complete a sentence—when an odd hush fell over the assemblage. She followed the stunned gazes of those around her to a slim, dark-haired man standing beside her father. Mia nudged her brother, who was engaged in a heated discussion with an older man from his philosophical society.

“Cian, who is that?”

“Who is whom?” he repeated, his mind still on the discussion she had interrupted.

“That man—the one talking with Father.”

Cian’s eyes followed hers and his entire body stiffened. “Good God. How could he?”

“How could who do what?” Mia asked, glancing from her brother’s outraged face to the man everyone was staring at. Unlike the duke, who sported an embroidered green silk waistcoat, the stranger wore not a hint of color. His hair was dark enough to look black and contrasted sharply with his pale skin, adding a sense of the dramatic to his appearance. Mia was too far away to discern the color of his eyes, but could see they were set below shapely, well-defined dark brows. High, sharp cheekbones and a determined jaw framed unsmiling lips.

The duke leaned toward him and spoke. The man merely raised his quizzing glass and surveyed the room as a hawk might sweep a field for rodents. Even from a distance Mia could feel her father’s anger at the other man’s careless dismissal of whatever he’d said. A smile pulled at her lips. Who was this man who treated one of the most powerful peers in England like a nuisance?

She tapped Cian’s arm with her fan. “Who is he?”

“He is Adam de Courtney, the Marquess of Exley.” Cian pushed the words through gritted teeth.

“Why are you staring daggers at him?”