He looked as if he didn’t believe it for a moment.
“
The cynical scepticism—she was sure it was that—in his narrowing eyes only deepened.
Theatrically, she sighed. “I was attending with my
For a full minute, not a muscle moved in his classically sculpted face, then his brows rose. “I take it Mr. Carrington was not present?”
A whisper of caution tickled her spine; she kept her eyes on his. “I’m a widow.”
“Ah.”
There seemed a wealth of meanings in the single syllable; she wasn’t sure she approved of any of them. Her tone sharp, she inquired, “And what do you mean by that?”
He opened his eyes wider, the heavy lids lifting; his lips, thin, mobile, the lower somewhat fuller, seemed to ease. His black gaze held hers trapped; he made no move to answer her question.
Not with words.
She suddenly felt quite warm.
Flustered—she was actually flustered.
The music reached its conclusion; the dance ended. She’d never been so thankful of any event in her life. She stepped out of his arms, only to feel his hand close once more about hers.
His gaze on her face, he set her hand on his sleeve. “Allow me to escort you back to your sister.”
She had little choice but to accept; she did so with a haughty inclination of her head, and permitted him to steer her up the room, tacking through the crowd to where Adriana had returned to the safety of her court.
Taking up her position a few steps away, close by the wall, she lifted her hand from Torrington’s sleeve and turned to dismiss him.
His gaze had gone to Adriana; he glanced back at her. “Your sister is very lovely. I take it you’re hoping to establish her creditably?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “There seems no reason she shouldn’t make an excellent match.” Especially now Ruskin was gone. The recollection had her meeting Torrington’s black gaze; it seemed fathomless, but far from cold.
Oddly intriguing. His gaze seemed to hold her, yet she didn’t, in fact, feel trapped. Just held….
“Tell me.” His expression eased a fraction more. “Have you seen the latest offering at the Opera House? Have you been in town long enough to do so?”
He glanced away; she blinked. “No. The opera is one experience we’ve yet to enjoy.” Studying him, she couldn’t see him enthralled by opera or a play. Couldn’t resist asking, “Have you succumbed to its lure recently?”
His lips twitched. “Opera isn’t my weakness.”
Weakness—did he have one? Given all she could sense, it seemed unlikely. She realized she was gazing at him, trying hard not to stare, not to show any consciousness of him, of the potent masculine aura of which, as the confines of the crowded ballroom necessitated them standing mere inches apart, she was very much aware.
She’d been going to dismiss him. She drew in a breath.
“I thought you’d want to know that the proper authorities were informed of Mr. Ruskin’s sad end.” Those fascinating black eyes returned to hers; he’d lowered his voice so only she could hear. “In the circumstances, I saw no need to implicate you. You knew nothing of the situation leading to Ruskin’s death—or so I understood.”
She nodded. “That’s correct.” As if in support of his judgment, she added, “I have no idea why he was stabbed, or by whom. I had no connection with him beyond a few social exchanges.”
Torrington’s black gaze remained steady on her face, then he inclined his head and looked away. “So from which part of the country do you and your sister hail?”
Given he’d just informed her he’d been instrumental in protecting her from precisely the sort of imbroglio she’d been frantic to avoid, she felt compelled to answer. “Warwickshire. Not far from Banbury.” She and Adriana had decided it would be wise henceforth to avoid all mention of Chipping Norton.
“Your and Miss Pevensey’s parents?”
“Are no longer alive.”
That earned her a glance, black and sharp. “She has no guardian other than yourself?”
“No.” She lifted her chin. “Be that as it may, I believe we’ll muddle through.”
He registered her acerbic tone; he glanced again at Adriana. “So you’re solely responsible for…” He looked back at her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve taken on?”
She raised her brows, no longer amused. “As I said, I believe we’ll manage nicely. We have until now, and quite well, I would say.”
His black gaze held hers with a disturbing intensity. “I would have thought your husband would have had some hand in that.”
She blushed. “Yes, of course, but he’s been dead for some years.”
“Indeed?” Torrington’s black eyes gleamed. “Might one inquire from what he died?”
“An inflamation of the lung,” she snapped, not at all sure to what in his question she was reacting. She looked away at the surrounding crowd, tried to realign her thoughts with the requirements of her charade. “It’s unkind of you to remind me, sir.”
After a moment came the dry comment, “My apologies, my dear, but you don’t appear to be a grieving widow.”
She made the mistake of glancing at him.
He caught her gaze, held it.
After a moment, she narrowed her eyes, then, deliberately, looked away.
Fought to ignore the soft, very masculine chuckle that fell, a distractingly warm caress over her senses.
“Tell me.” He’d lowered his voice and shifted closer; the deep rumble teased her ear. “Why aren’t you joining your sister in hunting for a husband?”
“I have other matters in hand, other responsibilities. I don’t need to add a husband to the list.”
She refused to look at him, but sensed she’d said something to make him pause.
Not for long. “Most ladies in your position would look to a husband to shoulder their responsibilities for them.”
“Indeed?” Still surveying the crowd, she raised her brows as if considering, then shrugged. “Perhaps, but I have no ambitions for myself in that direction. If I can see my sister comfortably established, married to a gentleman worthy of her, then I’ll retire from this Season well pleased.”
Glancing at Adriana’s court, she noted one particular gentleman who was making every attempt to monopolize her sister’s attention. The surprising thing was he appeared to be succeeding.
“Well pleased from a guardian’s point of view perhaps, but as a lady of some experience, a widow’s lonely existence can hardly be fulfilling.”
Distracted, she heard the deep, drawled words, but wasted no wit on divining their meaning. Frowning, she turned to him. “Instead of twitting me, you might attempt to be useful—who is the gentleman with my sister?”
Tony blinked. Thrown entirely off his stride, he looked. “Ah… there’s at present seven gentlemen surrounding your sister.”
She made a frustrated sound—the sort that intimated he was being willfully obtuse. “The one with wavy brown hair speaking with her now. Do you know him?”
He looked, and blinked again. It was several seconds before he replied, “Yes. That’s Geoffrey Manningham, Lord Manningham.”
An instant later, his prey prodded his arm. “Well? What can you tell me about him?”
He glanced at her. Far from observing the stiff formal distance she’d been working to preserve between them, she’d shifted closer; he could smell the perfume wafting from her throat. If he shifted his head just an inch, he’d be able to touch his cheek to her hair.
She’d been staring, frowning, at Geoffrey; now she glanced up at him, pointedly opened her green eyes wide.
“His estate is in Devon. It shares a partial boundary with mine. If I know anything of Geoffrey, and I’ve known
