Anthea was a lovely girl, true enough, and as sharp as a tack, but she had never been the Balfour lady most worthy of attention.
“I would love to discuss her latest column with her,” Louis pressed. “If it wouldn’t bore her to death to talk business at a party.”
Streatham beamed. “Not at all. I’m sure she’d be delighted.” He turned, searching the busy card tables for his wife, and waved to a pair of ladies on the other side of the room. Anthea’s attention could not have been far from him, for she saw him at once and began making her way towards them.
With her sister, Selina, on her arm.
“Now see what you’ve done,” Malcolm muttered, glaring at Louis.
“What now?”
He jerked his head towards Selina. “The easiest way to spoil my good temper is an audience with Lady Icicle.”
“If you wished to avoid her, I don’t know what you’re doing at her sister’s card party,” said Louis, reasonably enough. Malcolm had no answer.
Streatham put a hand on Anthea’s waist and guided her into their circle. “I’m afraid you have an admirer on your hands, my darling.” He bent his head close to her ear, his lips almost brushing it. “Another one.”
Anthea laughed and pushed him away, pleasure gleaming in her eyes. Malcolm swallowed his distaste.
So this was what Balfour women did to perfectly sensible men. He was beginning to understand why Selina seemed so disinterested in marriage. Perhaps her aversion to Britain’s power players stemmed from watching them turn to sentimental fools in the hands of her sisters.
He bowed to the ladies politely, but Louis seized Anthea’s hand and kissed it with puppyish adoration. “Lady Streatham! May I congratulate you on your marriage! And on the wonderful success of your column!”
“Don’t ask her which she’s prouder of,” warned Streatham, his hand still resting possessively on his wife’s waist. “I’ll come off worst, I know it.”
“Nonsense,” said Anthea, laying a fond hand on his arm.
“I’m afraid you have no right to complain, George,” said Selina. She hadn’t met Malcolm’s eyes, but was watching the newlywed couple with the light of their happiness reflected in her expression. “You knew from the start that you were getting a wife with ink stains on her fingers.”
“And I couldn’t be happier about it,” he said.
Selina glanced at Malcolm and gave him a light frown, as though surprised to find him watching her. He realised only then how intensely he must have been studying her face. They both quickly looked away.
“Now, Lord Louis,” Anthea was saying, “don’t tell me you have been reading my little column?”
“Reading it? I have all but learned your latest piece by heart!” Louis rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “I would dearly love to know what you are going to write about next!”
“Next?” Anthea exchanged a grin with her husband. “The next one is sitting on my writing desk. You may be the first to see it, if you like.”
Louis looked like a child on Christmas morning. “I should like nothing more!”
“George, you don’t mind doing without me for a moment, do you?”
Streatham bowed. “Your public needs you!”
Anthea took Louis’s arm and led him away, her blush deepening as she listened to his effusions of delight.
“I have never seen my sister looking so content,” said Selina, watching them go. “I am so glad she has you, George.”
“Enough, enough!” he laughed, throwing up his hands. “I am pleased enough with myself already. I shall become insufferable if you say any more.” He bowed to her and to Malcolm. “Do excuse me. I must take a turn about the room and see that everyone is enjoying themselves.”
Perhaps Malcolm had imagined it, but he thought that Streatham paused for a moment before moving on, looking from Malcolm to Selina with an expression that was almost cunning. But the moment was fleeting, and Streatham had departed before Malcolm could make anything of it.
Leaving him alone with Selina.
He half-expected her to find a reason to turn on her heel and find someone else to talk to, but before she could, he heard himself say, “I trust you are well, my lady.”
“Quite well.” She hesitated, glancing about as though searching for an escape, and then raised her eyes to his. “And you?”
“Perhaps you’d join me for a hand of piquet?”
Selina’s dark brows rose by a millimetre. “Thank you, but no. I don’t care for high-stakes gambling.”
“Nor do I.” He cursed himself for pressing it. There were plenty of women who relished his company, weren’t there? Why was he so compelled by the cool glare of the one who had made it perfectly clear she disliked him?
Selina gave him a dry smile. “Then piquet makes an odd choice of game.”
He took a step towards her, his fingers tightening against the cool glass in his hand. Perhaps it was precisely her dislike that enticed him. There was something painfully pleasurable about discovering how much of himself he could inflict on Selina before she pushed him away.
“Neither of us are in need of money. Why don’t we play for something more interesting?” He flashed her the type of smile that never failed to make women simper.
It failed then. But he saw curiosity flicker in her dark gaze.
“Such as?”
“For each point you win, you may ask me a question. For each one I take, I ask you a question.” He went to a nearby empty table and pulled out a chair. “The catch is that you must answer. And answer honestly.”
Selina slid into the chair. His fingers, still holding it, grazed the fichu covering her shoulders as she sat back. It was all he could do not to tug at it, to uncover a little more of that pale skin. He wondered how soft she would feel. A woman so sharp must surely have some soft places, somewhere, if he could only discover them.
He had left his hand there too long. She inclined her neck and looked up at him. He expected a rebuke, but instead found himself
