Apparently, he had not severed their relationship.
How difficult it was to break old habits. Would Steve resist the obvious allure of di Paoli? After all, he had once told her that Francesca was more of a friend to him than anyone had ever been. That taunt had rankled for a long time. It still did.
Foregoing the temptation to react rashly, Ginny ignored her aunt’s worried glances and instead turned to the dowager at her side, chatting casually as if nothing were amiss.
Behind the flutter of a jewelled fan, the dowager’s eyes sparkled with open curiosity, but her conversation was as mundane as afternoon tea.
“I understand that your husband is from Mexico, is he not, Mrs. Morgan?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Odd, he certainly doesn’t look very Mexican, though he is rather dark complected. All that bright sunshine in Mexico, I would think. It is hot there, I understand.”
“Yes, it is very sunny in Mexico, and warm. And my husband is only half-Mexican. His father was American.”
“Ah, I see,” the dowager commented, and her shrewd eyes shifted to the little group dominated by Steve and Francesca that stood by the portico. “Do you attend the opera often, Mrs. Morgan?”
“Only with my husband, Lady Wooddale.” The old cat! She knew very well the rumors that were running amok about Steve and the opera singer! It was time to defuse them. Her smile was mechanical and polite. “Please excuse me.”
Gliding through the crowd that seemed to magically part for her, Ginny approached the little group by the open door of the portico. Steve saw her first, his blue eyes crinkled the smallest bit in amusement as she held his gaze, her chin up in customary defiance.
This was familiar footing, this cat-and-mouse game they had always played with one another, much more comfortable than the awkward courtesy of careful reacquaintance.
“Mrs. Morgan,” Lord Grayson said when she reached their group, “it is an honor to have you join us.”
Though she murmured a polite reply to the baronet, her gaze held Steve’s eyes with relentless tenacity. She would not allow anyone to intimidate or ignore her ever again, she vowed silently, and finally shifted her attention to the woman on Steve’s arm.
Francesca di Paoli watched her with dark eyes that burned like banked coals, not attempting to hide her disdain for the wife of her former lover.
“Stefano, is this your little wife?” she asked with a haughty lift of her brow. “She is not at all as I expected her to be, caro.”
It was not, Ginny knew, meant as a compliment. Green eyes clashed with black, fiercely competitive.
“No? Yet you are everything I thought you would be. Steve, darling, it is getting late and I’m worried about our children. Don’t you think we should be going home?”
“Leaving?” the man at her elbow protested. “Surely not so soon, I hope! I have not yet had the honor of a dance with so lovely a lady. If your husband does not mind, of course.”
As the viscount turned toward him, Steve shrugged, the suggestion of a smile touching his lips. “My wife has a mind of her own, Lord Hartsfield.”
Hartsfield turned back to Ginny. A tall man, with large brown eyes that reminded her of Laura’s puppy, he had an eager, boyish expression and manner, and she found herself in the awkward position of being rude or forced into a dance she did not want.
Courtesy demanded she acquiesce to Hartsfield with a gracious smile, and as he swept her onto the dance floor to the lovely tune of a Strauss waltz, she caught a glimpse of malicious triumph in Francesca’s eyes.
“I understand that your husband supports the opera most generously,” Lord Hartsfield remarked. “It was his efforts that brought Signorina di Paoli to London to appear in a production of Caglisotro, the Strauss operetta, was it not?”
“My husband has a great appreciation of the arts,” Ginny replied with a smile that felt frozen on her lips. Damn Steve, had he brought that…that creature to London? Oh, it would be just like him to do such a thing, careless of the consequences, or how it affected her. She felt like scratching that smug smile from the Italian whore’s mouth!
As if reading her mind, Steve suddenly appeared at their side on the dance floor as the waltz ended. “I believe this next dance is mine, my love. I’m certain you don’t mind, Lord Hartsfield.”
If Hartsfield was disappointed, he didn’t show it, but relinquished Ginny’s hand with a murmur of gratitude for her company.
Steve pulled her against him, his eyes dark blue and glittering with amusement as he looked down at her. “You look as if you could rip me in two, Ginny-love.”
“Why is she here, and with you? Is that the important business you had? I swear, Steve, I just don’t think I can—”
“Not here.” His hand tightened briefly around her waist, a warning squeeze that reminded her where they were. His tone was soft, a lazy, amused drawl. “The arrangements were made months ago, before I knew that you would ever return from Stamboul.”
“And now that I’m back?”
“Everything has changed, green-eyes.”
She caught her breath at the sudden intimacy of his tone, the intense glance he gave her. “What do you mean everything?”
“Ginny, we’ve danced around this subject for the past month. This is hardly the time or place to discuss it now.”
He was right, of course. But it was the first sign he had given her that he truly wanted her to stay, to be with him. Ginny’s hand trembled on his shoulder, her fingers pale on the dark cloth of his coat, the emerald ring she wore a great, winking green eye.
Carelessly, as if he did not care if she accepted it,
