A tic appeared below Simon’s left eye. “Of course.”
“My son wanted me to send his regards. He especially enjoyed his stay at Brushbriar as you know. Why, if not for your house party, Morwick never would have met his lovely wife.” A delicate laugh bubbled up. “He and Lady Morwick wanted me to express their congratulations on your success.”
Simon’s cheeks reddened, mouth thinning until his lips had nearly disappeared. The resemblance to his mother, Lydia, was notable though not especially favorable.
Enderly cleared his throat, gaze darting between Simon and Marissa. Her escort for this evening couldn’t fail to notice the tension hovering in the air, though Enderly could be a bit unobservant. He’d failed to notice Marissa’s lukewarm interest in him, for instance.
“A word, if I might, Mr. Enderly?” Simon dismissed her with a flick of his chin.
Marissa didn’t mind his rudeness. She’d expected no less.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Enderly nodded to her and moved away, not waiting for her to answer as he followed Simon, his horror at discovering she and Simon weren’t cordial shadowing his craggy features.
Simon and Enderly had wandered to an area at the far end of the room. Every so often, Enderly would cast a glance in her direction. He didn’t look pleased.
Good. It appeared she’d been right in her assumption that Enderly would leave her be with little effort on her part. Thankfully, she’d had the foresight to order her driver to meet her at Duckworth’s. Her carriage was likely already outside.
Marissa intentionally moved in the opposite direction of Enderly and Simon, stopping only to study a portrait of a severe looking woman who very much resembled Duckworth, down to the matching moles they both bore on their chin. She pretended to sip her ratafia and finally gave up, setting the glass down on a nearby table.
Disgusting. Ratafia should be banned from being served in polite society.
Once Simon began what was bound to be a boring speech, Marissa planned to take her leave discreetly.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
A delicious ripple rolled up from the base of her spine at the words coming from the darkened alcove to her left. Marissa immediately smoothed the velvet skirts of her gown as she turned, a nervous habit she’d had since she was a girl.
How long had he been watching her?
Haddon’s lean form stepped out of the shadows, a glass of wine hanging from his fingers. His silver gaze flickered over her as he sipped the ruby-colored contents of his glass. When his eyes finally met hers, a lazy grin crossed his lips in greeting.
The pulse in her throat fluttered at the sight of him. “Lord Haddon.”
“Hello, Lady Cupps-Foster. Imagine my shock at finding you lurking about a dull political gathering. Though perhaps not so strange given your familial connections.”
The observation, coming from Haddon, didn’t surprise Marissa in the least. He paid attention, to a great many things. Enderly had never asked Marissa about her father, the late Duke of Dunbar, nor the power he’d wielded, assuming, incorrectly, that as a woman, Marissa was oblivious to the workings of her family. As her niece had inferred, Marissa was just very good at hiding her true nature.
“Did you know my father, the duke?”
“I met him only once. I found him terrifying, especially when a gentleman referred to His Grace as the ‘Old Spider.’ The duke’s eyes were so blue one could see them across the room.” His voice lowered. “Yours are the same color.”
Another flutter started in the space above her heart.
“Thankfully, I was well beneath his notice.”
“Don’t be too sure.” Marissa laughed softly. “My father noticed everything about everyone. He believed that knowledge was power. Even more so than great wealth. My nephew is cut from the same cloth.”
“The pairing of both is a dangerous combination.” Haddon stepped closer.
Marissa’s skin immediately prickled in awareness of him, lifting the fine hair of her arms.
“I will make sure to never underestimate you, as your friend, Enderly, no doubt does.” Haddon tipped his glass in Enderly’s direction.
He was so near her, if Marissa leaned just an inch forward, her breasts would catch against his chest. Just the mere thought tightened her nipples into peaks. Heat flooded up her chest and the column of her neck.
“I grow concerned for your welfare, Marissa.” His voice was barely a whisper.
“Why? I’m perfectly fine as you can see and—”
“You look flushed much of the time. Overheated, perhaps.”
Drat.
“I would think you were blushing except a woman of your advanced years . . .” the broad shoulders rolled into a careless shrug. “Well, such a thing is usually reserved for prim young misses.”
Wretch. “Perhaps it is the ratafia.” She nodded to her discarded glass. “It is not a favorite of mine.”
“Then one wonders why you allowed your friend to bring it to you. I’m sure you’d find mine more enjoyable. Something French, I think.” Haddon brought his glass to her lips before she could stop him.
The image of Haddon doing the same thing during their night together flashed before her. He’d brought a bottle of wine to her room, but only one glass. After each sip she’d taken, he had kissed her, eventually dribbling the wine across her naked breasts and—
“Good Lord, Marissa.” His gaze was fixed on her mouth. “I grow ever concerned for your health. I’ll search the room for a physician, shall I?” But he didn’t move, instead he brought the glass to his own lips, tongue running across the rim as he did so. “Delicious,” he said, but Haddon was looking at her.
Desire for him coiled tightly around her.
She took a step back, self-preservation screaming for her to place some distance between them. It was very difficult to think, her usual self-composure deserting her with Haddon so near.
“How is Jordana?” she said, shocked at the
