A Countess by Chance(7)

“There are ways to tell if a woman is still a virgin,” he said, as though talking to a simpleton. “The incident happened in a curricle, did it not?”

“Evidently.” Where in God’s name was he going with this?

“Well, there it is, then!”

Adam rubbed his right temple, where a headache was beginning to bloom. “Where what is, precisely? You aren’t making any damn sense.”

James sighed, as though the answer were obvious. “See how she reacts to the word ‘curricle.’ If she reacts poorly, then you have your answer.”

Adam stared at him. He had a feeling it was a great more complicated than that. “Suppose I do ask her and she reacts poorly, as you say. What does that signify? Nothing. It doesn’t help me in the least.”

“Must I spell it out for you? If she blanches, then you can safely assume she’s been tried. Then you may pursue her without injury to your conscience. It’s really quite simple.”

Simple. Adam shook his head. This situation was anything but that.

* * *



Olivia made it a point to ignore Adam the rest of the evening—which would have been easier if he’d actually been present. It was excessively uncharitable of him. His absence deprived her of looking disinterested, which she certainly was. Instead, he was God knew where, and Olivia was left glancing at the door every half-second, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, so she could then proceed to ignore him.

Finally, around ten o’clock, he sauntered into the room, looking as handsome as sin. He wore a black coat and breeches, a cream-colored waistcoat and a wicked smile that made her skin flush. It was shameful how quickly her body reacted to him.

Every lady present, married and unmarried alike, watched as he moved across the room, smooth, self-assured, like a lion on the prowl. He was captivating—his carriage perfection, his countenance unequaled, his character sparkling—everything that recommended a man. But beneath that impeccable visage was a soul drenched in vice and depravity. She smiled to herself, remembering the sting of his crop against her naked flesh. Did these women know how deliciously wicked he could be? It was…exhilarating, and against all reason, she wanted more.

From across the room, his eyes caught hers.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Even at such a distance, she could feel the heat of his gaze, the cold command in those deep brown eyes.

With a startled breath, she quickly shifted her gaze to the gentleman she’d been speaking to—Annabelle’s eldest brother, Mr. Wood. She smiled at him sweetly. “Yes, yes, I agree. Constellations are quite fascinating, though I must confess, they are difficult for me to identify.”

Mr. Wood’s lips stretched into a smile. His smooth, boyish features were really quite attractive in a subtle, charming sort of way. Olivia wondered how good he was at Whist. If she could win a few shillings, it would be enough to send home to pay the doctor. He’d refused to see Father again until his outstanding bill had been paid in full. Meanwhile, her father’s cough was getting worse.

“You surprise me, Miss Dewhurst. I hadn’t taken you for a bluestocking.” His tone was light, teasing.

She winked brazenly. It would be best to get him in a jolly mood—the better he felt, the looser his pockets would be at the gaming table—or so her father had taught her. It had yet to fail. “Is that meant to be a compliment? I do read a great deal.”

Her words trailed off when one of the guests tapped the side of his wine glass. “Attention everyone, I have an announcement to make.” Silence fell over the room as everyone turned toward the pianoforte, where Lord Wallingford stood with Miss Daphne Hayward tucked at his side. “It’s my great honor to announce that Miss Hayward has made me the happiest of men and consented to be my wife. We shall marry immediately.”

An animated murmur rippled through the room as everyone rushed to congratulate the couple. Olivia could hardly believe the news. Daphne had been waiting years for a proposal from Wallingford. So why did she look so shocked, so utterly confounded?

Olivia was just contemplating the possibilities when she felt a presence behind her.

Without daring a glimpse, she knew who it was. A shiver rolled down her spine. He was close, his chest mere inches away—heat radiated off him, surrounding her, enveloping her like a cocoon.

“Mr. Wood.” From behind, Adam’s deep voice vibrated through her. “You don’t mind if I borrow Miss Dewhurst.” He imbued the words with such authority, Mr. Wood merely blinked at him, mute. Adam took her by the elbow and led her away, into a corner concealed by a giant potted palm.

For several long seconds, there was only silence. Then, “What precisely are you doing?” he asked.