"A group of people is coming our way," he said, moving back slightly into the shadow of a pillar. "If you wish to retreat to your mother's side without being observed with me, you ought to leave."
She turned to go and his deep voice stopped her. "I set out for Sevenoaks in two or three days, Lady Eleanor. I would be—" She looked back at him. "Yes?" "I would be quite sorry not to meet you there." She curtsied. "Good evening, Your Grace." "Leopold," he said. "What?"
"My name. It's Leopold." And with a quick glance at the group wandering toward them, he melted backward between the pillars and was gone.
Chapter Three
Lady Eleanor might not have caught the connotations of that pool full of violets, but the Duke of Villiers certainly did. Once this party was over, his friend Elijah planned to lure his wife, Jemma, down into that fragrant bathtub and seduce her.
Villiers found himself smiling into the dark. He didn't give a damn what Elijah and Jemma got up to. After spending months mooning over Jemma like a sick calf, it was a pleasure to think of her without a surge of desire and jealousy.
Lady Eleanor Lindel, daughter of the Duke of Montague, might well complete his cure. She was certainly Jemma's opposite. Jemma was tall, slender, and duchess-like. Her every move signaled patrician blood enhanced by beauty, intelligence, and exquisite taste in clothing.
But Eleanor? She wasn't proud, as he had assumed when he heard of her express desire to marry a duke. Her clothing was abominable. And she clearly didn't give a damn about her appearance, considering the way she had tossed those curls into the bushes.
If Jemma was slender, Eleanor was curvy, with lush lips that resembled those of a naughty opera dancer. He could have sworn she wasn't wearing lip color, although her mouth was a deep rose that hardly seemed possible in nature.
People's faces tended to match their attire: a woman with a severe profile generally adorns herself with equally stern clothing, even though he himself chose to emphasize the rough character of his nose and chin by wearing outrageously luxurious garments. But Eleanor's mouth didn't match her prim attire and absurd curls. She was as mismatched as he was, albeit in a different key.
She looked acerbic. Peppery. Delectable. As if she'd get bored with chess, toss the board to the side, and climb into a man's lap.
Though presumably she'd be unlikely to climb into his lap, since she was pining for another man. In truth, he had given up hope of that sort of adoration. And certainly he had never wanted it from a wife.
He pushed himself away from the wall. He ought to go home and plan his trip to Sevenoaks. He was itching to be on the road, but the Bow Street Runner had sent the
name of the orphanage only that morning. After the third disappointment, he'd learned to wait until the presence of twins was confirmed before haring off to check their lineage. "Villiers!"
He turned to find Louise, Lady Nevill, waving at him. She was standing with his former fiancee, Roberta, now the Countess of Gryffyn. That betrothal had been a profound mistake, but, thank God, one from which he'd escaped. And now that Roberta was happily married, they exchanged civil conversation on occasion.
"Villiers," Roberta cried, holding out her hand. "I am so happy to see you looking so well. You were still terribly thin last time we met."
Lady Nevill gave him a lazy smile, accompanied by an appreciative survey from head to foot.
"Roberta, darling," she drawled, "the man certainly isn't looking thin. Though I wouldn't call him precisely padded either." Her gaze lingered for just a second at his crotch.
Louise was wearing what he thought must be the only low-cut toga in existence. Her lush breasts threatened to spill free at any moment. "Roberta and I are amusing ourselves by comparing men to types of food," she announced.
"Louise says that Albertus Vesey resembles a stick of asparagus," Roberta said with a gurgle of laughter.
Villiers raised an eyebrow. "Given his girth, I would suggest a melon."
"Believe me," Louise said, "you should be thinking about asparagus. That rather exotic white kind."
Her eyes twinkled wickedly. "Pale, slim...overcooked. Limp."
"Hush, Louise," Roberta said. "You'll make Villiers blush. Now what kind of food would the duke be?" They both looked him over.
"Neither of you has sufficient knowledge to assess my vegetable," he told them.
"Then you describe it for us," Louise suggested with a twinkle.
Roberta laughed and changed the subject. But it made him think just how long it had been since any woman—at least an available woman—had greeted him with Eleanor's profound lack of interest. In truth, it had been years since he encountered indifference.