At his quizzical look, she continued. "Medusa's severed head still had the ability to petrify living plants into coral. Poor Medusa. I've always felt a little sorry for her. She had such a terrible reputation."
"Turning men to stone does tend to make a lady unpopular," he teased. "Of course, acknowledging you've read Ovid might have a similar effect."
"Ha! There's nothing wrong with reading Ovid."
"I didn't say there was. Some gentlemen find intelligent ladies quite . . . stimulating."
The way he held her gaze made her heat from the core and melt around the edges like a candle.
His thumb traced circles on the small of her back.
She forgot her mission for one moment.
Forgot every other ball she'd ever attended.
The humiliation. The disasters.
She could have this one waltz.
One perfect waltz.
In the arms of the most handsome man in the room.
And that's when Thea made her second monumental error of the evening.
She closed her eyes . . . and surrendered to the moment.
Such an innocent-looking little lamb.
Only Dalton knew better.
He knew she'd tried to lure his best friend James, the Duke of Harland, into marriage using her half sister Charlene as bait.
It was truly uncanny how much Lady Dorothea resembled Charlene, her father's love child, the one who'd married James and transformed him from an unshaven brute into a nearly respectable member of Parliament, and a doting husband and father.
They had the same roses-and-clotted-cream complexion and golden hair.
Although Lady Dorothea's abundant curls had a bit more copper when one was close enough to see the difference. Orange marmalade on hot buttered scones.
Her eyes were slightly more blue than gray, yet just as wide-set in the same oval face with the same arrow's point of a chin.
She was a tiny thing, the top of her head only reaching Dalton's chin. She made him feel gargantuan and ungainly, as if he might crush the delicate bones of her fingers in his huge paws.
He stroked his thumb across smooth satin over supple flesh, and a deep blush spread from her neck to her face, coalescing into two round, rosy patches high on her cheekbones.
He didn't remember her half sister blushing, but Dalton recognized that maidenly flush and those artfully mussed curls as a carefully constructed façade.
She and her scheming mother had obviously decided Dalton was to be the consolation prize for losing James.
All those letters about his father's paintings. Did she really think he'd fall for that?
She conspired to capture and tame a duke of her own.
Not going to happen.
He never danced with well-bred, unmarried ladies because it gave their mamas hope, and he was a lost cause.
Marriage wasn't in the cards.
What he had to do tonight . . . he'd built his own façade just as carefully, to deflect attention away from his true purpose.
But he couldn't have troublesome wallflowers pursuing him around London, digging up his buried past, so, for this single occasion, he'd been willing to make an exception. Preempt the attack by striking first.
Dance with her.
Make her popular.
And then sit back and enjoy the fireworks, achieving two goals at once.
She'd have no more time to plague him when she was mobbed with suitors.
And the ton would be far too busy gossiping about the waltz and its consequences to concern themselves with his exact whereabouts this evening.
She nestled closer and silken curls tickled his chin.
That's right, little lamb, sway into my arms.
She smelled of wild rose petals, feminine and sensual.
If he licked her neck she'd taste creamy, like Madagascar vanilla.
She released a small, breathy sigh that navigated straight to his groin.
Oh, she was good.
But he was better.
"Our dance is nearly over, one and only Lady Dorothea," he whispered.
Thick, black lashes rippled over wide ocean eyes. "So soon?"
"Alas, all good things must end."
The hint of a smile played over her sweetly curved lips. "Must they?"
"I'm afraid so." He kept his voice low and a provocative smile on his lips. He wanted their audience to wonder what endearments he whispered in her ear. "Let me make one thing clear before our waltz ends, my lady."
Watchfulness in her eyes now. A slight tensing of her fine-boned shoulders. "What's that, Your Grace?"
"There will be no more visiting of properties or excavating of attics. I see through your act and I know you're not searching for ancient goddesses. It's a modern-day duke you're after."
She drew a swift breath. "You're entirely mistak-"
"It won't be me," he said abruptly, cutting her protests short. "It won't be me . . . but you'll have your pick of every other eligible peer."
"What . . . what do you mean?" She searched his face with something close to panic in her eyes.
"Look around us. Everyone's watching. The first waltz of the season and I chose you."
Her gaze darted around the room. "No, no. This isn't what I wanted at all." She shook her head and silken curls brushed his jaw.
The music ended. He stepped away.
She hugged her arms against her chest, her eyes flat as etched glass.
He experienced a tiny qualm of something close to guilt. She was a very gifted actress.
"I made you popular." He bowed. "You're welcome."
Cold alertness froze her face. "Nothing can make me popular, Your Grace. Not even you."
"Care to place a wager on that?" Dalton was known for his outrageous wagers. The diversion of Lady Dorothea's instant popularity would make excellent fodder for the betting books at White's. Keep all those idle noblemen entertained.
Keep them from suspecting him of being anything other than one of their tribe-a rakehell with too much leisure time and a taste for scandal.
Dalton steered Lady Dorothea back to her mother, Lady Desmond, whom he'd had the distinct displeasure of spending several days with during Harland's bride hunt the previous summer. The countess was as cool and calculating as they came.
"Truly, I'm not after suitors, Your Grace," Lady Dorothea whispered urgently, attempting to slow his progress. "I only wanted to convince you to let me study Artemisia's paintings."
Matrons whispered in huddled knots, gentlemen circled like sharks scenting fresh blood, and young ladies shot envious glances.
"This will ruin everything." Her fingers tightened around his arm. "This is . . . this is my idea of hell. You must do something to show them you were only toying with me. You can tell your friends you only danced with me because of a wager."
Lady Desmond's light blue eyes blazed with triumph. "Your Grace." She inclined her head regally.
Dalton made a peremptory bow.
He leaned close to Lady Dorothea, steeling himself against the seductive sharp-sweet scent of wild roses.
"Welcome to hell," he whispered.
Chapter 2
The doorway to hell was covered in green baize and always stood at the end of a narrow passage.
Inside, hollow death rattle of dice, scrape of wood raking wool, agonized shouts and keen-edged laughter. The most exclusive club and the lowest hell sounded the same.
There were countless gaming establishments in London. Some folded and others sprang up almost nightly. Dalton knew the location and stakes of every one.
It was his duty to know, as it was his duty to record the names of every patron-aristocrat, churchman, magistrate, or fishmonger-who sought the green door and craved what lay beyond.
As the Duke of Osborne he had access to the exclusive private clubs, where he gambled away his late father's cursed fortune and gathered information in secret.
But tonight he was cloaked in invisibility. Hair dulled with soot. A ragged neck cloth that doubled as a mask if pulled over his chin. Threadbare coat.
He'd learned to hunch his shoulders. Amble with the diffident gait of a dog who'd been kicked as a pup.
If he spoke at all this evening, he'd used the same lilting Irish brogue as his manservant, Conall.
They made a disreputable pair of prowlers, Dalton and Con, lurking in a darkened doorway that commanded an unobstructed view of the Crimson gaming hell in Piccadilly, so they'd be able to see their target, Lord Trent, exit before he saw them.
They waited in silence.
Dalton stamped his feet in the cold air. Winter hadn't quite decided to yield to spring yet.
Con kicked at the doorjamb. "Enjoy yourself at the ball, did you?"
Dalton made a noncommittal noise.
"Saw you dancing with that wisp of a lady. Not your usual sort," Con observed.
No, she wasn't.
Dalton preferred statuesque, worldly widows and disenchanted wives with voluptuous curves made for hard bedding.
Lady Dorothea was petite, innocent, and completely off-limits in the bedding department.
"She's the one who wrote me all those letters about the paintings at Balfry House. The same one who tried to snare Harland. She won't be plaguing me anymore, though."
"And why's that?"
"I very cleverly danced with her in order to make her popular."
Con snorted. "Clever plan, eh? Sure and you didn't just want to have her in your arms?"
"Absolutely not. It was a clever plan. She'll be beating away suitors now."
The Duke of Foxford had claimed her for the next dance. The sight of the aged peer touching her had wrenched Dalton's gut with revulsion.
Foxford's grasping fingers were clenched around the throat of some of the most corrupt establishments in London. Gaming hells. Brothels. Gin houses.