Lady Perfect—a perfect lady for his perfect brother.
He eyed her with disfavor, watching as she arched her damned left eyebrow in pointed query. She wasn’t quite a beauty, his brother’s fiancée. Instead she had that sort of elegance that was found sometimes among the upper crust of English society—creamy pale skin, a slightly overlong face, properly neat features, and hair that was red without going so far as to be gauchely ginger.
He’d seen her type a hundred times before, and yet… something about Lady Hero was decidedly different. For one thing, most of the ladies of her rank would’ve simply left him to his fate in the sitting room. Yet she had gone against her own rigid morals to save both him and Bella. Had she acted out of compassion for two strangers? Or merely a stolid code of ethics that superseded even her own distaste for what she’d found in the sitting room?
Griffin looked about. The music had halted, the dance was at an end, and he was supposed to escort her back to stodgy Thomas. Which he would do, of course—just not yet.
He bowed, proffering his elbow in feigned docility. “Sad, isn’t it?”
She looked at his arm with sudden suspicion, but was forced by her own rigid propriety to take it. Griffin tamped down a surge of triumph.
“What is?” she asked, her voice wary.
“Oh, that a woman as pious as you should have to put up with the company of a rake like me merely because of polite convention.”
“Humph.” She lifted her chin as he led her slowly through the crowd. “I hope I know my duty.”
He rolled his eyes. “Buck up. Enduring my presence in your life will surely give you points toward sainthood.”
If he hadn’t turned to look at her at that very moment, he would’ve missed the twitch of her soft, pink lips. Egad. Lady Perfect had a sense of humor! He’d seen her smile, but the expression had been fixed and immobile. What would a genuine smile look like on her face? What would happen if she actually laughed?
Intrigued, he bowed his head toward hers, inhaling the scent of flowers. “If you aren’t marrying my brother for his title, then why?”
Wide gray eyes looked up, startled, into his. She was so near he only had to lean an inch or so closer and his lips would touch hers. He could find out what she tasted like, if she would break under his tongue and run soft and sweet like honey.
Good God! Griffin jerked his head back.
Fortunately, she seemed to have missed his confusion. “What do you mean?”
He inhaled and glanced away. They were nearly across the room now and moving in the opposite direction from Thomas, though she didn’t seem to notice. He was playing with fire, but he’d always found danger terribly tempting.
“Why marry Thomas?”
“My brother and he are friends. Maximus urged me to make the match.”
“That’s all?”
“No, of course not. My brother would not have considered Mandeville for me if the marquess weren’t well regarded, kind, and a man of substance.” She rattled off his brother’s attributes as if listing the points of a breeding ram.
“You don’t love him?” he asked with honest curiosity.
She knit her brows as if he’d burst into Swedish. “I have no doubt that I will someday have affection for him, naturally.”
“Naturally,” he murmured, feeling again that idiotic triumph. “Rather like a favorite spaniel, perhaps?”
She stopped dead, and if she hadn’t been restrained by her propriety, he had the feeling she would’ve set her hands on her hips like an irate fishwife. “Mandeville isn’t a spaniel!”
“A Great Dane, then?”
“Lord Griffin…”
He tugged her forward, leading her toward the outside edge of the ballroom. “It’s just that I’ve always thought it would be nice.”
“What?”
“To be in love with one’s wife—or in your case, one’s husband.”
Her face softened for a moment, her gray eyes going a little foggy, her sweet lips parting. Griffin found himself drawn to her fleeting emotion. Was this a glimpse of the true Lady Hero?
Then she was back to being Lady Perfect, her spine erect, her lips firm, and her eyes giving nothing away. The change was rather fascinating. What had made her into such a chameleon?
“How romantic,” she drawled in a bored, social voice that set his teeth on edge, “to think that love has anything to do with marriage.”
“Why?”
“Because marriage at our rank is a contract between families—as you well know.”
“But can’t it be more?”
“You’re deliberately being obtuse,” she said impatiently. “You don’t need me to explain society’s rules to you.”