He chuckled. A warm sensation poured through him causing an ache in his chest.
Lucan watched her run lightly up the steps leading to the terrace, her every move embodying innate sensuality. He would find her when his plotted course was over, and possibly court the bewitching beauty. No woman had ever moved him to such thoughts before.
A nightingale trilled its ethereal haunting song in the distance, and he walked toward the sound. He exited the conservatory looking for Lord Justin Bollard, the Earl of Ainsley. Lucan spied him on the upper balcony, or rather, the flash of Ainsley’s purple waistcoat, so Lucan made his way under the cover of the darkness to the upper balcony.
“I thought we were to meet in the conservatory,” he said as he reached his friend.
Mocking hazel eyes met his. “You were occupied,” Ainsley drawled with amusement, and Lucan grunted.
“Which one is the lady?”
A frown marred Ainsley’s face as he shifted his gaze to Lucan. “What do you mean? I thought you had already sprung the trap. I saw you dancing with her.”
Lucan scanned the ballroom from the terrace with impatience. He had danced with three ladies tonight, and as far as he knew they were all married. His quarry was a young chit. “Who, damn it? I have not been introduced to any Lady Constance tonight.”
“But…in the conservatory.”
Lucan froze. The conservatory? His gut tightened and denial surged inside him. Carefully masking his reaction, he focused on Ainsley. “What do you speak of?”
Something in Ainsley’s face tightened, and Lucan recognized it as discomfort.
“I saw you conversing with her in the conservatory, dancing with her, and then kissing her. I assumed you knew her to be Lady Constance Thornton.”
Lucan sucked in an audible breath, one that caused his friend to arch a brow sharply.
“I take it you did not know. Interesting.”
No, he had not known, had not even dreamed it could be her.
A vision of the lady in question danced before his eyes, her lush lips, and desire-filled eyes. She was enchanting, beautiful, and more tempting than any woman he had ever known—and she was the enemy.
She had bewitched him for a few precious minutes, enough that he had almost forgotten why he was here at Lady Lawrence’s ball.
The little minx. Now he understood her hesitation when he had suggested calling upon her. It mattered not. Her hesitation had saved him from being foolhardy. But to discover the captivating Miss Hastings was his prey…
This was too easy.
A shame. He had thought he would have had to use considerable charm to inveigle her to his side. But she had made it so stunningly simple, he was nonplussed. He did a quick sweep of the ballroom and spied her speaking with a red haired beauty—Lady Phillipa Thornton, if he was not mistaken. Lady Constance stood on the sidelines tapping her foot anxiously, occasionally peeking out toward the darkened terrace.
Looking for him?
He narrowed his eyes as he took in her apprehension. Why had she lied to him? Though, indeed, if he had known the truth, their encounter would have gone very differently. He chuckled mirthlessly. Just his luck the first woman he’d felt interest for in years was the very object of his vengeance. The gods must be laughing at him uproariously.
Worse, he’d actually entertained a random thought that she resembled Marissa, his beloved sister. The reason behind his quest for revenge.
Not in looks. Marissa had been dark-haired, with hazel eyes, tall and willowy. No, it had been the hope that shone from Miss Hastings’—Lady Constance’s—eyes that hinted at their similarity. A hope he was about to savagely crush.
Discomfort curled through him, and he ruthlessly banished it. The Duke of Calydon, her brother, had no such thought for Marissa when he ruined her and led her to such a painful demise.
Ainsley’s gaze focused on him, jerking Lucan back to the present. “The lady is being ostracized. Lord Orwell did his task splendidly. He has hinted in all the right ears of Lady Constance and Lord Anthony’s illegitimacy, and encouraged everyone to remember how quickly the Dowager Duchess of Calydon married her lover after the death of the old duke. With a few whispers here and there, the rumors are being kept alive quite effectively.”
Lucan nodded. Lord Orwell had gambled away a substantial fortune at Lucan’s club, Decadence, and was deep in Lucan’s debt. To further his own goal, he had used Orwell to full advantage. In a game Orwell had been so sure he would win, the fool had placed twenty acres of prime London property on the table. He had lost and was desperate to reclaim his monies and land.
At the time, Lucan had not been moving in high society, too set on fulfilling the destruction of a previous enemy. But a few weeks later he had succeeded, and thus moved on to his current quarry, Sebastian Thornton, the Duke of Calydon, one of the men responsible for Marissa’s untimely death. Calydon had turned out to be Lucan’s most vexing opponent. He had not been able to find any weaknesses at all to exploit. But every man had a weakness, and he had been determined to find Calydon’s.