The Untamed Earl(17)

Owen’s gaze scanned the room “Where?”

“She’s over by the potted palm. I believe she’s talking to her sister.” Cass nodded toward the far end of the room.

Owen glanced over to the potted palm that rested in a corner where two dark-haired young ladies were speaking. He squinted but could not see either’s face. Blast. “Which one is she?”

“Really?” Cass’s face wore an exasperated expression, and her free hand rested on her hip.

“I cannot see their faces,” Owen protested.

Cass sighed and nodded toward the two. “The one in peach.”

Owen wrinkled his nose. “Do you mean orange?”

Cass snapped shut her fan and expelled a deep breath. “I mean peach.”

Owen turned back to look. Fine. The other girl was wearing light blue, at any rate. He handed his empty champagne glass to another footman. “I’ll be back.”

“Best of luck, old chap.” Swifdon clapped him on the back.

“I don’t need luck,” Owen replied with yet another grin. He straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and took off toward the potted palm. If he could get this over with quickly enough, he might be able to salvage this evening and get in a rousing game of cards at one of the hell clubs on the other end of town.

He casually strolled over to where the ladies were speaking. The one in orange quickly turned and made a funny little squeaking sound.

The one in blue turned to look at him. She was a beauty, tall and thin with dark hair and blue eyes that seemed to contain … hostility. In fact, she looked entirely unimpressed. It was not a look he was used to seeing from a lady. Thank heavens it was the one in orange he was after. He turned his gaze toward her. She was shorter with an eye-catching bosom, and curves that made his hand itch to caress them. Moreover, she had a twinkle in her eye that said she found their meeting … amusing. Why?

“Ladies,” he said, bowing at the waist and giving them his most persuasive smile, the same one that had been known to charm the stays off many a lady of the ton. He’d been told more than once that his dimple could be practically irresistible.

“My lord?” the one in orange said amiably. The twinkle remained in her eye.

“And you are?” the blue lady said, arching a dark brow and curling her lip.

He straightened back to his full height. “It wounds me that you don’t remember me, my lady.”

She did not present her hand. “Be that as it may, I don’t,” she responded. Owen fought the urge to shudder. He glanced back and forth between the two again. The lady in orange couldn’t possibly be Lady Lavinia. The one in blue certainly seemed the more difficult of the two. That one seemed like a viper. He’d do well to steer clear of her. She might be his future sister-in-law, but that didn’t mean they needed to spend much time in each other’s company. He turned his attention to the orange.

“I am Lord Owen Monroe,” he announced. After all, it seemed fair that they didn’t remember him either. Until Cass had pointed her out, he hadn’t remembered Lavinia himself. No bother.

“I know who you are,” the lady in orange said, smiling up at him with a dreamlike expression on her round face. Upon second look, she was a beautiful little thing. Smaller than her sister but infinitely more appealing, with wavy dark hair and the most warm, appealing brown eyes framed by thick black lashes.

He smiled at her. Why had his father thought this might prove difficult? Why, the girl was already practically eating from his palm. “That makes it infinitely easier for me to ask you to take a turn around the room with me.”

She blushed beautifully. “You want to walk?” She pointed at herself. “With me?”

He chuckled. “Yes, my lady. If you would do me the honor.” He bowed again and then held out his arm.

The lady in blue gave him a strained pinched look and addressed her sister. “Go on, then. I’ll be at the refreshment table.”

“Very well.” The orange beauty put her hand on his arm. Marriage to her wouldn’t be so bad. She was not only lush but she seemed biddable, too. The perfect combination.

He covered her hand with his larger one. She was a bit too stiff, too anxious. He could tell by the rigid way in which she held her arm, the slight shaking of her palm on his sleeve. Owen was used to ladies who danced effortlessly, who flirted effortlessly, who laughed at his bawdy jests, and drank a bit too much wine. These balls for innocents were quite a different affair altogether. They were full of nervous would-be wives who shook as if they might break.

“Are you frightened?” he ventured.

“No. Why?” But the alacrity with which she’d said those two words belied their truth.