Indeed, Raven thought, Kell seemed almost determined to put himself out to be pleasant. She watched in amazement as he charmed an elderly dowager as effectively as Dare had ever done. This was a side of Kell that she had never seen before, and it left her wondering wistfully if he would revert to form once the evening ended.
Still, no matter how fleeting his support tonight, she was grateful for it. And the size of the crowd filled her with hope that she might win back at least a toehold in polite society, if not genuine acceptance.
Many of the guests were as chillingly distant as her great-aunt had been, but Raven could detect only a handful of outright snubs as the interminable line of guests continued. The veiled insults mainly came as remarks regarding Kell’s brazen ownership of a gaming club or the fact that he was part Irish.
Raven returned a cool-eyed stare or lifted an arched eyebrow in mock dismay, her answers ready:
“Yes, Lady Poindexter, my husband owns the premier club in London. I daresay Lord Poindexter has enjoyed the sport there as much as Lord Wycliff or the Marquess of Wolverton.”
Or “You can’t mean that you don’t gamble, Mr. Smythe-Jones? I felt certain every self-respecting gentleman gambled. Didn’t I just hear of a wager you made last week with Sir Randall Dewhurst about which raindrop would first reach the sill of White’s bow window?”
Standing next to her, Kell watched her performance with a strange mixture of vexation and admiration. It rankled that Raven would have to defend him-and rankled still more that he cared about being defended. He was accustomed to being cut dead by these preeminent denizens of society, and he’d learned long ago to contain the simmering anger that gnarled in his gut at their infuriating presumption of superiority.
His usual anger, however, was somehow less fierce tonight, his feelings of inferiority diminished. Particularly when he observed his new wife smoothly dressing down his detractors as they moved along the line, a smile on her perfect lips. It didn’t surprise him that Raven had claws, but it did that she was willing to use them on his behalf, especially when her own position was so tenuous.
She was putting up a brave front, Kell admitted. No one would guess she was under indictment for the social equivalent of murder, with her lovely neck exposed to the blade of the guillotine.
She clearly didn’t like having to endure the threat of the knife, however. He had to repress a smile when he caught the unladylike oath Raven muttered in between greeting guests.
“Blast that woman for an interfering busybody,” she said under her breath. “The gall of some people.”
And he forcibly had to bite back laughter when Raven complained in that same peeved undervoice, “I feel like a stuffed peahen in a museum, on display for the gawking spectators.”
Yet when she moved closer to him in response to a snide comment about his Irish roots, her unconscious gesture seemed more protective than defensive. He found himself watching her covertly, studying the patrician lines of her delicate profile. Raven was still an enigma to him, a fascinating one. Her eyes soft and vulnerable one moment, then flashing defiance…
His gaze swept downward, over the slim, elegant curves of her figure revealed by her empire waist gown, returning to linger on her softly swelling bosom. Remembering how those sweet, firm breasts had tasted, he felt his loins pulse.
He swore at his body’s response, wishing he didn’t have to stand so close to her. And yet her efforts to protect him roused an unwilling tenderness inside him-along with a need to protect her in turn. He was determined to play his role as her loving husband to the hilt.
When the reception line disbanded, he led her out on the dance floor for the first dance, a minuet.
Raven gave him a questioning look. “You don’t have to do this, not if your leg is paining you.”
“Ah, but I do,” Kell responded with a slow, deliberate smile. “The company expects me to dance with my incredibly lovely wife.”
It was the first time he had smiled at her in that rakish way, without disdain or mockery, and the effect was dazzling. Her gaze fastened on his alarmingly sensual mouth. Kell was only fawning over her for the benefit of their observers, she knew, but even so she felt a shiver of sexual awareness all the way down to her satin slippers. And his dark eyes…
She glanced away, refusing to be seduced by the heat she saw there. Simulated or not, it left her feeling too dangerously defenseless. Kell Lasseter was a man who made her blood run hot but her heart quiver with alarm. She would do well to keep her distance.
She breathed more easily when she was claimed by another dance partner and could leave Kell to his own devices. From that point on, she found herself in constant demand. And for the rest of the evening, there were seldom any chances for intimacy with Kell or even much conversation.
It was three in the morning before the last guest departed. Brynn declared the evening a moderate triumph, predicting that Raven would find dozens of invitations on her salver on the morrow.
Weary but relieved, Raven embraced her friends and allowed Kell to lead her out to the waiting carriage. After the heat of the ballroom the frigid air felt wonderful.
She could feel her tension starting to ease as she sank back against the squabs. Although her future was far from settled, she couldn’t find the energy just now to worry about her prospects. And yet she owed Kell her gratitude.
She contemplated the dangerous man sitting silently beside her as he stared broodingly out the barouche at the dark streets.
“Thank you for attending with me,” she murmured. “It went far better than I hoped.”
“Yes,” he agreed, a cynical edge to his voice. “I own myself surprised at how they fawned over me. Most of those self-righteous prigs consider an Irishman lower than dirt, and a gamester not much better.”
A bastard would be lower than either, Raven thought involuntarily.
“My mother would never have been accepted by that horde,” Kell muttered. “Damn their souls.”
She heard the anger in his voice and suddenly wondered what he would say if she told him of her own origins. Would he understand the crushing loneliness of being an outcast? Of never belonging, of never being good enough? But long practice of hiding her secret kept her silent.