“Nor did I realize,” he murmured, his breath hot in her ear, “that you were a particular friend of his grace.”
“Oh, Rowarth and I are very old acquaintances,” Eve said, with an arch look up at Rowarth who smiled back straight into her eyes. “But should we ever fall out I will let you know, Mr. Sampson.”
Sampson laughed. “I live for that day,” he said.
Eve smiled. She had never been much of an actre
ss, she was all too well aware that she had too fiery and opinionated a disposition to hide her true feelings well, but since Rowarth wished her to offer herself—since she had to do so to save herself from Hawkesbury’s so-called justice—she would fulfill her role with all the fervor she could.
And hate herself for it later, no doubt. But she could not allow herself to think about that now.
Sampson was still holding her hand and she let it rest there, tightening her fingers with the slightest of pressure.
“I was hoping,” she murmured, “that I might have a few moments with you in private later, Mr. Sampson. There is a matter I would very much like to discuss with you—a business matter to our mutual benefit.”
Sampson’s eyes almost popped out of his head with a combination of lust and excitement, curiosity and, Eve was interested to note, wariness.
“You intrigue me, Mrs. Nightingale,” he said. “I will rejoin you as soon as I can arrange it.” He kissed her hand again, running his lips over her knuckles in an odiously familiar manner that made Eve want to wipe her hand on her gown.
“Your servant, madam,” Sampson said, moving off to greet some of his other guests and giving her one very long, backward look.
Rowarth took Eve’s hand in a grip so tight she almost flinched.
“He seems to like you,” Rowarth said, his voice hard and low.
“Of course he does,” Eve said sharply. “There is plenty of me on display to like.” She glared at him. “You would also have observed that he was surprised to see me. He was not expecting me to be here tonight. I told you that I barely know him.”
Rowarth’s gaze narrowed on her. “I accept that,” he said slowly.
“Oh, you do, do you?” Eve snapped. “Not that it makes any difference to you. Well, stay close to me, Rowarth, while I trap him for you. You want me to whore myself tonight,” she added, seeing him recoil and glad that her bitter words had touched him, “so I will do. I was your harlot so will do whatever you wish.”
She was unprepared for Rowarth’s response. He caught her arm and pulled her behind the cover of an enormous statue of Apollo. His expression was tight and furious and made her quake inside. “Never refer to yourself like that again, Eve,” he said. “Never! Do you hear me?”
Eve was utterly shaken. For a long moment their gazes held, tense and stormy, and then Rowarth swore under his breath and his arms went about her and his mouth came down on hers with absolute mastery, forcing her lips apart, his tongue tangling with hers and plundering her without restraint. Eve was lost from the first moment, her emotions adrift, the sensuality flaring between them in a scalding tide. She forgot where they were, almost forgot everything, in the maelstrom of sensation and desire that swept her away.
“Getting into the swing of things rather well, Rowarth.”
An amused male voice had them falling apart, panting, and Eve looked up to see a tall man with brown hair and the wickedest hazel eyes she had ever seen smiling at her and making her an elegant bow.
“A pleasure to meet you again, Mrs. Nightingale,” he said, “though I do apologize for interrupting you at such an impossibly awkward moment. You may remember that we met a few times in London. Miles Vickery, entirely at your service.” He gave Eve a look of comprehensive admiration that brought a blush to her cheeks. “I wish that Hawkesbury had chosen me for this assignment rather than bringing Rowarth in specially,” he drawled, “but then I suppose he does have the prior claim.”
Rowarth did not seem amused. “Vickery—” he began, with so much possessive threat in his voice that Miles backed off, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“All right, Rowarth. I understand.” He grinned. “Don’t forget that I am your oldest friend. There is no need to call me out. I’m here only if you need help tonight. As is Nat Waterhouse.” He pointed out a tall, dark man who was across the other side of the hall drinking champagne and flirting with a blond woman with improbably girlish ringlets, whose breasts were tumbling out of the bodice of her clinging blue gown. As they watched, Waterhouse raised one of the blond’s ringlets to his lips and she simpered up at him in return.
“Contrary to all appearances,” Miles Vickery said drily, “Waterhouse is working tonight.”
He bowed again and sauntered off, leaving Eve very aware of Rowarth’s presence at her side. She had felt the tension simmering in him from the moment they had first greeted Warren Sampson. She turned to see him glaring at her.
“No one will believe that we were ever lovers if you look at me like that, Rowarth,” she said. “There is no need to behave with such ill-tempered possessiveness.”
“Is there not?” Something primitive flared in Rowarth’s eyes before he banked it down. “That is what you do to me, Eve. There is business unfinished between us.”
“There is nothing between us—” Eve started to say, even as he caught her close again with a demand she was powerless to resist and which made a mockery of her denials.
“You still respond to me,” he murmured, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth. “Admit it, Eve.”
“And what is that to the purpose?” Eve was really angry with him now both for demonstrating the power he still had over her and arrogantly asserting that it meant anything at all. “I admit that there is some sort of inconvenient attraction still between us,” she said, “but it is no more than that.” She tapped her fan sharply in the palm of her hand. “You should take a good, long look at yourself, Rowarth, duke or no. You come here and insult me with your false accusations and coerce me into behaving like a harlot in red silk and no underwear and then you behave like a dog in a manger.”