Free The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne by Jayne Fresina

done to be accused of “distracting” him, Ellie answered pertly and for once, truthfully. “I keep him in a hat box.”
    He sighed. “If I don’t get those diamonds back from him, I’ll extract their value from you.”
    “Just how do you propose to do that?”
    “I have a few ideas.”
    “I’m intrigued!”
    “You should be.” His index finger moved, curled under her palm, and then straightened again.
    Was he flirting with her? It seemed too incredible to believe. Ellie decided to ignore the artful caress of his finger and instead raised her defenses. “You have more than one idea? Do be careful, Hartley. A gentleman’s brain must be treated gently and never overburdened. It gets so little exercise. We don’t want it strained.”
    There was another pause while they merged with a neighboring couple, and then as he returned within her hearing, he snapped out, “I suppose the count fed you that pretty line about escaping Madame Guillotine as a babe and drifting all the way to Dover in a barrel. Or was it his nurse’s trunk? I’m surprised that you, of all people, fell for that story. The Brothers Grimm could tell a more convincing tale.”
    She cocked her head and smiled coyly up at him for the sake of all those who watched and could not hear their conversation. “If I cared at all for your opinion, Hartley, I daresay I’d ask for it. But since I did not, I suggest you save your breath. You never know when you might need it to say something actually worthwhile and meaningful. It could happen. Even to a Hartley.”
    The dance was coming to an end, but a set contained two dances, and he was not yet done with her. Horrified, she realized the next dance was a daring waltz. James clutched her gloved fingers again in his viselike grip and laid his other hand firmly against her waist, giving her no choice but to place her left hand on his right shoulder. There was nothing between them but an indecently few inches of air. Somewhere behind her she heard her sisters’ muffled cries of alarm and agitation. They wanted her to find a husband, but James Hartley was not suitable marriage material. In their eyes, she wasted valuable time dancing with that rake. She might, after all, sprout her first gray hair in the next few hours. The inevitable crow’s-feet could almost be heard, creaking across her face.
    But here she was, dancing with the enemy.
    Lost in thought, she studied his familiar, despicably handsome features. How did he get that bruise around his eye? What had he been up to? He could get himself hurt worse than he had been already. He ought to leave London Society for a while. Breathe some fresh air for a change. Not that it should matter to her. He never welcomed her advice, any more than she welcomed his. In so many ways, they were too alike.
    “What now?” he demanded as he glared down at her. “I can almost hear the cogwheels of your mind turning, Vyne. What do you have up your sleeve for me next? What more degradation must I suffer at your hands?”
    Ellie quickly lowered her gaze. Even if he had rescued her from a wallflower’s fate this evening, his rudderless misadventures should really be of no interest to her at all. She studied his waistcoat again and composed her thoughts and, more importantly, her fast-beating heart.
    A shrill woman’s voice abruptly intruded. “James! Feeling better, I see.”
    There was no mistaking the tone of anger, the sharp, cutting edge of barely concealed claws. Ellie daren’t turn her head, for she knew the voice. Only the night before, she’d taken an ugly necklace from that woman in a game of cards. If Ophelia Southwold should recognize her, the ruse would be over.
    “Thank you,” she heard James reply. “Much better. Now.”
    “So I see!”
    Even as they spun around in the waltz, Ellie kept her head turned. He must have noticed her pushing to keep her back to the other woman. “Is there something wrong with your neck, Vyne?”
    “Just a slight crick,”