Free A Gentleman's Honor by Stephanie Laurens Page A

out and took her hand. Still holding her gaze, he raised her fingers to his lips. Kissed, and felt the tremor that raced through her. Watched her eyes widen, darken.
    She drew in a quick breath, tensed to step back.
    He reacted. Tightening his grip on her fingers, he drew her nearer. Bent his head and touched his lips to hers in the lightest, most fleeting kiss.
    Just a brushing of lips, more promise than caress.
    He intended it to be that, not a real kiss but a tantalizing temptation.
    Raising his head, he watched her lids rise, saw surprise, shock, and curiosity fill her eyes. Then she realized, stiffened, drew back.
    Releasing her, he caught her gaze. “I meant what I said. I truly enjoyed the afternoon.”
    He wondered if she understood what he was saying.
    Before she could question him—before he could be tempted to say or do anything more—he bowed and turned to the door.
    She saw him out and shut the door.
    Gaining the pavement, he paused, letting the last moments fade from his mind, turning instead to running through all he’d learned thus far.
    His instincts were pricking. Something was afoot, but just what he’d yet to divine. Turning on his heel, he headed for home and his library. There was a great deal he had to digest.

FOUR
    H E SPENT THE REST OF THAT DAY AND THE ENTIRE EVENING analyzing all he’d retrieved from Ruskin’s office and lodgings. Ruskin’s scribbled notes and the receipts of his debts appeared to be the only clues, the only items warranting further investigation.
    After assembling a schedule of the dates on which the debts, in groups, had been paid, along with the sums involved, Tony called it a night. At least working for Dalziel gave him an excuse not to attend the ton’s balls.
    The next day, just after noon, he girded his loins and dutifully presented himself at Amery House for one of his godmother’s at-homes, to which he’d been summoned. He knew better than to ignore the dictate. Strolling into her drawing room, he bowed over her hand, resignedly noting he was one of only four gentlemen present.
    Felicité beamed up at him. “ Bon! You will please me and your maman by talking and paying attention to the demoiselles here, will you not?”
    Despite the words, there was an ingenuous appeal in her eyes. He felt his lips quirk. Hand over heart, he declared, “I live to serve.”
    She only just managed to suppress a snort. She rapped his knuckles with her fan, then used it to gesture to the knots of young ladies gathered by the windows. “Viens!” She shooed. “Go—go!”
    He went.
    It was a cynical exercise; none of the young things to whom the matrons prayed he’d fall victim had any chance of fixing his interest. Why they thought he might be susceptible escaped him, but he behaved as required, pausing by first one group, then another, chatting easily before moving on. He did not remain by any lady’s side for long; no one could accuse him of being the least encouraging.
    He’d scanned the room on entering; Alicia Carrington had not been present. As he moved from group to group, he resurveyed the guests, but she didn’t appear.
    While moving to the fifth knot of conversationalists, he caught Felicité’s eye, noted her puzzled expression. Realized he was giving the impression he was searching for someone, waiting for someone.
    Mentally shrugging, he strolled on.
    He was with the sixth group, inwardly debating whether he’d dallied long enough, when he heard two matrons standing a little apart exchanging the latest gossip—the items they considered too titillating for their charges’ delicate ears.
    His instincts flickered; he’d noticed there was some flutter—some piece of avid interest—doing the rounds among the older ladies.
    The two biddies a yard behind him put their heads together and lowered their voices, but his hearing was acute.
    “I had it this morning from Celia Chiswick. We met at Lady Montacute’s morning tea. You’ve heard about that fellow Ruskin