Free The Scarlet Spy by Andrea Pickens

nearly tripping over their feet to make their bows to the lady. He stepped back and watched in sardonic amusement as her dance card was quickly filled in a flurry of scribbles.
    Lord Hillhouse had won the honors of leading her out for the next set, a lively country gavotte.
    Seeing that she was in good hands for the next little while, Osborne turned away and quickly found a glass of champagne. His throat was dry and prickly from his exertions, but even though he quaffed it in one long swallow, its sweetness did not quite wash the sour taste from his mouth. He reached for another, sipping more slowly this time as he observed Lady Sofia and Hillhouse sharing a merry laugh. It shouldn’t rankle that the contessa had given
him
the cold shoulder, yet his hand gripped the glass so tightly that the cut crystal pattern was imprinted on his palm.
    He tried to temper his irritation by telling himself it was based on principle rather than personal pique. The lady ought to have a reason for treating him with ill-disguised contempt.
    “Osborne.” A rice-paper fan slapped softly against his sleeve. “I find you free at least.”
    “Lady Caro.” He kept his eyes on the capering couples.
    “The contessa appears to have made a number of conquests.”
    His only answer was a brusque shrug.
    “Why, even
you
seem smitten by her charms.” Lady Caroline’s tone was playful, but her eyes sharpened to a slitted gaze. “Everyone has remarked on the promenade in the park.”
    “For God’s sake, I am merely doing Lord Lynsley a small favor,” he snapped. “I don’t know why it should stir such a fuss.”
    Lady Caroline paled.
    “Forgive me.” He sighed and pressed his fingertips to his temples. “I am feeling a bit out of sorts … a headache.”
    Her expression softened into a look of concern. “I thought you looked unwell. You should not be straining your strength by staying out until all hours. Return home at once and seek your bed. I will send one of my servants around with the recipe for a soothing posset.”
    More likely she would bring it around herself.
    He and Lady Caroline had had a brief affair some months ago—another of his recent lapses in judgment. She was very pretty, but very possessive, despite the fact that she had a husband. The elderly baron hated Town life, while Caroline loved the pleasures of London. Now that she was back from the country, she had been dropping obvious hints about her desire to resume the arrangement.
    “It’s merely a trifling bother. And besides, I promised the marquess that I would help introduce the contessa into Society.”
    “She does not look as if she needs any assistance,” replied Lady Caroline. Her voice was waspish.
    Women.
Osborne gave an inward wince. The ache in his head was beginning to feel as if someone was pounding a spike through his skull.
    “Osborne!”
    Seeing Henry Griswold’s wave, he excused himself from Lady Caroline and made his escape. The fellow, a noted authority on Roman antiquities, could be a bit garrulous at times. But he would gladly listen to the whole of Caesar’s Commentaries on the Gallic Wars in return for such a fortuitous rescue.
    “Osborne, I must tell you all about the bust of Dionysius I just purchased at auction. You, of all people, will appreciate its artistic merits …”
    The lecture lasted until the supper dance. Osborne felt a little guilty about listening with only half an ear, but his occasional murmurs and nods seemed to satisfy his friend.
    “How fascinating, Griz. But alas, I am promised for the upcoming waltz.” He was finally forced to put an end to the detailed description of orgies in the second century. “Can’t keep a lady waiting.”
    “Er …” The scholar blinked. “Oh, right.”
    “A toast to merriment and revelry.” Osborne raised his glass and winked before walking back to the dance floor.
    It was not hard to find the contessa. She was surrounded by a bevy of admirers anxious to make her formal acquaintance.