Free Queen of Diamonds by Bárbara Metzger Page A

her situation should have leaped at the chance, even if he was not as rich as Croesus or as romantic as a Romeo. Miss Pettigrew was bouncing on the bench in her excitement, and Browne was grinning. Madame Lescartes was frowning.
    The dog growled. Harry stepped back, realizing he had been about to kiss Madame Lescartes’s hand to seal their agreement before she could change her mind. He hadn’t felt any ring under her glove, which somehow helped him ignore her recalcitrance. “Then we shall provide assistance to each other,” he said, sounding too stiff to his own ears, which he feared were turning red. He added, “And perhaps we might have a pleasant evening while doing so.”
    Miss Pettigrew laughed and clapped her hands together. “Of course we shall have a lovely time. Why would we not?”
    Perhaps because Queenie feared Harking thought he was hiring a mistress, and he believed her a whore. She could read it in his open countenance, and how fast he had dropped her hand, as if he might be contaminated by her presence. The handsome hypocrite was going to a Cyprian’s dance, all the while making alibis for being there, Queenie fumed. He might make alibis. He would not mistake her intentions. She raised her chin.
    â€œYes, we shall have a good evening. One evening.”
    Harry could not misinterpret her meaning. She was refusing his offer of
carte blanche
before he even thought of making it, she was that sure of herself and her appeal. What, were his pockets not deep enough? His manners not polished finely enough? Or did he simply not match her deuced dog?
    The female could look as high as she wished for a protector, Harry admitted. Most men would be panting over the possibility of acquiring her services for a night, a week, a month, however long it took to satisfy their curiosity and carnal urges. But Harry was not most men, even if his breath was coming a bit fast at the thought of taking Madame Lescartes to the ball—and then home. To discover her secrets under the elegant clothes she wore, to feel those tight curls, and the tighter ones elsewhere, to feel that satiny skin next to—“One evening,” Harry said with a gasp.
    Perhaps the gentleman was not as prosperous as he looked, Queenie guessed, if he supposed her company came with too high a price for his purse. Many a nob visited the finest tailors and haberdashers without having a feather to fly with. How unfortunate if Harking was like so many others, punting on tick and putting a price on everything, even a night’s companionship. Queenie did not know how she could tell him that she would not accept a shilling, not even the cost of her admission to the ball.
    On the other hand, maybe he was becoming nervous, afraid of his wife’s hearing about his illicit outing.
    â€œIf your family might be upset to read your name in the scandal sheets, perhaps we ought to reconsider. I understand reporters and gossip columnists regularly attend such functions.” Queenie was counting on it, to get her name known.
    â€œNo, no one will care,” he said. “And one appearance at a risqué ball would be a minor blot on the family escutcheons after—That is, shall Monsieur Lescartes be calling me out in the morning?”
    What, was he a coward, besides clutch-fisted? Queenie shook her head, disappointed in her chosen chevalier. If he was frightened of some non-existent Frenchman, how could he keep her safe from the rakes and reprobates at the party? “Monsieur Lescartes is not a consideration.”
    Whatever that noncommittal statement meant, Harry was relieved anyway. The idea of some man having this woman, possessing her, was enough to chill his bones, despite the muffler. Not that he wished to possess her, of course. He’d simply been without a woman too long, that was it. And his body was reacting like any red-blooded male to the sight—and was that a lilac scent?—of a seductive woman.