Page 2 of A Rogue Worth the Risk

Barely suppressing a peeved sigh, Caspian pulled his watch from his pocket.

Not even ten of the clock yet.

Where was Brockman? Sterling?

Had they deserted him this early on?

Caspian skimmed his gaze across the crowd again. Hundreds of candles in the crystal chandeliers cast an ethereal glow onto the guests, creating a fairytale-like atmosphere.

Fairytale?

Balderdash and twaddle.

He’d put aside fanciful childish notions twenty years ago. When his invalid mother had died, and Father had married Florinda—the unbalanced mistress he’d unabashedly flaunted—less than a fortnight later.

There wasn’t anything magical or mystical about the people gathered at Lady Osborne’s ostentatious manor house. With few exceptions, the guests were shopping the Marriage Mart, hunting matrimonial prey, or intent on engaging in a clandestine assignation—perchance more than one naughty tryst.

A derisive snort escaped Caspian.

Heaven save him from such obvious machinations.

The bachelor’s life suited him very well.

Very well, indeed, thank you.

He felt no pressing need to sire an heir—no need at all, in point of fact. As the second son, that task wasn’t ever to have been his responsibility. Which was why—even as the barony’s heir—he’d never entertained notions of marching down the aisle and voluntarily relinquishing his freedom for matrimonial imprisonment.

“Ah, there you are, Strathmore.”

A sharp swat to his arm brought his attention to the formidable lady attired in black whose silent approach he’d missed.

His daunting hostess.

“I didn’t believe you’d actually come.” Lady Pandora Osborne, Pansy to her closest friends, scraped a probing gaze over him through her lorgnette. “Although Sterling assured me you would.”

“My lady.” Caspian dutifully bent into a bow. “A delight.”

Though the silver curls artfully arranged upon her noble head scarcely reached Caspian’s shoulders, Lady Osborne was a force to be reckoned with. A veritable dervish when she put her mind to something. Her ladyship was also the ton’s most prestigious unofficial matchmaker and was renowned for her brilliant matches.

An aptitude she took tremendous pride in.

Toying with the lace edging her hand-painted fan, she eyed him critically then gave an approving nod.

Evidently, Caspian had measured up. To what, he wasn’t certain.

“You clean up well, Strathmore. Black suits you.”

What else would the Blackhearted Baron wear?

Lady Osborne artfully swept a hand from her neck to waist. “I favor the shade myself.”

Neither apologetic nor contrite, she shifted her bold scrutiny to his disfigured face, and Caspian raised a sardonic eyebrow.

“Even with that scar.” She pointed her fan at his disfigured cheek. “You’re more handsome than either your brother or father were.”

“High praise indeed from one as estimable as yourself, my lady.”

“Pshaw. Poppycock.” She cut him a teasing glance, humor twinkling in her eyes. “Don’t waste your glib tongue on me, rapscallion.”

Her gaze took on a cunning gleam, and Caspian had the distinct impression she was up to something. Something he wasn’t going to like.

“There are plenty of young ladies who would swoon for an opportunity to dance with you tonight, Strathmore.”