Page 3 of A Rogue Worth the Risk

And there it was.

Her ladyship’s subtle-as-a-purple-pig-in-a-chartreuse-bonnet hint.

Caspian chuckled.

“Now who has the glib tongue? You know as well as I that my—ah—reputation precedes me.” He jutted his chin in the direction beyond her shoulders. “Even now, the protective mamas are herding their precious darlings to the other side of the ballroom.”

A jot of vexation etched Lady Osborne’s countenance as she turned, lifted her lorgnette, and glared through the glass.

“Hmph.” Sliding her hand into the crook of Caspian’s elbow, she gave him a gimlet eye. “Never mind those bird wits. None can discuss anything more complex than embroidery stitches or ribbon colors.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Lady Osborne paused for a heartbeat, then snapped her fan open and waved it before her face. “Just for the record, Strathmore, I never entertained the balderdash that you set the fire so you could inherit.”

“I thank you for faith in me, my lady.”

Her straightforward confession not only took Caspian by surprise but caused something warm to unfurl in his chest. She was one of a scant few who held that opinion. Regardless, her confidence in him provided a balm to his bruised and bloodied soul.

“Oh, tosh.” She stopped fanning herself and gave him an arch stare. “Anyone who puts credence in gossip is a totty-headed bacon brain.”

Most wouldn’t agree with her assessment because often, there was a tiny thread of truth buried in rumors and tattle. In Caspian’s case, there had been an ugly row between him and his father earlier in the evening. Florinda’s behavior had become so bizarre, so maniacal, Caspian fretted for the family’s safety.

As it turned out, he’d had good cause for concern.

She’d tried to kill them all. At least that was what Caspian believed and what the evidence pointed toward.

Lady Osborne’s expression turned crafty, and Caspian’s appreciation disintegrated as speedily as a water droplet upon a blazing log.

“I have someone I want you to meet, Strathmore.”

Aha. Her ladyship was up to something.

“No. I think not.”

Though it was impolite, and she was his hostess, Caspian shook his head. He softened his rejection with a roguish wink and shook his finger.

“You’ll not find me an easy mark for your matchmaking, my lady. I have no interest in becoming leg-shackled.”

If memory served, the convoluted Graystone family tree contained two or three legitimate distant cousins who would gladly inherit the barony. Several illegitimate relatives also perched amongst the branches, but primogeniture prevented them from claiming the title.

“Flim-flam.” Tutting, Lady Osborne gave him a playful scowl. “Who said anything about the parson’s mousetrap?”

“Your reputation precedes you as well, Lady Osborne. Your matchmaking shenanigans are touted far and wide amongst le beau monde.”

“I shall take that as a compliment.” She preened with self-satisfaction as she took in her guests. “Though I’m not certain your remark was intended as such.”

With a last futile glance around, hoping to spy a friend to rescue him, Caspian rolled his shoulder. Might as well let her think she’d won this round. He’d make his excuses soon enough and find that quiet retreat to savor a superior finger’s worth of spirits.

“As you wish, my lady.” With a wry smile and a mental shrug, he acquiesced. “Providence does not appear to favor me this evening.”

“I wouldn’t be so swift to decry Providence, Strathmore.”

An entirely too-pleased-with-herself smile tipped Lady Osborne’s mouth upward as he permitted her to guide him from the throng.

They hadn’t traveled more than twenty feet along the corridor before a dark-paneled door sprang open, and a feminine blur of blue satin and white lace flew forth, crashing into Caspian. He inhaled a whiff of honeysuckle and almond before his assaulter’s pointed elbow landed squarely in his midriff.

“Oomph.”