Page 4 of A Rogue Worth the Risk

He instinctively reached to steady the woman by gripping her upper arms. She was fine-boned but not willowy thin, nor was she plump.

Tottering unsteadily, a halo of ash-blonde curls tumbling about her shoulders, she lifted the palest hydrangea-blue eyes he’d ever seen to meet his. Her bow-shaped mouth parted.

In shock? Surprise? Dread?

Instead of gratitude that he’d prevented her from falling, furious blue sparks spewed from eyes framed by unexpectedly dark and lush eyelashes.

“Let me go,” she hissed, sending a frantic glance into the room she’d just vacated.

She wriggled her way free of Caspian’s grasp, and before either he or Lady Osborne could utter a word, the young woman hoisted her skirts to mid-calf and sprinted down the corridor.

Despite himself, Caspian couldn’t help but appreciate her finely turned ankles and calves.

A couple of seconds later, a gentleman emerged, holding a bloodied handkerchief to his nose. He paused midstep, obviously put off his stride by finding two people standing outside the door. His blurry-eyed gaze swung from Lady Osborne to Caspian and back to her ladyship.

“My lady.”

The aroma of strong spirits wafted from him.

The sot wavered on his feet, well into his cups despite the relative earliness of the evening.

“Parnell-Calloway.” Lady Osborne raised her lorgnette and gave him an imperious, arctic stare.

Caspian almost felt sorry for the chap.

“Beg your pardon,” Parnel-Calloway mumbled in a muffled, nasally tone, still pressing the cloth to his nose. “Walked—erm—into a wall.”

The man was a wretched liar.

“And I’m a dancing poodle wearing a tiara,” her ladyship scoffed.

The tips of his ears a shade somewhere between purple and red, Parnell-Calloway trundled off in the opposite direction the woman in blue had flown.

A forefinger to her chin, Lady Osborne narrowed her eyes in shrewd consideration. “He’s a pished rakehell to his marrow.”

Caspian couldn’t disagree with her assessment.

“Is he worth the effort?” she muttered to herself.

Effort?

She tapped her finger twice on her chin. “Might be irredeemable.”

“Many of us are,” Caspian put in dryly.

“We shall see.” Lady Osborne tilted her head, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. She looked past him with what might have been a hint of admiration. “I’d wager my grandmother’s tiara that gel planted him a well-deserved facer. And the glower she gave you was meant to smite you to ashes.”

Now she sounded positively giddy.

When Caspian glanced over his shoulder, Lady Osborne burst into laughter.

There was no sign of the tornado in petticoats. The crowd had swallowed her up.

Don’t ask. Do not ask.

Despite himself and the obvious glee his hostess exhibited at his interest, he asked, “Who is she?”

“That, Strathmore, was Miss Corinna Brockman. A hellion and spitfire wrapped into one unpredictable, incorrigible, unladylike, wholly unsuitable bundle.” She swept her mouth into a satisfied smile. “And the very person I wanted you to meet.”