Page 104 of The Runaway Duchess

With a great show of casualness, he slouched in the other direction. That was when he saw her.

Lavinia.

She stood against the wall, pale hair swept back. Her face looked small and naked.

He straightened in surprise, his whole body flooding with awareness. He recognized the tilt of her head, the set of her shoulders. The haughty posture of the expert snob. He’d seen her hold herself just so to keep from shaking with fatigue. To keep from bowing under the weight of emotional burdens she’d never shared. She was so stubborn, so bloody prideful.

He was angry that she’d fled from him. Angry that she’d decided, in the end, that he was no different from the other men who’d hurt her. Same species, same variety. Deserving of nothing more from her than a hastily scrawled line.

He hadn’t realized he was angry until now, when he felt it, hot within him.

Or was it hunger?

He wanted to put his mouth there, on her exposed neck, wanted to feel her pulse between his teeth as her fingertips dug into his skin.

Her eyes were locked on his. Only a few yards’ distance between them. A smattering of lecturegoers.

She lifted her chin as he strode toward her. She used her beauty as a shield. He would have her defenseless, without armor, and show her how he could hold her precious and keep her safe. Together, they would strip down to the pith.

A man detached himself from the wall beside her, put his lips by her ear. Circled her tightly with his arm. Suddenly, they were pressed close, turning, walking away.

Neal turned too, turned before he could think. His blood roared.

She had attended the lecture with her husband.

Why? Why would she do such a thing? Hadn’t she guessed he’d be in the audience? Or did she want to taunt him? Want to taunt her husband?

London thrived on these brutal little games.

He did not.

He bowled right between a pair of lanky students and continued, head down, heart thudding. A man moved directly into his path, a man whose brightly stripped cotton twill trousers made Neal snarl with recognition. His head shot up. Alan. Alan, with his arms crossed, walking stick threaded through them. He wore an expression of peculiar expectancy.

The Machiavellian fiend. Somehow, he was behind all of it. He was like a colorful spider, a peacock spider from New South Wales, delighting in casting his web, in observing his prey as they squirmed.

“How?” Neal stepped until they stood toe-to-toe.

Alan didn’t bother to demur. Or to apologize.

“She came to me,” he said, and shook his head, scolding. “You didn’t mention she was a littérateuse.”

Neal could only grunt. He should never have mentioned anything.

“Regardless.” Alan smiled. “She called herself Miss Laliberté, but her Christian name and aura of mystery connected her at once in my mind with the false Mrs. Pendrake. Then I read her novel, which, I must say, made me blush, and that was that.”

“Hogwash. When you go to the devil, he’ll be the one blushing.” Neal’s throat felt tight. Memories were unfurling, embowering him once again in that fragrant green riverine world. He heard Lavinia’s cry at the sight of the ship, saw her bedded in moss in the clearing, skin drinking the sunlight, felt his lips sliding on the silk of her, those lovely limbs twining around him.

Had she written of that?

“You are blushing,” said Alan softly, and Neal bit the inside of his cheek.

“Careful, or I’ll do more than blush.” His voice emerged low and furious. “Who is she really?”

Alan shook his head. “I want to leave you something to work out on your own. I contented myself with engineering the encounter.”

“Out of bloodless curiosity.” Neal backed away from Alan in disgust. “And for the benefit of your dear friend Bidmead, so he can write a dirty verse about it.”

“And for your benefit.” Alan tutted. “I detected signs of pining. Frequent sighs. A misty gaze fixed on the middle distance. A slackening of the sidestroke and general waning of the sporting spirit. You were, quite frankly, in a lovesick state.”