A Rogue of One's Own (A League of Extraordinary Women #2)(6)

He was still a rogue. She knew he had bothered Annabelle at Montgomery’s New Year’s Eve ball. Now he was flaunting his seductive prowess in front of her window.

“I gather you two are acquainted?” Lady Henley slunk into the path of their locked gazes.

Lucie blinked at her. She had forgotten her ladyship was present.

“Lord Ballentine is an old friend of my brother’s,” she said.

“Oh. Lovely.”

Lady Henley was pining for the man—before his very eyes. Of course, he would be used to it. From debutante to matron, women had made a sport of being at least a little bit in love with Lord Ballentine. One half adored him for his rare masculine beauty, his silky auburn hair and perfect jawline and indecently soft mouth. The other half was drawn to the promise of depravity lurking beneath his even features: the dissolute edge to these soft lips and the knowing glint in his eyes that whispered Tell me your desires, your darkest ones, and none of it shall shock me. There was a black magic about a beautiful man who was easily intrigued and impossible to shake. Lady Henley now appeared drunk on this sinister brand of charm and was tumbling toward Tristan’s maw like a fly into a carnivorous plant.

Lucie gave her a pointed look. “Forgive my being forward, but it would be ill-advised to become more closely acquainted.”

“Acquainted,” Lady Henley said slowly.

“With his lordship.” She gestured a circle around the now deceptively idly lounging nobleman.

Lady Henley’s expression cooled. “How kind of you to advise me.”

“I’m afraid you risk attracting attention.”

“No one can see us. There’s a shrub.” The lady gestured at the sprawling rhododendron shielding them, her body already arching toward the viscount again.

Lucie’s neck prickled with an unpleasant emotion. “It’s still a rather unbecoming look for a suffragist.”

Lady Henley, stubborn creature, wrinkled her nose. “It is? Say, was it not you who told us women should strive to own their aspirations and desires? Yes, you did say it.”

“Did she now,” drawled Ballentine, intrigued.

Lucie unlocked her jaw with some effort. “The context was slightly, but significantly, different. Have we not had enough scandal threatening the women’s colleges this year?”

Lady Henley made a pout. “Very well. I suppose the hour is quite late.” She eyed Ballentine from beneath her lashes.

“I did advise you,” Lucie said, and made to close the window. Or tried to. The window did not budge. She pulled harder. Still it stuck. Lady Henley tilted her head. His lordship was watching her efforts with growing interest.

Her head was hot. How could it be stuck? She gritted her teeth. Fires of Hades, the window would not move.

“Allow me,” Tristan said, and stepped closer.

“I don’t need—”

He spread his long fingers and settled his fingertips on the wooden frame. With a slow, steady glide, the window lowered and settled gently on the sill between them.

Her own face was reflected back at her, distorted, narrow-eyed, with her blade-straight hair gracelessly escaping her chignon.

On the other side of the glass, Ballentine’s smugness gleamed like a beacon in the night.

She all but yanked the curtains shut.

“Do not mind her,” came Lady Henley’s muffled voice, “she’s a spinster.”

She spun around, her heart pounding as though she’d run a mile. What a silly, exaggerated physical reaction. No need to be emotional. But she would have to leave, unless she wished to witness Ballentine’s exploits with Lady Henley through shared walls. She truly did not wish to witness it.

Attuned to her moods, Boudicca came strolling from her corner again, her eyes yellow in the gaslight. She butted Lucie’s skirts until Lucie bent and stroked her. At the feel of the soft fur beneath her fingers, her pulse slowed.

She needn’t worry about Lady Henley flinging herself into the river Isis over Ballentine as others had threatened before—she was no green girl. And Ballentine’s reputation as a seducer preceded him; in fact, he was the last person to try and hide what he wanted. Calculation on his part, she suspected, as it encouraged scores of women to try and reform him with healing feminine love, and a good number of them made a noose for themselves out of their own ambition.

She gathered the inkwell, the blotter, the fountain pen, her notes. On her way to the door, she picked up a shawl, because there was always a draft in Lady Margaret Hall’s library.

She all but bolted out the front door and skipped down the stairs, then paused to drag a breath deep into her lungs. The cool night air was a balm on her heated cheeks.

“Taking a walk, my lady?”

The silky voice wrapped around her from behind.

She turned slowly, her hands drawn into fists.

Tristan was leaning back against the windowsill, a lit cigarette between his fingers. Next to him, his walking cane was propped against the wall, the oversized amber pommel aglow like an evil eye in the shaft of lantern light.

“Why, that was quick.” There was no trace of Lady Henley.

“Something happened to spoil the mood,” he said, exhaling smoke through his nose.

“A pity.”

“Not at all. It was quite entertaining.”

He detached himself from the sill and approached, his tall frame throwing a long shadow toward her. A sensation fluttered low in her belly, like a hundred soft and frantic wings. Well, bother. During his absences, she forgot how imposing he was; whenever they crossed paths again, she became acutely aware of it.