Eyes of the Devil
London, 1890
âWHO IS THAT MAN over there?â demanded Charlie. âSee the one I mean? The tall impertinent-looking fellow by the ballroom door, talking to Sir Horace Rumbelow.â
Beatrice Weatherly suppressed a sigh. Her brother could be a bit of a bear sometimes when he drank too fast, and the champagne was disappearing down his throat tonight at an alarming rate.
âI asked you to wear a more conservative dress. Something dark and modest, maybe one of your mourning gowns,â Charlie went on. âBut of course you wouldnât, and now look whatâs happened. I swear that if he doesnât stop ogling you this very minute, Iâll go across there and box his ears for him!â
Iâd like to see you try, brother dear. He looks as if he could swat you like a gadfly with just one hand.
âPlease, ignore him, Charlie. He isnât bothering me in the slightest, so I donât see why he should bother you.â Keeping her face carefully averted, Beatrice sipped her own champagne. She was determined to make every glass last as long as she could tonight. Just look what had happened the last time sheâd drunk fizz.
But, truth be told, her bold scrutinizer across the reception room did bother her and it wasnât an urge to box his ears she felt. No, it was something far more alarming. Her heart pounded and her entire body felt deliciously restive every time she caught his hot gaze on her. Something that seemed to happen every few moments or so because try as she might, she couldnât help looking back at him. And he hadnât taken his eyes off her since theyâd entered the room.
Of course, when she and Charlie had been announced, it seemed as though almost everybody had swiveled around to stare at them. Oh look, she imagined them all saying, There she is, Beatrice Weatherly, the Siren of South Mulberry Street, the shameless hussy who posed naked for those scandalous cabinet cards. Men who probably owned copies of said cards had eyed her with salacious interest when their wives werenât looking. The women had frowned and pursed their lips as if worried that their men would be so overcome with lust that theyâd flock around the indecent Siren, unable to help themselves. Even the discreet servants circulating with their trays had seemed to study her covertly.
Now, though, the first reaction was over and the hubbub of gossip had returned to its normal clatter. Some wives had won the battle for propriety and a few groups had self-consciously cut her and Charlie, but most of the other guests seemed far more free and easy.
I suppose a fast set like this is more forgiving of transgression, sexual or otherwise, and scandals are two aâ penny, something new every day, she thought.
But the tall man with dark eyes and blond hair continued to stare.
The temptation to glance around at him again was a physical force. It bore down on Beatriceâs chest, making her breathless, and it seemed to be affecting other parts of her anatomy, too. It was as if sheâd suddenly appeared in Lady Southernâs salon dressed exactly as sheâd been in one of her ex-sweetheart Eustaceâs racy photographs.
That was, in nothing but her birthday suit.
Trying to appear not to be moving, she inched her head around, then blushed crimson when he nodded his head in acknowledgement.
Hateful man! Iâve had enough of this!
Beatrice glared back at him, adding a curt nod of her own for courtesyâs sake. He looked vaguely familiar to her somehow, as if sheâd seen his image recently, too. An artistâs impression in some periodical or other, although obviously not a nude study. Her face and chest turned rosy pink at the thought of that, too. Especially as the elegant cut of his suit couldnât entirely mask the rangy power of his body, making the job of her imagination dangerously easy.
Her oppressor gave her a smile. A dazzling, daring smile, so much more arresting than a mortal manâs should be. A smile that had her gulping her champagne as if it were lemonade, regardless of her resolve to be cautious.
His lips were sultry. In a clean-shaven face that was neither young nor older, but somehow strangely both, they were strong and firmly outlined, hinting at voracious appetites never denied. Beatrice imagined him savoring rich food and fine wine, but always in moderation, appreciating every pleasure without going to excess. Lips like that would kiss a woman just as hungrily and with equal calculation. Lips like that would kiss a woman until she gasped.