Grayson regretted her involvement, but he needed her help, especially after their younger brother Reese had joined the merchant marine last spring. And she owed Gray her allegiance. As her oldest brother, he’d always looked after her and fiercely protected her from her lustful suitors. She loved him dearly, despite her current vexation with him and their recent arguments regarding young Theo’s welfare.
It galled Grayson to have to toady to anyone, Brynn knew. His pride was even greater than her own, and she understood his bitterness at being drowned in such crushing debt.
“Very well,” she said, forcing a smile. “I will be the height of congeniality, fawning over Lord Wycliff as if he were a prince royal.”
Her reply dredged a reluctant grin from Gray. “You needn’t fawn, puss. Just keep that tart tongue of yours between your teeth and don’t purposefully offend him.”
Brynn very much hoped the opportunity to offend the earl would never arise. With luck, she could manage to avoid Lord Wycliff this evening. And if she were extremely fortunate, he wouldn’t recognize her as the nearly naked mermaid he’d kissed so thoroughly a few days before.
She surrendered her wrap to a footman and allowed Gray to escort her to the ballroom, where much of the local gentry had already gathered. Brynn would have preferred to skip the receiving line entirely and repair to the ladies’ retiring room to hide, but her brother insisted that she honor the niceties.
The elderly duke stood with several members of his family and another gentleman whose elegant bearing proclaimed him to be a lord. He was significantly taller than the others and possessed a lean, muscular grace that was missing in his more portly companions. His shoulders filled out his impeccably cut blue jacket to perfection, Brynn saw, risking a glance down the line, before her attention was claimed by her host.
The duke, with his rheumy eyes blinking, greeted her fondly and then introduced her to his houseguest as “the loveliest young lady in all of Cornwall.”
At this whisker, Brynn kept her eyes downcast, adopting a mousy manner when she offered her hand to his lordship and murmured a polite greeting. Yet any hope Wycliff wouldn’t recognize her died instantaneously; he froze in the act of bowing over her hand.
The touch of his fingers burned, even through her gloves, but when Brynn tried to withdraw her hand, his grasp tightened almost imperceptibly, holding her captive and compelling her to lift her gaze.
His sapphire eyes locked with hers. “Miss Caldwell? I am charmed.”
“Th-thank you, my lord.”
A ghost of a smile curved his beautiful mouth. “Have we met before?” His gaze boldly flickered downward over her breasts. “You seem vaguely familiar.”
“I believe you must be mistaken,” Brynn replied stiffly, feeling herself flushing.
“I’m not so certain. I rarely forget a lovely face.”
She tried to stare him down, giving him her coolest look, but he affected not to notice.
“You must promise me a dance, Miss Caldwell, so that we might further our acquaintance.”
Brynn glanced helplessly at her brother, who was giving her a look that was half warning, half plea. “As you wish,” she capitulated. But she snatched her hand away and moved on more quickly than was polite.
She took refuge in one corner of the room among the wallflowers and dowagers, while Gray went in search of his own friends. Brynn was glad for the chance to compose herself-and for the unusually amiable greetings she received, grateful to know she wouldn’t be entirely shunned for the evening because of who she was.
The legend of Flaming Nell was accepted fact in these parts. Nearly two centuries ago Lady Eleanor Stanhope had been cursed for stealing a Gypsy woman’s lover and doomed to lure innocent men to their deaths. And Brynn, as one of her descendants, was believed to be burdened with the same affliction.
Despite the Gypsy curse and the tragedy in her own past, however, she wasn’t quite an outcast with her neighbors. The women welcomed her company, even liked her for the most part. But she was considered a danger to their sons. They kept their menfolk far away from her, especially those of marriageable age.
After making the requisite small talk, Brynn let the ladies’ conversation wash over her as she puzzled out her unusual reaction to Lord Wycliff.
His crystalline blue eyes were just as compelling, his seductive half smile just as devastating as during their first encounter, yet that didn’t excuse her behavior. She was still ashamed of the way her body had betrayed her that day in the cove, could still recall the hot, trembling sensations that had rushed through her at his erotic caresses.
What on earth had come over her? No man had ever affected her that way. She had once experienced a girlish infatuation-to her profound regret and sorrow-but never had she even come close to losing control or surrendering to a man’s caresses. With Lord Wycliff she had acted a perfect wanton…
But by all accounts Wycliff was a practiced rake who made seduction a sport. She had never been able to afford a London Season, but the duke’s granddaughter, Lady Meredith, was her closest friend. Meredith was now a viscountess and lived primarily in London, and her frequent letters were filled with lively on dits about the ton, describing in titillating detail exploits of the wicked rakes and dangerous adventurers who made up the infamous Hellfire League. And Lucian Tremayne, Earl of Wycliff, was one of its chief founders.
Notorious for his scandalous conquests in the bedroom, he had cut a dazzling swath through society for years. Brynn could well believe the tales about him. Reportedly he had the power to make strong women weak-and she was living proof.
Her fascination with Wycliff was incomprehensible. She had little respect for such noblemen-rich, idle, shallow, not to mention arrogant and infuriatingly puffed up by their own self-consequence.
Her current companions, however, did not hold the same aversion, apparently.
“Ah, if I were only twenty years younger,” the widowed Mrs. Prescott murmured beside her.
“Twenty years still would not do you a bit of good, Honoria,” her friend, Mrs. Stobly, remarked with a cattish smile. “Gentlemen like that can have their pick of rich beauties, and you fit neither bill, I’m sorry to say.”
“I don’t believe you are sorry in the least, Alice.”
Following their gaze, Brynn felt herself frown as she watched the earl lead out the aging Duchess of Hennessy for a minuet. Wycliff cut a striking figure on the dance floor, lithe, elegant, yet with the supple, muscular build of a sportsman. He had captured every female eye in the ballroom, including hers.
With a murmur of disgust, Brynn tore her gaze away. She had more admirable concerns than watching a legendary rake conquer feminine hearts.
Lamentably, though, she caught the eye of a young dandy in the crowd, the local squire’s son who had fallen victim to her allure some months before.
Alarmed to see Mr. Ridding making a direct bee-line for her, Brynn rose quickly to her feet. Yet before she could escape, he hastened to intercept her, bowing before her with a breathless grin.
“Miss Caldwell, I hoped… no, I prayed you might come. I beg you to honor me with the next set of dances.”
When he reached for her hand, Brynn pulled away anxiously, determined to dissuade his pursuit of her. “Mr. Ridding, you know that is unadvised.”
“I dreamed of you last night, did you know? You were not so averse to me in my dream-”
Just then his mama came rushing up to rescue him. “Orlan, come away from that young lady at once!”
“Mama, I was only requesting a dance-”