Some Like to Shock. Carole Mortimer

cards …’ his top lip curled up with distaste ‘… for the sole purpose of expecting you to go to bed with him immediately after the two of you have dined privately together.’

      Genevieve eyed him mockingly. ‘And would you not have expected the same from me, without benefit of flowers and chocolates and prettily worded cards, if I had agreed to meet you at Lady Hammond’s ball later this evening?’

      He snorted his impatience. ‘If that is so, then at least I have been honest in my intentions.’

      She gave him a pitying glance. ‘Perhaps too much so …?’

      His nostrils flared. ‘You are an extremely aggravating woman, Genevieve!’

      She gave a surprised laugh. ‘Now that truly is honest, Benedict.’

      Those black eyes glowered across the carriage at her. He gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘You will find me at Lady Hammond’s ball later this evening if that should be your choice.’

      She gave another cool inclination of her head. ‘I will keep your gracious offer in mind. Now, if you would not mind …?’ She glanced pointedly towards the carriage door, leaving Benedict with no other choice but to alight from the carriage before turning to offer Genevieve his hand as she stepped down beside him. She gave him another cool nod before turning to gracefully climb the steps to the front door of her home, which opened immediately for her entrance before closing firmly behind her.

      All, Benedict noted broodingly, without so much as a backwards glance in his direction …

       Chapter Two

      ‘Has Sandhurst displeased you in some way?’

      Benedict turned to raise dark, questioning brows at the short and rotund gentleman who had joined him as he stood beside the crowded dance floor in Lady Hammond’s ballroom. ‘And why should you think he has displeased me?’ He spoke loudly to be heard over the noisy chatter and laughter of the three hundred or so members of the ton squeezed into the candlelit ballroom, the bell-like laughter of one person in particular catching his ear.

      ‘Possibly because you have been glowering at him for the past several minutes?’ Lord Eric Cargill, the Earl of Dartmouth and Benedict’s godfather, chuckled wryly.

      Benedict deliberately turned his back upon the couples dancing. ‘I was merely trying to understand in what way Sandhurst might possibly be perceived as resembling a Greek god,’ he drawled dismissively.

      ‘Oh?’ The earl’s surprised grey brows shot up into his thinning hairline.

      Benedict gave a self-derisive smile. ‘Not for my own edification, you understand.’

      ‘Ah.’ The older man nodded in obvious relief, before then giving a slow shake of his head. ‘No, I am afraid I do not understand in the least?’

      ‘No reason why you should,’ Benedict dismissed briskly, having no intention of confiding that the reason for his own interest was currently dancing in the other man’s arms!

      The earl eyed him piercingly for several minutes before obviously dismissing the subject as being unimportant. ‘If I had known you were to be here this evening, then I would not have bothered to come myself.’ He grimaced. He had served as a colonel in the army for many years, and was now spymaster for the Crown under the guise of a minor ministerial post, but was no more a lover of society balls than Benedict.

      ‘And in doing so you would have also have deprived my Aunt Cynthia the pleasure of attending, too,’ he drawled mockingly. The earl and countess had become his aunt and uncle by long association, the couple having adopted him as their own since the death of his parents, their own long marriage sadly childless.

      ‘There is that to consider.’ The earl chuckled, brown eyes twinkling merrily. ‘But, much as I intend to enjoy her expression of gratitude later this evening, I am not sure even that is worth the tedious hours I have already suffered tonight in the line of duty!’ His eyes narrowed as he turned to look at the couples still dancing. ‘Who is the beautiful young woman currently dancing with Sandhurst?’

      ‘I believe it to be the Duchess of Woollerton.’ Benedict had no need to turn and look across the room to know the identity of that ‘beautiful young woman’.

      Eric Cargill gave him a cursory glance. ‘I was not aware that Forster had taken a wife?’

      ‘Perhaps I should have said the widowed Duchess,’ Benedict corrected lightly.

      The earl’s brows rose again. ‘That young beauty is the child-bride Josiah Forster’s kept shut away in the country from the moment he had married and bedded her?’

      Benedict winced at the crudeness of his uncle’s statement. ‘So it would appear.’

      ‘I had no idea …’ the older man murmured appreciatively.

      ‘You really should try and get out and about in society more, Dartmouth,’ Benedict drawled.

      His godfather grimaced at the thought of it. ‘I have deliberately engaged the services of people such as yourself so that I have no need to do so.’

      Benedict had joined the army not long after his parents were murdered, venting his anger and frustration upon Napoleon’s armies for seven years, only resigning his commission after the Corsican had been safely incarcerated on the Isle of Elba—at least, all of England had believed him to be safely incarcerated! Benedict had returned to the army only briefly after Napoleon’s escape, before the tyrant was once again defeated and this time placed on the more isolated island of St Helena.

      Benedict had then found the tedium of civilian life did not suit his inner restlessness in the least. His godfather’s offer of a position, working for him as one of his agents for the Crown, had helped to ease that restlessness, if not completely alleviate it, this past two years.

      It could not be completely erased until Benedict had learnt the identity of the person who had slain his parents and dealt with them accordingly. Something his position as one of the Earl of Dartmouth’s agents allowed him to continue to pursue privately, and without anyone suspecting he was doing so.

      Except when it came to attending evenings such as this one, which was when Benedict usually used a show of interest in a particular woman to act as a shield to the real reason for his presence. Much as Benedict abhorred the crush of such events as this one, he appreciated that they were the perfect opportunity in which to receive or give information.

      It still rankled with him that Genevieve had firmly refused any intention of becoming that current interest earlier today. Even more so, when, having arrived an hour or so ago, he had thereafter been forced to observe Sandhurst’s more-than-obvious pursuit of her, as well as Genevieve’s laughing responses to the other man’s no doubt heavy-handed flattery.

      Genevieve herself was a vision in cream silk and lace, with pearl droplets adorning her fiery-red curls, her eyes a deep blue and her lips a rosy peach against the creaminess of her complexion. More pearls encircled the delicacy of her throat and her creamy shoulders were left bare by the style of her gown.

      ‘—have not seen any sign as yet of the Count de Sevanne—Benedict, are you even listening to me?’

      Benedict turned from once again observing Genevieve as she danced elegantly around the ballroom with Sandhurst, to find the earl frowning up at him for his inattentiveness. He determinedly shook off that complete awareness of Genevieve Forster’s beauty, as he instead gave the appearance of concentrating on discussing the French count, who was the reason for his own and Dartmouth’s presence here this evening. Napoleon might have been subdued, but there was no reason to suppose he would remain that way. Nor was he England’s only enemy.

      Benedict gave the appearance of concentrating on his uncle’s conversation, because, even as he and Eric Cargill continued to talk softly together, his own attention wandered time and time again to Genevieve Forster, especially when she and Sandhurst left the dance floor