The Ton's Most Notorious Rake. Sarah Mallory

clothes and pale waistcoats—but Molly was obliged to admit that she was no expert on the finer points of male fashion.

      There was one figure, however, who stood out from the rest of the gentlemen. It was not merely his height, but a certain flamboyance in his appearance. His improbably black hair was pomaded to a high gloss and brushed forward to frame his face with several artistic curls. His countenance was handsome, in a florid sort of way, with thick dark brows and lashes that Molly thought suspiciously dark. His lips, too, appeared unnaturally red, even from this distance. The points of his collar hid most of his cheeks and the folds of his cravat frothed around his neck. His black tailcoat was so broad across the back and nipped in at the waist that she suspected the shoulders were padded. He was gesticulating elaborately as he talked and the ladies around him appeared to be hanging on to his every word. Molly’s lip curled in scorn.

      ‘So that is Beau Russington.’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      The startled voice at her shoulder made her look around. A tall gentleman in a plain blue coat was regarding her. She did not know him, but recalled seeing him talking to Mr Fetherpen, the bookseller, when she came in.

      ‘Oh, dear, I did not mean to speak aloud.’ She smiled an apology. ‘The gentleman over there, holding forth to the group standing before the mirror. He has been described to me as an—’ She stopped herself from saying an infamous rake. That would be most impolite, and for all she knew the man at her side might well be one of the Newlands party. ‘As a leader of fashion,’ she ended lamely. She saw the amused look on the stranger’s face and added quickly, ‘That is what the epithet beau denotes, does it not?’

      ‘It does indeed, ma’am.’ The stranger looked across the room. ‘You refer to the exquisite in the garish waistcoat, I presume?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘That fribble,’ he said, a note of contempt in his voice. ‘That painted fop.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Molly, glad to discover he shared her opinion.

      ‘That is not Beau Russington, madam. It is Sir Joseph Aikers.’

      ‘Not?’ She looked at the stranger in surprise.

      He gave a slight bow. ‘I am Russington.’

      ‘You!’ Molly’s first impulse was to apologise profusely, but she held back. It was not her intention to pander to any man. Instead she gave a little gurgle of laughter. ‘I thought you were a book salesman.’ His brows shot up and she explained kindly, ‘I saw you talking with Mr Fetherpen, you see. And our assemblies are open to everyone, as long as they have a decent set of clothes.’

      Had she gone too far? She saw the very slight twitch of his lips and was emboldened to look up at him. There was a dangerous glint in his dark brown eyes, but that thought was nothing to the danger she perceived as she studied him properly for the first time. He was tall, certainly, but well proportioned with broad shoulders and a powerful frame. His black hair was too long to be neat and curled thickly about his head and over his collar. In repose, she thought his lean face might look saturnine, but with that smile tugging at the corners of a mobile mouth and his dark eyes laughing at her beneath their black brows, a bolt of attraction shot through Molly and knocked the air from her body.

      Quickly she turned away. Lady Currick had in no way exaggerated this notorious rake’s charms and Molly felt a stab of alarm. If she felt this way, what effect might he have on her girls?

      ‘A book salesman?’ he murmured, dashing hopes that he might have walked off. ‘I suppose I should be thankful I was not talking to the butcher.’

      Another laugh bubbled up inside Molly, but she resolutely stifled it and with an incoherent murmur she hurried away.

      * * *

      Oh, heavens, was there ever anything so unfortunate? Molly moved quickly around the room, smiling but not stopping when Lady Currick beckoned to her. That lady would have seen Molly talking to Mr Russington, but Molly was not ready to discuss it. She would dearly like to go home, but that would only cause more speculation. Instead she made her way to Edwin’s side, bracing herself for the introductions she knew he would be eager to make.

      Her nerves were still raw, but she achieved a creditable appearance of calm as her brother presented Sir Gerald and his friends to her. They were all genial enough, clearly willing to be pleased by the provincial company in which they found themselves. Even Sir Joseph, the painted fop, bowed over her hand and paid her a few fulsome compliments.

      Molly made her responses like an automaton, her thoughts still distracted by her recent encounter with Mr Russington. However, she forced her chaotic mind to concentrate when Sir Gerald presented his sister. Agnes Kilburn was handsome rather than pretty, and during their short conversation, Molly gained the impression that she was an intelligent, thoughtful young woman. In any other circumstances, Molly would have been delighted to make her acquaintance, but she had no wish to give Sir Gerald and his friends any reason to spend more time than necessary in Compton Parva.

      Suddenly Molly was aware of a tingling down her spine and she heard a deep, amused voice behind her.

      ‘Ah, Mr Frayne, will you not introduce us?’

      ‘I’d be delighted to do so! Molly, my dear, may I present Mr Russington to you? M’sister, sir. Mrs Morgan.’

      Steeling herself, Molly turned, her smile pinned in place. She could not recall putting out her hand, but within moments he was bowing over her fingers. It was ridiculous to think she could feel the touch of his lips through her glove. That must surely be her fancy, but she did not imagine the little squeeze he gave her hand before releasing it.

      ‘Mrs Morgan and I, ah, encountered one another a little earlier.’

      She thought angrily that he might expect her to apologise for her mistake, but when he lifted his head and looked at her there was nothing but amusement in his dark eyes. A faint smile curved his lips and she felt the full force of his charm wrap around her.

      She could hear music, but it took her a moment to realise the sweet strains were the sounds of the musicians striking up for the first dance. She was vaguely aware of Edwin leading Agnes Kilburn on to the dance floor, but for the world she could not tear her gaze away from Beau Russington’s laughing eyes.

      ‘Would you do me the honour of dancing with me, Mrs Morgan, or does that privilege fall to your husband?’

      She felt dangerously off balance and his amusement ruffled her. It was as if he was aware of her agitation.

      She said coldly, ‘I am a widow, sir. And I do not dance tonight.’ She moved towards the empty chairs at the side of the room. When he followed her, she said crossly, ‘Surely, Mr Russington, you should dance with some other lady. There are plenty without partners.’

      ‘Ah, but none to whom I have been introduced. Besides, the dance is now started. I shall have to wait for the next.’

      When she sat down, he took a seat next to her. Could the man not take a hint?

      ‘Pray do not feel you need to remain with me,’ she told him. ‘I am sure there are many here who would prefer your company.’

      ‘I am sure there are,’ he agreed, not at all offended.

      Her agitation disappeared, ousted by a desire to shake him from that maddening calm.

      She said, ‘When I was a child, Mama had a house cat, a very superior being that had the unfortunate trait of always making for the visitor who liked him least. You are displaying a similar trait, Mr Russington.’

      ‘You liken me to a cat?’

      Molly hid a smile. She murmured provocatively, ‘A tomcat, perhaps.’

      * * *

      A tomcat?

      Russ glanced at the lady beside him. She was fanning herself as she watched the dancing and looking quite unconcerned. Did she realise what she had said, at the