But alchemy was different. It was about ineffable things. The way someone’s head went back when they laughed, or the set of their shoulders when they walked. A voice. An essence. The way the very gravity of a room seemed to change when someone was near.
It was two people, who, when combined, would ultimately combust.
He’d had to know.
Now he knew.
His enemies would reach out with both hands and greedily scrape the news of his waltz with a young woman toward them like coins they’d won in a card game, hoping it was a vulnerability they could exploit. The gossip sheets might try to imply he was attempting to corrupt her just because he could.
He was concerned for her sake. It would bear watching. But there was almost nothing he couldn’t adroitly manage or endure. He wasn’t going to dance with her ever again, and he would be keeping his distance from now on, so he would not be heaping kindling onto any nascent gossip.
Of infinitely greater concern to him was the fact that he’d seen a tiny gold birthmark shaped like a heart alongside her pearl necklace, right above the shadow of her cleavage.
And that. That was going to bloody haunt him.
It would be what he saw when he closed his eyes at night and he thought he might die if he never touched his tongue to it.
Lady Wisterberg craved the rush of a wager. Nothing made her feel more alive. So when it became clear she was suddenly in custody of a horse she could back—Miss Catherine Keating—she abandoned the gaming tables and became as efficient and brisk as a general. She skillfully fielded the sudden flurry of requests to meet Catherine that resulted from her waltz with Lord Kirke, and unabashedly reveled in the reflected glory.
When Catherine’s dance card was nearly filled, Lady Wisterberg pulled her aside and launched intoa lecture. “Oh, my dear, no. No. NO! Lord Kirke is a good-looking devil, and I’ll grant you he has pretty manners but the main word is ‘devil’—he’s not looking for a wife, he’s at least fifteen years older than you, and he’s certainly inappropriate for a young woman to be dancing with! However did you happen to fall into his clutches?”
“I didn’t ‘fall into his clutches.’ He was doing a kindness. I suppose I looked disappointed not to be dancing and he took pity.”
Lady Wisterberg looked almost disdainfully skeptical. “My dear, men like him don’t do ‘kindnesses’ for pretty young women out of charity.”
This was probably meant to alarm her, but Catherine found it thrilling instead because she suspected it was true.
She also felt it would be imprudent to point out that she’d gotten into his clutches, so to speak, because Lady Wisterberg hadn’t been there to put a stop to it. Lady Wisterberg knew this. Cat was also very careful not to note that she literally lived under the same roof with him, and that Lord Kirke’s floor was currently her ceiling, as she suspected Lady Wisterberg would demand an end to this shocking arrangement immediately. Catherine liked the arrangement very much, indeed.
“Though I suppose it’s flattering that he took notice of you at all,” Lady Wisterberg added begrudgingly. “Men are conundrums at the best of times.”
“What do you mean, men like him?” Because she suspected Lady Wisterberg was finally going to tell her.
“He has affairs, dear,” she said bluntly. “Volatile affairs, from what I understand.” This last soundedalmost wistful. “This apparently suits him better than marriage, for various reasons.”
This news jabbed Catherine right in the solar plexus. It jolted her heart into a sickeningly quick tempo.
“How do you know this?” Her voice had gone weak. She tried to sound more curious than demanding. Surely Lady Wisterberg wasn’t Lord Kirke’s confidante.
Lady Wisterberg waved a hand. “Women talk. And it’s definitely not the sort of gossip a young unmarried woman ought to be hearing, but I thought it best to apprise you of your very close call.”
For heaven’s sake. As if he’d actually pounce upon her on the dance floor.
“Until I’m married, in which case I’ll hear all of it.”
“Precisely,” Lady Wisterberg said without a shred of irony.
Catherine’s head spun almost nauseatingly. She struggled to mold this unwanted—and what sounded like appallingly authoritative—view of Lord Kirke around the image of him to which she’d become attached: a challenging if surprisingly kind, admirable, devastatingly attractive man who had done her a good turn.
Then again... he had also said “bed” to her in a conversation.
And in the space of a waltz, he had somehow managed to set her whole being alight like a fuse.
She was breathing more swiftly now.
She might be the veriest virgin. But she wasn’t entirely naive. And it seemed very clear to her that this alleged sexual adventurer found her riveting.
And as this realization solidified, her knees felt again like butter.