Chapter Seven
WITH ANOTHER CURSE, he made his way back to the dining hall, where he took his place once more beside the redhead. She seemed pleased at his return and gave him her whole attention. He attempted to reciprocate, but as her conversation with not the cleverest—she confined herself to marveling at the repast, commenting upon the château decor, and other subjects he found rather tedious—he tried to appreciate her other qualities. She had a slender form, a complexion of alabaster that required no powder, and a lovely cleavage about her lace-trimmed décolletage.
But his attention kept wandering to the other end of the table, where Millie had previously sat next to Lord Devon.
What had the Baron Rockwell said of Devon? Andre believed his friend had attempted to persuade Marguerite to ban Devon from Château Follet. Devon had taken a guest, Lady Isabella, a new visitor of the château, into the East Wing. The East Wing was where the more experienced guests played. The wicked forms of pleasure engaged there were not for a neophyte. Rockwell had had to give up his own lady guest to see Lady Isabella home safely.
“You say you prefer the town over country?”
Andre turned to Miss Hollingsworth. “Your pardon?”
“The town,” she said. “I take it you prefer the many forms of amusement available in London: theaters, clubs, or gaming halls.”
He glanced once more toward the other end of the table. Millie had not returned yet.
“Though I suspect, for men, the countryside also holds much appeal in the way of hunting and fishing. We women are less fortunate. We must prefer the town for its superior offerings of entertainment and shopping, yet the streets can be so dirty and the air so polluted. If you were of the gentle sex, would you say London’s benefits outweigh its objections?”
Finding her question far too inane, he made no reply.
At that moment, Marguerite returned. He was glad to see that Millie still had not. Perhaps his cousin had come to her senses after all. She could remain in her room the rest of the night till Katherine returned to retieve her in the morning. “Surely you must have a preference?” Miss Hollingsworth persisted.
“I should prefer the Château Follet,” he answered, hoping to conclude this particular tête-à-tête and reminding himself that soon it would not matter that he found her dialogue dull. All that mattered was how lovely she would look sans clothing.
“The East Wing in particular,” he added with a subtle smile.
She flushed, and her brows rose with interest. “I had wished to venture into the East Wing the last time I was here.”
Now his brows rose with interest. He had hoped to meet a woman so inclined.
“What stayed your hand, if I am not too presumptuous in inquiring?” he asked.
“I was not confident of the gentleman I was with, but perhaps I will be more fortunate this time?”
Desire glimmered in her eyes, causing warmth to rise through his loins.
“Ah, Miss Abbey!” he heard Lord Devon remark.
Turning, Andre saw his cousin returned to the dining hall—and nearly fell from his chair.
What the devil had she done to her gown?
The fabric clung to her curves, outlining the swell of her hips and adhering to her thighs. She had wet the dress in the fashion of French harlots. Every eye was ogling her—especially those of Devon, who sprang to his feet to pull a chair for her. Millie smiled and thanked him.
Andre felt his jaw tighten. He looked at Marguerite, but she was busy chatting with her other guests. He looked back toward Millie, who conversed with Devon with an air of ease. Devon was leaning far too closely toward her.
“You must be quite the frequent guest here if you have been in the East Wing.”
Andre turned to Miss Hollingsworth. What the devil had she said?
“Are you much experienced in the East Wing?”
“I have been in the East Wing a number of times,” he replied before glancing once more toward Millie and Devon.
Would Devon dare take Millie to the East Wing? That is, if the man should choose to pair with Millie for the evening. There were plenty of women to choose from, and who might happily receive the company of Lord Devon. The son of an earl, Devon had breeding, a charming smile, and the most stylish clothing that Saville Row had to offer. He could have his pick of women, most of whom were more attractive than Millie, but he seemed intent upon her. Rockwell had said the man could sniff out a virgin a league away.
Andre started, for something touched his knee. It was Miss Hollingsworth. She was cutting the quail upon her plate, but a small smile hovered over her lips. He should be much encouraged by this, but his first thought was whether or not Devon had his knee similarly pressed to Millie’s beneath the table.
It ought to be no concern of his, Alastair reminded himself. Millie had decried his interference. He had had no hand in this foolishness Katherine and Millie engaged in. He was not responsible for his cousin’s virtue.
It was too much the coincidence. Katherine knew of his plans to be at Château Follet, had quaintly requested that he take someone into his concerns, and, lo and behold, here was his cousin. Was it a test to see if he would make good on the birthday present?
He was not afraid to disappoint his aunt, especially if he was being set up. But what of Millie? She had seemed genuinely horrified to see him. She was far too good for Devon. What if the cad should hurt her? She would surely learn her lesson then and think twice of disregarding her cousin’s counsel in the future.
If the worst should come to pass, she and Katherine had no one to blame but themselves.