The Impoverished Viscount by Allison Lane

Author:Allison Lane [Lane, Allison]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Tags: Romance
ISBN: 9780451186812
Google: Fwi9PQAACAAJ
Amazon: 0451186818
Goodreads: 2802633
Publisher: Signet
Published: 1996-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

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Chapter Ten

Charles spent the next fortnight watching Melissa charm her way through society's bucks and beaux. She grew more desirable each day, setting his loins on fire if she so much as smiled in his direction. He tried to concentrate on the traits he hated—such as her continuing disdain for his character—but it did no good. Not even thoughts of the fortune he would forfeit if he gave up his quest for Harriet could calm his raging appetites. But he refused to give in. Once she was safely married, he would seduce her and get her out of his system.

But who was she to wed? Rufton's regard had shifted in recent days. He still hovered, dancing with Melissa twice at every ball and including her in theater and opera parties. But he was showing equal attention to Miss Clara Rosehill. Surprisingly, Melissa showed no irritation at this defection. In fact, she and Miss Rosehill appeared to be friends.

Melissa's conduct puzzled Charles. She had been on the verge of accepting Rufton at the Wharburton masquerade, unless she had exaggerated the relationship as part of her tirade against his own misbehavior. He had often regretted losing control of himself that night, for it had severely hampered his chance to become her friend. Now he had no idea whether she had settled on someone else.

Lord Ampleigh still danced attendance, but there was no indication that he was serious. Likewise with Mr. Parkington, though Melissa was deflecting him for herself. But Graffington was becoming a problem. The man's eyes gleamed whenever he looked at her, and Charles could imagine the lust stirring in that black heart. It made his own desire even harder to bear. Graffington had made no mistakes, hiding his vices and appearing to be all that was proper. But the delectable Melissa would be devastated by marriage to so heavy-handed a lecher.

Charles had tried to warn her, but she was either obtuse or deliberately defying him. His efforts had produced another conversation overshadowed by his unthinking attack at the masquerade.

“Beware of Graffington,” he had advised her as they danced a quadrille one night. “He is not the pillar of rectitude that he pretends."

“He is sweet,” she countered. “And delightfully humorous."

“It is an act,” he repeated, glaring, though his face still displayed the correct social smile. He always lost his temper when he was with her, his usual charm and address blasted to shreds. He had never met a female who so consistently reduced him to a witless coxcomb.

“You sound jealous, my lord."

“Fustian! Me jealous of a black-hearted scoundrel? You have windmills in your head."

“I will make my own judgments,” she glared back. “And I prefer to base them on character and behavior rather than on questionable hearsay from people with a history of pretense."

“What?"

“If you were not a consummate liar, my lord, you would have been forced into innumerable duels by now,” she charged.

“He is so bad he has even been banned from the better brothels,” Charles informed her in a low voice, ignoring her comment.

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