Page 5 of Not His Usual Style (Diamonds of London #10)

Good God, can this evening prove any more dull?

At the last second, Grey managed to school his features into his customary mask of politeness before anyone could call him out of his inattention.

Even though his fiancée stood dutifully at his side, and she was everything she should be, everything the beau monde expected of her, the sad fact was that Lady Sarah’s eyes didn’t light until she saw the man she would rather marry across the room.

Hellfire and damnation.

Cold guilt sat heavy in his gut where it clashed with the weight of responsibility.

Why was it wrong to want to honor his father’s final wishes by marrying this woman?

This was what he had been born to; so had she.

They’d both known their duties from the moment they could think for themselves.

That was how the English beau monde society worked.

She leaned into him and whispered, “If you continue to scowl, people are going to start feeling uncomfortable, and it was your idea that we make a happy, united front.”

“Right.” With that reminder, he forced himself to grin, albeit slightly. He returned a few greetings and inquiries then his thoughts took over once more.

Their host of the evening, the rotund Lord Dawson, who also possessed thinning mousy brown hair and high collar points, swaggered about as if he were Prinny himself.

“I have recently come by quite a collector’s dream.

And I believe the piece is worth a king’s ransom, which is why I’d like to sell it at auction.

Would you like to see it before then?” he bragged to some of his fellows who clustered around him like sycophantic flies.

Of course, they all said they did with nodding heads as if they were marionettes.

Grey rolled his eyes to the frescoed ceiling as his thoughts continued to trot through his head.

Frankly, having a match arranged by their fathers was, by far, easier, but did that mean it was still a good idea?

Was he cheating himself by not going through the gambit of courting a woman, of giving his heart away to someone?

Did it matter?

Was he missing out on a life experience because of that?

Over the years, he’d had liaisons with various women—after all he wasn’t a monk—but none of them were serious because he was already engaged.

However, if he were honest with himself, knowing his fiancée wasn’t in love with him—or even in lust—and she would never be was a bit of a blow to his ego.

He was an earl, damn it all to hell. Didn’t that account for something these days?

And even though he knew beau monde marriages were hardly ever love matches, it made him a tad salty that Sarah didn’t care more for him than a good friend.

Not for worlds would he admit to anyone—not even his best friend—that in his heart of hearts, he wanted to be liked for himself.

Beyond whom he was, beyond his title, beyond what he could do for someone or elevate them in society.

Of course, it didn’t matter since he’d been engaged for nearly half his life, and she considered him little more than an ogre.

All of it together was beginning to crush his soul.

As he sent his gaze around the mass of guests in the drawing room, the walls felt as if they were moving in on him.

Sweat pasted the fine lawn of his shirt to his back, but he resisted the urge to tug at the knot of his cravat.

Leaning toward Sarah, he whispered, “I need some air and perhaps a few moments to myself.”

Then, not waiting for her response and unable to deal with the crowds in the drawing room, he excused himself.

Not that she would mind overly much since she was making eyes at the man who held her heart.

Jealousy stabbed through his chest. In a perfect world, his fiancée would look at him like that and perhaps he would do the same with her, but there were no romantic feelings between them, and there never would be.

God, I need a drink. Seeking out something stronger than punch or lemonade would help to make his existence more palatable, and he rather hoped Dawson had a decent sideboard in the library or even a study if one was available.

The moment he stepped into the library, he breathed a sigh of relief.

It was quiet here; the noise of laughter and gaiety from upstairs faded and wasn’t such an assault on his ears.

And here, without so many bodies stuffed into one place, the ambient, cooler temperature was welcome on his skin.

After locating the sideboard, he immediately moved in that direction.

With a sigh, he poured out a double measure of brandy into a cut crystal glass and took his first sip while edging toward the set of French-paned doors that led to the small rear garden.

Darkness engulfed the area, but with the slight silvery moonlight, he discerned the outlines of ornamental fruit trees and various shrubberies that lined the brick walls around the garden.

The play of moonlight and shadows made it a magical scene where one could perhaps hide for a time and forget the cares of one’s world.

Soon it would be the Samhain season, and he rather looked forward to the crispness in the air, the crunching leaves, the smell of smoke on the wind, the spooky feelings that would race along his spine, the presence of apples in the foods he would eat, as well as the soft flicker of candlelight in windows and in gourd lanterns children would carve for that day.

Ah, to be a child again without worries to weigh him down, or a life that was less than ideal.

He took another long sip from the brandy and welcomed the burn of the alcohol in his throat.

Of course, the advancement of the calendar meant that his wedding would have been accomplished by the time Samhain came ‘round. Would Sarah grow to hate him as he’d predicted?

Would he feel the same for her after natural steps in life made themselves known?

Why is everything so damned complicated?

Oddly, a faint almost ghostly aroma of lilies and lemon wafted to his nose.

Delicate yet sophisticated, he held his glass a bit away so the brandy wouldn’t taint that floral bouquet.

Where the devil was it coming from? Then the rustle of fabric alerted him to the presence of someone else, and a woman at that.

Turning, he caught sight of a figure moving through the gloom, keeping to the shadows in the room, and his chest tightened.

Damnation, but it was a woman! Dressed in a navy gown trimmed with hundreds of tiny clear glass beads that sparkled with her every movement, he gasped when she passed a candle.

Hair the color of platinum and gold, it glimmered in the dim illumination, but it was the gray-blue eyes, and the full lips curved downward in a pout that drew his attention…

seconds before his gaze dropped to a generous bosom framed by the low bodice of the spectacular gown.

“Shit.” He hadn’t meant to say that aloud, yet that one-word utterance sounded overly loud in the hushed silence.

The woman startled and gasped. She paused, staring at him as he did the same to her.

Then he realized she carried something that glittered and glimmered in the low candlelight. “What the devil are you doing in here?”

She gave his form a quick glance. “Is this your house?”

“No.”

“Then it’s none of your business what I’m doing.” As she spoke, the woman came toward him. Surely, she wasn’t here for a tryst… “Please move. I need to exit the premises.”

Well, that answered one question. “Why?”

“I’m going home.”

“I don’t think so.” Grey stayed her with his free hand. “What is that you’re holding?”

“Again, it is not your business.” The woman wrenched from his grasp.

With a gaze narrowed on her, he drained the contents of his glass then rested it on a nearby shelf as she put her hand behind her back. “Did you steal something?”

“No…” When he cocked an eyebrow, she added, “Only because Lord Dawson stole it first.”

“What?” Did he refer to her claim, or was he questioning… everything?

She blew out a breath and gave him a look that proclaimed him a nodcock. Slowly, she held up the diamond necklace set in silver. “Do you recognize this piece?”

“Of course not. What am I, a jewel thief?”

“It would have been easier if you were.” The stranger shook her head. “This is the tiara mentioned in an article in The Times three days ago. It was stolen from a prominent jeweler’s shop. The jeweler had it on loan from the French ambassador.”

His eyebrows soared, for that he did know. The headline had caught his attention. “And said ambassador said that it had been stolen more than a month past, though. Why was the crime only reported to authorities and the press three days prior?”

“Uh…” Surprise flitted through her expression, and those damned arresting eyes rounded. “Truly? Where did you hear that?”

Grey shrugged. “Perhaps at my club. I don’t remember.”

Again, she studied him, and suddenly, he hoped she found what she was searching for. Then she nodded. “Originally, this necklace had been stolen or lost during the revolution. And now I find it hidden in Lord Dawson’s study.”

That must have been the piece he was bragging about shortly before Grey left the drawing room. “So, you’re taking it why?”

“To give it back to the ambassador.”

“Is he still in the country?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to discover that.”

With some longing, he glanced toward the sideboard where the crystal decanter of brandy waited.

“Do you even know where he is? Or that the ambassador was telling the truth about the theft? Perhaps he’s in on it and wanted to sell the piece for a profit.

” What the hell was wrong with him? He did not need to embroil himself in this Drury Lane performance.

“Of course I don’t know that, but—”

“Do you have a vehicle ready to whisk you away?”

“No, yet I—”