Your Darkest Dream (Blackwood & Friends #2)

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

That dress.

He felt like he shouldn't be gazing upon her, that's how tantalisingly sinful it looked on her.

Nate leaned against one of the intricately carved Corinthian columns that flanked each of the three doors that opened onto the outside terrace, catching glimpses of Blanche as the crowd parted. She was so short that at times he lost her entirely as she conversed with her two friends, Miss Jane Lambert and Miss Abigail Venables across the hall, near the refreshment table.

The frock she was wearing, however, should be considered scandalous. It was designed in such a way that every contour of her body was hugged by the fabric, catching on the fluid movement of her skirts that outlined the graceful sway of her hips, the flare of her thighs, the curve of her backside- as if that hadn't drove him insane enough earlier when she had joined him wearing breeches. The colour itself was an enchanting mixture of silver and nude, which almost made it appear as if she were wearing nothing at all. There was some sort of diaphanous beading or sequinning that had been patterned and sewn against the lightly coloured fabric while most of her shoulders and neckline were left bare, a rather enchanting expanse of cleavage gloved generously above the lace of her bodice. A web of the same glittering effect of her gown was entwined with the mahogany coils of her neatly styled hair. And of course, where Blanche went, so did Penelope. The little hound was tucked under her arm, wearing a little coat that matched her owner's own ensemble.

Oliver joined him, emerging from a group of finely attired gentlemen with a strange smile on his face, green eyes crinkling at the corners. Nate was very familiar with that look. "What did you do?"

Leaning against the other side of the column, Oliver shrugged before swiping a flute of champagne from the tray a passing footman was carrying. "Care to make a wager?" he asked insouciantly.

Nate considered the group of gentlemen from whence his friend had emerged. They were mostly bachelors, widowers, and an old recluse. Harmless desirables looking to make suitable matches this season. "Not until you explain to me what you've set in motion," Nate told him dryly. There was always a catch when Oliver initiated a wager.

Jason also joined them then, looking harassed. He had managed to pry himself away from the side of his new wife, leaving her to fend for herself beside Lady Kathleen Blackwood and the unpleasant dowager, who appeared to be scowling in his direction. Nate was not fond of Wilhelmina, though he doubted many people were, and witnessing Nicola's betrayed look she was blistering her husband with, he doubted very much Jason would have much peace this evening. "I need a drink," the Marquis of Northwick groaned, his eyes scanning the room for a passing servant.

"We were just about to place a bet," Oliver said.

Jason considered him. "What have you done?"

"I am a touch offended," Oliver announced, feigning shock, "that you both consider me duplicitous."

"Just say it," Nate said, rolling his eyes.

"If you must know," Oliver began, tipping his chin towards the group of gentlemen nearby, "Lord Willowby has expressed his fond admiration for Miss Gretchen Stuckey." The girl in question was a nondescript spinster well into her late twenties. It was well known that Miss Stuckey was a mouse-ish prude and Willowby was equally as reticent and painfully awkwardly in social situations. Nate thought that the pair were quite remarkably matched in that regard, and he wondered what Oliver had instigated. "Naturally, he asked me for advice. How should he woo the girl, he asked."

"Ah, God," Nate groaned. "Poor Miss Stuckey."

Jason narrowed his eyes. "What did you tell him, Hollingsworth?"