Regardless if that anyone happened to be a towering, black-haired devil with eyes of midnight.

Keeping that thought firmly in the forefront of her mind, Simone swept to a halt directly in front of the intruder, her smile intact as the elderly gentleman next to him turned to regard her with a mild lift of his brows.

“Good evening, Lord Tydale,” she murmured, her gaze never wavering from the midnight eyes.

Simone discovered her throat dangerously dry as she felt the smoldering power of the stranger reach out to wrap about her. Botheration. She had never encountered anyone who unsettled her in such a fashion. The realization only sharpened her temper.

“Ah, our charming hostess.” Tydale performed a respectable bow, politely ignoring the fact that his two companions were far too consumed with one another to bother glancing in his direction. “My dear, you are appearing as devilishly delectable as always. You really must confess the name of your modiste. It is unconscionable that the other ladies in the Ton must always pale in comparison.”

Simone’s smile thinned. No one but her servants knew that she designed and stitched her own gowns. Not only because she truly enjoyed creating the lovely dresses, but because she could not possibly allow a modiste to catch a glimpse of her in a mere shift. Her charade would be over as swiftly as it had begun.

“That is entirely the point of keeping her name secret,” she forced herself to say in light tones.

“So wicked,” the elderly gentleman chided.

“I do not believe I have been introduced to your companion.”

“Actually I am not at all certain I wish to oblige you with an introduction, Simone,” Lord Tydale teased, clearly sensing the silent battle of wills that hung heavy in the air. “After only a week this gentleman has managed to wreak havoc among the fairer sex. I daresay there is not a maiden in London who has not tossed her heart at his feet.”