by Lisa Kleypas
And the heat, the gossip, the plague of insincere social smiles, the mélange of grease-and sugarbased pomades and heavily applied perfume.
A monotonous bore, every bit of it.
But tonight would be different. He was appearing with a woman whom most of London assumed to be dead. By tomorrow the news would have spread through every layer of society that Vivien Duvall was alive—and that she had appeared at the Lichfield ball on Grant Morgan’s arm. He had no doubt that after the revelations of this evening, the man who had tried to kill her would be flushed out.
Drinking from a snifter of brandy, Grant waited in the entrance hall of his home. His black and gold carriage, attended by outriders and footmen, had been stationed at the front door. It was ten minutes past the time he had bid Vivien to be ready, but he knew from experience that women were always late for such events.
One of the housemaids, Mary, descended the stairs at a rapid pace, her face glowing with excitement. “She’s almost ready, sir. Mrs. Buttons is seeing to the last few details.”
Grant nodded shortly, glancing around and realizing that the entrance hall was becoming filled with footmen, the butler, the maids, and even his valet, Kellow, all of them staring expectantly at the stairs. It puzzled him, the feeling of pleasure they seemed to share in the proceedings. Vivien’s presence had enlivened the house, had subtly altered the starkly masculine atmosphere until it no longer seemed a bachelor’s residence. This could have been any ordinary gathering of servants waiting eagerly for the lady of the house to appear in her finery, a ritual that occurred in so many of the elegant residences in London…but never his.
Grant scowled at the group of servants, although none of them seemed to notice his simmering disapproval. Vivien was not the lady of the house. No one seemed to want to acknowledge that, however. She had made them like her in spite of themselves, using the power of her charm and sweetness to mesmerize everyone from the housekeeper down to the scullery maid. He had contempt for all of them, including himself, for being taken in by her.
Every thought in his head disappeared the moment Vivien appeared and a collective sigh of admiration escaped the servants. She made her way downstairs unescorted, wearing a glimmering bronze gown that swirled around her hips and legs as if it were liquid metal. No other color could have brought out the richness of her hair or the peaches and cream of her complexion half so well. The low, scooped bodice pushed the mounds of her breasts up and together in a display that literally made Grant’s mouth water. Swallowing hard, he stared at her while the brandy snifter wobbled precariously in his fingers. He was hardly aware of Kellow tactfully removing it from his unsteady grasp.
The short, full sleeves exposed the curves of Vivien’s shoulders, while her arms were encased in full-length white gloves. A French silk scarf of bronze trimmed in gold was draped loosely around her elbows. The only ornamentation on the gown was a stomacher of woven gold and bronze, cinched just above her small waist.
As he met Vivien’s gaze, the smile in her thickly lashed blue eyes made his heart slam against his ribs in a funny little extra thump. Her hair was pinned up in a regal crown of braids and curls, in a style he had never seen before but which would undoubtedly be copied by every woman in London on the morrow. She wore no jewelry—he hadn’t given it a thought until now. The old Vivien would have demanded some kind of ornamentation, especially when going to a ball where all the other women would be wearing their most ostentatious jewels.
Instead, it appeared that Vivien and the servants had improvised. A length of sheer bronze gauze had been wrapped around her throat, concealing the last remaining bruises. A tiny gold cravat pin shaped like a crown had been used to secure the gauze in front. The pin was unmistakable, a gift the king had given to each and all of the Runners who had guarded him on special occasions. It was the only bit of personal finery Grant possessed.
Seeing one of the Runners’ distinctive crown pins adorning Vivien’s pretty throat would arouse a torrent of gossip. Everyone at the ball tonight would have no choice but to assume that Vivien was Grant’s mistress.
Half pleased, half annoyed, Grant shot a questioning glance at Kellow. The valet’s long, balding forehead turned pink. “Er…Mrs. Buttons asked if there were some kind of pin they might use,” he said apologetically. “It was the only one I could find, sir.”
“In future, don’t lend my personal possessions before asking my permission,” Grant muttered.
“Yes, sir.”
Vivien reached Grant and raised the arc of one cinnamon-colored eyebrow in silent question.
Grant stared at her without smiling. “You’ll do,” he said tersely. He was unable to say more without his voice cracking.
There was a moment of silence, and he was aware of the servants’ chiding stares. Suddenly, as a group, they broke into effusive compliments in an effort to atone for their master’s boorishness.
“You’re as lovely as a picture, miss!”
“…no one there will outshine you…”
“…a queen in that gown…”
A hot, troubling feeling expanded in Grant’s chest, and he wanted to snap at them for being so ungodly solicitous of the feelings of a professional harlot. But he couldn’t…because he was as much under her spell as the rest of them.
The desultory conversation in the enclosed carriage faded into silence as they traveled along the entrance avenue of the Lichfields’ London estate. Obviously Vivien was nervous, and Grant felt a pang of guilt for not soothing her fears. She was about to face a crowd of strangers. Added to that pressure was the knowledge that after this evening, she would once again be a target for whoever had tried to kill her. Grant admired her bravery, her outward calmness, her willingness to trust him with her own safety.
However, he deliberately withheld the reassurance that she needed. Some obstruction in his throat prevented him from making the situation easier for her. He was angry with her, for being so beautiful, for having led the kind of life that made all this necessary. He wanted to punish her for being spendthrift with her sexual favors…for not saving herself for him alone.
The thought shocked him, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind. He wanted exclusive rights to Vivien, past, present, and future. Such a thing wasn’t possible or reasonable.
It was hypocritical of him to hold Vivien’s past against her, he told himself. After all, he had hardly led the life of a monk. And it wasn’t in Vivien’s power to change what she had done in the past. She claimed to regret her promiscuity, and he believed her. But he couldn’t control his own jealousy…jealous of a whore…Oh, his friends and enemies alike would take malicious pleasure in the situation, if they knew. No one must ever find out, including Vivien, how he cared for her.
“How many people will attend, do you think?” Vivien asked, staring out the window at the huge gabled manor house, its E-shaped design of heavy front porch and two wings contained in a shell of amber-tinted stone. The area at the sides and back of the stately manor was surrounded by high garden walls topped with sculpted lions that seemed to survey the surroundings with regal disdain.
“At least three hundred,” Grant replied briefly.
A visible shiver chased across the exposed flesh of Vivien’s shoulders as she continued to lean toward the window. “So many people watching me…I’m glad I won’t be able to dance.” She settled back and lifted the hem of her gown to expose a trim silk-stockinged ankle, regarding it idly.
Grant’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her prettily turned ankle. He wanted so badly to touch it, and slide his hand up to her knee, her inner thigh, and beyond, that his fingers twitched. The atmosphere in the carriage turned deadly quiet, and Vivien stared at him in concern.
“Something is wrong,” she said frankly. “Your manner is…well, you’re being distant. Could it be that you’re having an attack of nerves just as I am? Or is something else bothering you?”
The fact that she had to ask what was bothering him, when it would have been obvi
ous to any woman of experience, made Grant long to grab her and shake her. “Guess,” he said in one sharp, bitten-off word.
Clearly perplexed, Vivien shook her head. “If I’ve said or done something to offend you…oh.” She stopped suddenly, her fingers flying up to the cravat pin at her throat. “It’s this, isn’t it?” she asked remorsefully. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn it, but we had nothing else, and I wanted to hide the marks on my neck. I told Mrs. Buttons and Kellow, but they said you never…” She tried to remove the little gold pin. “I’m so sorry. Help me take it off before we go inside, and forgive me for borrowing something of yours—”
“Stop,” he said harshly. “It’s not the damned pin.” When she continued to tug at it, he leaned forward in the confined space of the carriage and caught her agitated hands in his. She went motionless, her small face close to his, the luscious display of her breasts right under his nose and chin. With little effort, he could reach down and free those delectable curves, fondle and kiss them, fasten his mouth over the soft pink tips and swirl his tongue over them.
His grip tightened on Vivien’s fingers until she winced, but she made no attempt to pull away from him. Grant knew his breathing was betraying him—he was starting to sound like a running footman keeping pace with his master’s carriage. With each deep inhalation, he was aware of a sweet, pure fragrance that entered his nostrils and spread through his brain like a drug.
“What is that smell?” he muttered.
Vivien answered in a hushed voice. “Mrs. Buttons distilled some vanilla water for me. Do you like it?”
“We brought your perfume from the town house. Why didn’t you use that?”
Her gaze flickered to his mouth and back to his eyes. “It didn’t suit me,” she whispered. “Too heavy.”
Grant drew in another lungful of delicate vanilla-scented air. “You smell like a sugar biscuit,” he said gruffly. One he badly wanted to bite into. Her scent was innocent and homey and appetizing, making his blood surge and his muscles harden in acute yearning.
Vivien’s hands relaxed in his compelling grip, her body yielding to the proximity of his. Their breath mingled, and Grant saw the soft color rising in her face. Thoughts slid through his mind…He considered signaling the driver to move on, and as the carriage rolled and swayed through the streets of London, he would make love to Vivien right here, pulling her to his lap and fitting himself inside her body while she writhed in pleasure—
The footman knocked at the carriage door and opened it perfunctorily. Grant released Vivien with a suddenness that caused her to gasp. Bewildered and lovely, she occupied herself with gathering up a brown silk pelisse and pulling it over her shoulders. The night air flooded the carriage with blessed coolness, helping to restore the function of Grant’s brain. He rubbed his eyes hard, as if waking from a deep sleep, and left the carriage. The footman placed a movable step beneath the carriage door and assisted Vivien as she emerged from the vehicle.
Almost immediately Vivien attracted the attention of the groups of gentlemen and ladies who were making their way to the manor’s entrance. Her red hair seemed to catch every stray shaft of light from the carriage lanterns and glow with a life of its own. She took Grant’s arm in a deceptively light grasp, but he felt her fingers digging into the surface of his coat.
“My God,” he heard someone murmur nearby, “can it really be…”
“Just look…” someone else exclaimed.
“But I had heard…”
“Hasn’t been seen…”
Muffled gossip followed them during the short walk from the carriage to the manor. Vivien’s face was devoid of expression, her gaze darting from one side to the other. They merged into the stream of guests entering the house, halting at random intervals as the hostess personally welcomed each party. The interior of Lichfield House was grand and Italianate, with rich oak paneling, and ceilings and walls that had been liberally covered with gilded plasterwork. As they arrived in the massive great hall, with its pilaster-lined walls and elaborate stone mantelpiece, Vivien tugged at Grant’s sleeve. He bent his head to hear her whisper.
“How long must we stay here?”
The question brought a reluctant smile to his lips. “We haven’t even met Lady Lichfield, and you want to leave?”
“I don’t like the way people are staring at me…as if I were a spectacle at the county fair.”
Her assessment was absolutely correct. People were indeed staring openly, clearly amazed to learn that the rumors of Vivien’s death had been unfounded…and at such a time and place! Her appearance at Lady Lichfield’s ball—an event she would never have ordinarily been allowed to attend—was a source of shock for the ladies and profound uneasiness for the gentlemen. Many of the fine lords who were present tonight had enjoyed Vivien’s favors in the past, but they hardly wanted to be confronted with her while their suspicious wives were at their sides.
Grant touched the small hand clinging to his arm, running his fingers over hers in a quick, reassuring stroke. “Of course they’re looking at you,” he mumured. “Rumors of your disappearance and death have been flying all over London. They’re surprised to see that you’re still alive.”
“Now that they’ve seen me, I want to go home.”
“Later.” Grant suppressed a taut sigh, ignoring his own desire to return home with her at once, rather than put her through the gauntlet of first society. It promised to be a long evening for both of them. “In the meanwhile, try to have some backbone. The old Vivien would have enjoyed all this attention. You would have welcomed any opportunity to flaunt yourself.”
“If I didn’t have backbone, I wouldn’t be here,” she retorted beneath her breath.
They reached Lady Lichfield, a plump woman in her forties who had once been considered the greatest beauty in London. Although the years of indulgence had taken a toll on her striking face, she was still remarkably attractive. The thickly lashed blue eyes were still radiant above her heavy cheeks, and her shining black hair was coiled atop her head to reveal a classic profile. She was a queen of London’s elite circles, a widow who led an outwardly circumspect life—though it was rumored that she had often taken young men as lovers and rewarded them richly for their services. Indeed, she had flirted with Grant at their last meeting, a soiree at the beginning of the season, and had hinted broadly that she would like to “deepen their acquaintance.”
As she caught sight of him, Lady Lichfield proffered both her hands. “How can it be that this is only the second time we have met?” she asked. “I feel as if we are old friends, Mr. Morgan.”
“Say ‘dear friends,’” Grant suggested, pressing an obligatory kiss to the gloved backs of her hands. “The word ‘old’ should never be mentioned in the same sentence with you, milady.”
She giggled and preened. “I doubt I am the first, nor the last, to fall prey to your flattery, you charming rake.”
He grinned and deliberately held her hands longer than was strictly proper. “Nor am I the last to fall under the spell of an enchantress with the bluest eyes in England.”
The flattery obviously pleased her, though she laughed with a touch of irony. “Mr. Morgan, pray stop before you reduce me to a puddle at your feet.” She turned to Vivien, subjecting her to a head-to-toe inspection. Her smile cooled considerably. “Welcome, Miss Duvall. I see you’re in good health, contrary to the astonishing rumors that have flown about the past month or so.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Vivien curtsied and regarded her with a hesitant smile. “Please forgive me, but…have we met before?”
All traces of good humor left Lady Lichfield’s expression. “No,” she said softly. “Although I believe you were once quite well acquainted with my late husband.”
There was no mistaking her meaning. Faced with yet more evidence of her own scandalous past, Vivien could make no reply. She was grateful when Grant ushered her away speedily, leaving Lady Lichfield to welcome more guests.
“She doesn’t like me,�
� Vivien said in a dry tone, pausing as Grant removed her cloak and handed it to a waiting servant.
“Few women do.”
“Thank you for that boost to my confidence. I feel so much better after the multitude of compliments you’ve showered on me.”
“You want compliments?” They entered an overheated drawing room, the buzz of conversation intensifying as soon as they appeared.
“One or two would hardly hurt,” Vivien said in a subdued tone, wincing as hundreds of gazes arrowed to her. “Though now you’ll make me out to be silly and vain for desiring it.”
Seeming entirely comfortable in spite of the public scrutiny, Grant nodded in response to the greeting of a passing acquaintance, and drew Vivien to an unoccupied space at the side of the room. He stared down at her with smoldering green eyes. “You are beautiful,” he said. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, and the most desirable. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. And I’m afraid to look at you for too long, or I’ll end up taking you in the middle of the drawing room floor.”
“Oh.” Flustered, Vivien toyed with the edge of her stomacher. Byron, he was not. But the blunt statements caused little knots of excitement and pleasure to tighten in her stomach. She returned his gaze with a direct one of her own. “Why were you flirting with Lady Lichfield like that?” she asked. “Were you once lovers?”
“No. It amuses her to banter with younger men, and it’s easy enough to indulge her. She’s already proven to be a useful acquaintance. Besides, I happen to like her.”
Vivien frowned, experiencing a sting of jealousy. “You wouldn’t have an affair with a woman her age, would you?”
