“Thank you!” the viscount gushed. “I’d be most grateful for that kindness, sir.” Grabbing her hand, he pressed a kiss to it and then was gone.
She whirled on the marquess. “You, my lord, ought to be ashamed of yourself for telling such monstrous lies!”
“I never lie,” Lord Hampden said dryly. “The king does have some terrible news for Somerset. As I recall, it concerned the situation in the colonies or . . . some affairs of state or . . . What was it, Sir Charles, that His Majesty said?”
“I believe His Majesty threatened to exile Lord Somerset to the colonies if the man didn’t stop boring him with endless tales about his tailor.”
“You see?” Lord Hampden drawled. “I wasn’t lying a bit.”
She wanted to snatch his sword from him and break it over his head. “You are the most annoying, insolent—”
“Devil?” Amusement glittered in his eyes. “Be glad for it. I just saved you from enduring that popinjay’s slobbering ministrations all evening.”
Annabelle sniffed. “Better a popinjay than an arrogant brute who presses his attentions where they’re not wanted.”
His expression darkened. “They weren’t so unwanted two days ago in the tiring-room.”
At Sir Charles’s laugh, she whirled away, but the marquess caught her by the arm and drew her behind a scene flat to shield them from Sir Charles and the other players.
“The choice is yours.” His breath burned hot against her cheek as he pressed her against the painted image of an idyllic garden. “Either explain why my kiss so upset you, or meet me after the play as agreed. I’ll take nothing else.”
Why in heaven’s name was he so persistent? She fumbled for an excuse that wouldn’t give away her secrets. “Your kiss demonstrated you were too rough a man for me. I don’t like being mauled. It might behoove you to remember that.”
“You don’t know what ‘rough’ is, you little fool,” he leaned in to murmur. “You keep toying with these fops and gallants, and one day you’ll find yourself in serious trouble. They’re not all as easy to manipulate as Somerset.”
You certainly aren’t. “I can take care of myself,” she said stoutly.
“Then why are you so afraid to meet me?”
Dear heaven, he kept coming back to that. And the truth was, if he found her refusal odd enough, he could ruin all her carefully laid plans by speculating with the other gallants about her supposedly wanton character. The house of cards would come tumbling down if the men started comparing notes and figuring out that she wasn’t nearly the wanton she was painting herself to be.
Besides, if she trod carefully, she might get the marquess to help her determine which Maynard had abandoned her mother. She really should just give in and handle this cocky lord as she’d handled the rest, by playing on his vanity and pretending to capitulate.
“Very well,” she said haughtily, “I’ll meet you after the play, though I don’t know why you’ve fixed on me for your advances. Any number of actresses would be only too glad to oblige your raging passions.”
“I know,” he said baldly. “They earn little enough without spurning the honest attentions of a wealthy man. So why are you so reluctant, eh, Aphrodite? It tempts a man to wonder what you’re hiding.”
As she hesitated, unsure how to answer, he took her hand. She swallowed hard as he pressed a kiss to it that bore no resemblance to Lord Somerset’s sloppy one. Then, with his eyes gleaming up at her, he turned her hand over to kiss her palm so provocatively it made her shiver.
“I’ll be waiting for you by the tiring-room after the play,” he said, running his finger over her wrist, where her madly beating pulse gave away her reaction to him. “If you’re not there, I’ll find you. We made an agreement, and I intend to see you hold up your part of the bargain.”
Then he released her, and with a bow he left. Meanwhile, she remained standing behind the flat, her heart pounding madly in her chest.
So the insufferable beast intended to bed her after the play, did he? Well, he’d find himself in bed, all right. And if she planned it right, he’d awaken tomorrow with such a horrendous headache, he’d never approach her again.
Chapter Four
“Words may be false and full of art,
Sighs are the natural language of the heart.”
—Thomas Shadwell, Psyche, Act 3
Colin waited with Mrs. Maynard in the doorway to the Duke’s Theater as sheets of rain pelted the road, transforming the already muddy thoroughfare into an unnavigable mire.
He scowled. Of all the wretched luck. He’d walked to the theater, knowing that her lodgings were close by. But, with the rain, all the hackney coaches were gone.
Not that it mattered. The road now resembled a marsh, with enough mud to stall even the largest hackney. No, the only thing for it would be to keep close to the buildings, where the ground was firmer, and to take their chances with the bitterly cold rain.
He glanced over at his companion, who’d wrapped herself so tightly in her drab cloak that she resembled a sparrow more than a swan. But he knew something of what lay beneath the brown wool. The knowledge burned deep within his belly . . . and lower . . . a fire that wouldn’t be quenched.
Hell and furies, but the woman threw him off balance. Instead of gaining the information he’d promised Walcester, he was letting himself be drawn in by her obvious attractions, her clever mind . . . and the mystery of her inexplicable reluctance. He wasn’t used to women refusing him, especially not for the likes of Somerset. Nor was he used to the irrational anger that surged up whenever he thought of Somerset’s leer and Sir Charles’s sly talk about tongues.
He was a spy, for God’s sake, known for his cool detachment and careful perceptions, not for letting a female get under his skin. He must keep his wits about him.
But what man could, with a sweet wench like her at his side?
“I suppose we’d best stay here for a while,” she said. “Of course, you don’t have to wait, if the rain doesn’t bother you.”
He bit back a laugh. Did she think it would be as easy as that to rid herself of him? “It’ll slacken soon, and then we can take it at a run.”
“Perhaps you can afford to ruin your attire in mud and rain and grit, but I can’t afford even to ruin my hose. Clothing is dear for us humbler folk, my lord.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll buy you more hose . . . and a new gown and cloak and whatever else you desire.”
She blanched. “Must you be so blatant about all this? You have a way of making a woman feel like a trollop.”
“You’re the only actress I know who’d regard a simple offer of clothing as a vile insult,” he muttered as he scanned the dark street.
She did have the oddest scruples. Why treat him like an uncaring brute for offering what Somerset had no doubt already given her? Damned if he could figure out how the woman’s mind worked.
Suddenly two urchins, a boy of about twelve and a girl of ten, came out of the rain to approach Annabelle. “Have ye any oranges for us today, miss?”
With a ready smile, she dug into her cloak’s deep pockets. “I do believe there’s a couple here.” She put two oranges into the outstretched hands.
The children’s eyes lit up. “Thankee, miss,” they cried as they tore greedily into the fruit.
Annabelle smiled as she hunted in her pockets once more. “I think I may also have a cross bun in here, too, that I didn’t have the chance to eat.”
When she handed it over, the girl’s eyes filled with tears. “Y’re an angel, miss.” The girl broke the bun in half and handed the other portion to her companion. Within seconds, it was gone.
The two started to leave, but the boy paused to glance back at Colin. “Best ye be nice to the orange lady, milord,” he said boldly before his friend worriedly yanked his arm. They scampered back into the rain.
Colin stared after them. “Do you do that often? Give food to the street urchins?”
With a shrug, she mumbled, “Once i
n a while.”
Oranges weren’t cheap. She’d complained about the cost of new hose, but had no compunction about feeding street urchins off her modest salary? He didn’t know what to make of her.
They stood there in silence until the rain slowed to a drizzle. Then he murmured, “Time to spread your wings,” and pulled her into the street.
She kept surprisingly good pace with him, despite the mud sucking at their feet. They’d rounded the corner into the alley where her lodgings lay when the skies opened again. “Hell and furies!” he growled as a wave of wind and water whisked his hat from his head and soaked his coat. The same sheet of water whipped her cloak from around her and threw back her hood, exposing all of her to the merciless elements.
He snatched her up in his arms and ran for the lit door at the end of the alley. Fortunately, it wasn’t latched, and in moments he’d maneuvered his way inside.
But he didn’t set her down right away, enjoying the soft weight of her and the clean rain scent that rose from her soaked clothing. She stared up at him guilelessly. Candlelight played over the slope of her pale brow, the fine curves of her cheeks, the slender nose with its pert tip.
And it glinted off the naked sorrow in her eyes. She watched him from behind lashes dusted with tiny drops, like honeysuckle nectar, like rain tears. He bent his head, wanting to kiss them away, and perhaps with them that dark hint of sadness. Then she blinked and the moment passed.
With what sounded like a sigh, she murmured, “You can let me down now, my lord.”
“Only if you call me Colin. Considering what we are to be to each other, I should think Christian names are more appropriate . . . Annabelle.”
“Very well. You may put me down, Colin.” Her husky voice speaking his name sent shivers of anticipation through him. He obliged her but only because he feared if he kissed her here, they’d never reach her rooms.
Water dripped from them both, forming ever-widening puddles on the wooden floor. She attempted to wring it out of her wool skirts, but that was futile.
Removing her cloak, he gestured up the stairs. “We have to get out of these wet clothes.”
Fear flashed in her eyes, catching him off guard. Then, as if she drew her soul into herself, she changed into another creature entirely. Gone was the vulnerable, hurting maiden and the gentle woman who fed oranges to urchins. Even the coy coquette had disappeared. The reserved actress had returned, as prickly and unapproachable as her swan namesake.
“My rooms are upstairs,” she said regally. Then she took a brace of candles from beside the door and motioned for him to follow.
They’d gone only a few steps, however, when a door beneath them flew open and a wizened old man appeared.
“Mrs. Maynard, what . . . who . . .” the old man stammered.
Annabelle halted to cast the man a brittle smile. “Good evening, Master Watkins. I’m sorry for the water on your floor. We got caught in the rain.”
“You wouldn’t be bringing the gentleman up to yer rooms, now, would you?”
Her smile wavered. “Surely you won’t mind if my brother visits with me a short while.”
Colin bit back a smile. He’d used that ploy once or twice himself, but he’d never thought to have a woman use it for him.
“Yer brother?” Master Watkins assessed Colin with a look of pure skepticism.
“Colin Maynard, at your service,” Colin said easily, all too accustomed to pretending to be something he wasn’t.
But Master Watkins only regarded him with even greater suspicion. He scowled at Annabelle. “You know that me wife don’t like you bringing men to your rooms, Mrs. Maynard. After that last gentleman, she said if you brought more, she’d toss you in the street. We run a respectable house. Can’t be having talk going ’round about us.”
After that last gentleman. It had to be Somerset.
Annabelle planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t understand why in heaven’s name I can’t bring my own brother—”
“Yes, yes. Yer brother,” Master Watkins said with a sigh. “Go on with you, then. But don’t let me missus see you.”
“Thank you, Master Watkins,” she said like a queen, then continued up the stairs, her back stiff and proud.
Colin nodded to the landlord and followed her up, trying not to dwell on the fact that other men had walked these steps before him. He didn’t care. He’d never cared before; why should he care now?
Yet the idea of it irritated him sorely, which only showed how important it was that he bed the woman—so he could end this foolish obsession and get on with his real purpose.
Once she’d unlocked her room and beckoned him in, she shut the door and whirled on him. “Now see what you’ve done? Thanks to you, I may find myself in the street tomorrow, if not sooner!”
“Don’t blame it all on me. If I understood your Master Watkins correctly, I wasn’t the first man to enter these hallowed rooms.” ’Sdeath, was that jealousy in his voice? It couldn’t be. He’d never been jealous in his life.
“I told you before that Lord Somerset and I were—”
“Lovers?” he said snidely. “No, you never said so, but I’m no fool.” Oh yes, that was jealousy all right.
A blush stained her cheeks.
“Not that I care,” he lied. “Somerset isn’t here now. I am.”
“So you are.” She glanced about. “But where the devil is Charity? She should be here, since she wasn’t at the theater.”
He gave her a bland smile. Sir John had done his job well. “Perhaps she has found a swain of her own.”
“Women like Charity and me don’t have swains.”
“You have bedfellows.”
The blunt word made her pale. “Exactly.” Then she swept about the room, lighting candles. “And since you mean to be one of them, you should take a look at my lodgings and decide if they meet with your approval.”
The woman had a way of spreading such contempt on her words that any man would think twice before willingly letting her near.
Of course, Colin wasn’t just any man. He scanned the room, noting the cold hearth with two armchairs placed before it, a lace-covered table surrounded by four sturdy chairs, an oak cupboard, and a looking glass with gilt edges that represented the most expensive piece of furniture.
Despite the cheap materials and rough workmanship of her furnishings, she’d created a pleasant, homey atmosphere. That made sense for the woman who gave oranges to urchins, but not for the woman who supposedly lived her life for pleasure and naught else.
Once again, she’d managed to perplex him.
“Will it do, my lord?” she asked. “Or are you already planning to hire workmen to remake it to your preference? Do let me know your plans, so I won’t be a nuisance.” Despite her acid words, a faint tremor in her voice betrayed her anxiety.
“At the moment, my only plans are to remove these wet clothes.” He lifted her cloak. “Is there somewhere I can hang this?”
“I’ll take it.” She approached him. “And your coat and vest.”
He peeled off his sodden outer garments and handed them to her. Her eyes went wide, scanning his wet lawn shirt and snuff-colored breeches, which clung to him like a second skin. Was that a blush on her cheeks? It hardly seemed likely. She had to have seen men in less clothing than this.
At his questioning glance, she seemed to recollect herself, and she crossed the room to drop their garments onto an armchair.
But when she knelt to build a fire in the grate, he said, “Let me do that.” He came up to take the bundle of kindling from her, and her icy fingers brushed his.
Jerking away, she jumped to her feet. “I’ll see about your coat.” She draped her cloak over one armchair and arranged his clothing over the other.
Once the fire caught, he rose to watch her work. God, she was skittish for a woman rumored to take lovers where she pleased. She stood stiffly beside the chair that held her cloak, plucking at its folds and rearranging it to better catch the heat from
the fire.
She was stalling. He knew it, and so did she. He just couldn’t figure out why. “Annabelle—” he began in a low voice.
“Tea! We must have tea.” She headed for the cupboard. “You need something to warm you.”
“I can think of something better than tea to warm me,” he rasped.
“It’ll take but a moment.” After setting a kettle on the hob to heat, she started toward him, then caught sight of herself in the mirror and stopped short. “Faith, but I look a fright!”
“On the contrary,” he drawled, “I’ve never seen a more fetching sight than you in a wet gown.”
She eyed him askance. “Oh, but my hair is a wreck. Meanwhile, your curls are still crisp and tight. You must give your secret to Charity. No matter how hard she works at my unruly waves with the irons, she can’t train my hair to form perfect ringlets.”
“It helps when the ringlets are natural,” he said dryly.
“I should have known,” she said, shaking her head ruefully. “Every other rake has to work at being fashionable, but you, of course, were born that way.”
Sensing her babbling was meant to stave off her nervousness, he sought to put her at ease. “Ah, but I wasn’t born with Somerset’s knack for choosing patches.”
A sudden sparkle lit her eyes. “A dire handicap indeed.”
“And I could never match his biting wit.”
“Which only bites him,” she quipped. Then, seeming to realize she was being disloyal, she mumbled, “Though, really, he can be witty when he wishes.”
“I don’t want to talk about Somerset,” he growled. “And you should get out of that gown before you catch your death of cold.” God, how he ached to see her without her gown.
She arched an eyebrow. “Are you concerned for my well-being? Or just eager to see me in dishabille?”
“Both. And why are you so nervous around me, Annabelle?” He searched her face. “Answer that question to my satisfaction, and I’ll leave right now. I have no desire to bed a woman who is frightened of me.”
Silver Deceptions Page 5
