by Allison Lane
"I would enjoy that."
The balcony was small and overlooked the mews. No one else had ventured forth, for the night was cold, with fog beginning to build. Gray led her to a corner out of sight of the door, then pulled her into his arms. Just one kiss, he promised himself. Light and coaxing.
But the moment his lips met hers, he lost control. Her taste exploded in his mouth, triggering needs that ran deeper than enjoyment of a willing woman. She was soft in his arms, with delightful curves and a scent that made him dizzy with desire. He knew he should stop, but he couldn't help himself.
Drawing her tight against him, he teased his manhood with caresses he couldn't complete. Only when his hand touched her hair did he pause, groaning, for he could not leave her disheveled.
That moment of sanity made him aware of another problem. She had responded at first, but now stood stiff in his arms.
Fear. It was clear in her eyes. His unexpected assault frightened her.
Cursing, he gentled his touch, pulling the threads of his control taut. “Can you be ready to wed by Tuesday?"
"So soon? I thought you said we needn't rush."
Her question chilled him to the bone. Had he frightened her into second thoughts about this match? She was an innocent who knew nothing about the marriage bed.
"I may have been hasty,” he admitted, lightly stroking her back. “Our betrothal is attracting more attention than I expected. The pressure to jilt me before I ruin you will increase, as will the warnings against my wickedness.” The betting book at White's had contained twenty-three wagers on the match by the time he'd left last night. Their number would swell with each passing day. Too many of those wagerers would press her to reconsider.
"Will haste not prompt even more speculation? People will assume that I am with child."
He flinched. “Blunt, as usual.” When she tried to protest, he laid a calming finger across her lips, clinging to his conviction that they would deal well together once they got past the initial discomfort. “I would not have you any other way, my dear. I want there to be complete honesty between us. And you are right. Such speculation already exists.” With wagers in place. “It will not cease until nine months pass without a child."
She blushed. “So we will be a nine-months wonder."
"To some. I can do nothing about that, but we can reduce the other talk. The only reason for waiting was to remain in town. That problem is now solved. I bought a house after leaving you this afternoon."
"No wonder you overslept. You must not have reached your bed until after dinner."
When she laid her head on his shoulder, he relaxed. Perhaps he had not terrified her after all.
Her arms crept around his waist. “How did you find a house so quickly?"
"Luck. I had offered to buy it a year ago,” he admitted. “So when the owner decided to sell, he sent for me. You will like it—a six-bay exposure on Berkley Square, large garden, stabling for eight horses and four carriages, ample space—we will be in town half the year because of business. The drawing room is shabby, and the library needs enlarging, but it should suit us very well. Comfort without ostentation.” And as different from Rothmoor Park as possible. He had always felt stifled at the family seat, with its massive furniture crammed into tiny rooms. His first act when the title came to him would be to tear it down and rebuild.
"So that is how Wendell is recouping,” she murmured.
"You know of his trouble?” He didn't know why he was surprised, for all London must have heard by now.
"Lady Beatrice mentioned last night's disaster at the tables. She claimed he was completely done up and implied he might put an end to his existence."
"Then for once, she exaggerates. He is not destitute. I gave him a good price for the house and advised him to invest the excess in his estate. He can rebuild his fortune if he avoids playing cards while in his cups.” He kissed her nose. “So is Tuesday acceptable?"
"Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Her voice trembled, slicing him to the core. “I know you were not seeking a wife, particularly one as lacking as I. Once the truth about Miss Turner becomes public, you could find a more suitable match."
"What nonsense is this?” he demanded. Was it Lady Horseley's warning that had scared her rather than his lovemaking? “You will make an admirable wife, Mary. I knew you were special from the moment we met and had already been considering this step.” He hesitated. “Or do you not wish to wed me? Is your determination to redeem my reputation a plot to be rid of me?"
Mary gripped his arm. “Of course not. I am trying to keep you alive. I can't think of anyone I would rather wed. But I fear you will come to regret this bargain."
"Never. We will do quite well together, Mary.” He pulled her closer. “Trust me. I promised never to lie. You suit me very well, my dear."
"I will always trust you, Gray."
Smiling, he kissed her again. Heat flashed even faster than before. And this time her response made him wish he was anywhere but Almack's. She opened her mouth, sliding her arms around his neck to pull him closer. Her breasts flattened against his chest, driving him wild. In imagination he saw her hair spread across a pillow as he feasted on her nipples, his hand sliding down to tangle in the folds and curls guarding her secrets. His manhood strained against his breeches, grinding against her in a vain attempt to escape. He groaned.
"Mary.” He trailed kisses across her face, wishing the wedding was behind them. “My wonderful Mary. Next Tuesday. I will call on Rockhurst in the morning to make the arrangements."
"Tuesday."
The music stopped. Laughter penetrated the door, reminding him of their location.
She released him and straightened her gown. “We had best return to the ballroom, Gray, or we will both lose our vouchers. Lady Jersey is enjoying the romantic tale we've woven, but she will soon tire of bending rules for us."
"So true.” He stole one last kiss. “Later, my dear. We will finish this on Tuesday. I look forward to it."
* * * *
Laura stopped pacing when Frannie returned. Not that she was calm—even destroying everything in the house would not relieve her fury—but she could not admit her pain to a servant. Not only had her sniveling, bluestocking sister stolen the man she had wanted, but twenty hostesses had now retracted invitations. No doubt they accepted Mary's lies so they could exclude the Season's diamond, increasing their own insipid offsprings’ chances.
Catherine had refused to take her on morning calls or allow her in the park during the fashionable hour, treating her as though she were back in the schoolroom. Blake had forbidden her attendance at Almack's tonight. When she had finally convinced Catherine to go shopping so she could escape the house for a while, three ladies had cut her dead on Bond Street—barely acceptable ladies at that, the jealous cats. Then that appalling modiste had informed her in a fake French accent that she could not make up new gowns just now. The press of work, mademoiselle. So many very important clients. You must wait your turn, n'est ce pas? Then when she'd arrived home, Grayson had cut her dead on the stairs of her own house!
She'd shed stormy tears for more than an hour. It wasn't fair! She should be planning the wedding of the Season instead of being shut away like a dirty secret. How could Mary betray her? She'd always been such a quiet mouse. Who would have thought she could be so bold?
A voice in her head urged her to face facts, but it sounded too much like Blake, so she ignored it.
New tears had fallen after Mary slithered off to Almack's, rosy from Blake's compliments, though he must know that green was a ruinous color that made one look quite bilious. And that gown was too plain to be fashionable. There wasn't a ruffle or bow in sight, only a modest ribbon under the bodice and a few flowers around the hem. Watching them leave from her perch on the third landing had made Laura feel like a child sneaking peeks at adult fun.
The analogy had started a fresh round of tears. Unable to face an evening alone, she'd wracked her brain f
or anything that might promise amusement. It took half an hour to recall Dr. Sparks. She'd sent Frannie out to discover the details.
"Well?” she asked when Frannie halted just inside the door.
The maid extended a card. “The Society for the Investigation of Electricity, Spectral Phenomena, and Ancient Legends welcomes visitors to their meetings. Tonight they are testing an electricity machine across the square. It sounds dangerous. Lord Rockhurst would not approve.” She sounded shaken—and defiant. Never before had she invoked Blake against Laura.
"If I remain here, I shall expire of boredom,” said Laura sharply. “Since Rockhurst refused to take me to Almack's, I must choose my own entertainment. But you need not fear. The society has many members from Polite Society—how do you think I learned of it?” Again she stifled the voice reminding her that none of her informants actually belonged, and Miss Pepperidge had mocked Dr. Sparks sharply. But anything was better than staying home alone.
Frannie sighed. “I do not wish to see such a contraption."
"You need not. I am sure the other maids are enjoying themselves in the servants’ hall. Come. We can walk."
"Miss Laura—"
"We will take a footman.” She stalked toward the door. “My pelisse, Frannie. Now, or I will go without you. Perhaps you would be happier back in Devonshire,” she added, glaring. The threat would whip the girl in line. She'd been carrying on with a footman at Rockburn Abbey and never wanted to see Seabrook Manor again.
"I'm coming."
Laura had no idea what to expect. When Miss Pepperidge had mentioned the meeting—giggling behind her fan to Miss Connors—she'd described ghosts and machines that made hair stand on end. She'd known little else, for she had heard the tale from her brother. It sounded rather exciting—certainly more exciting than sitting at home with only servants for company.
But her first impression was disappointing. The house was narrow, with a dark-paneled entry that seemed dingy in the light of a single candle. A shuffling butler ushered her into an equally dingy library.
Eight people crowded around a table, whispering. They didn't notice her entrance.
"When we have amassed a large enough charge, we will test your theory, Lady Spectre,” said a gentleman.
"How much longer?” Lady Spectre demanded. “It is half past eleven already."
"Soon. There is plenty of time."
"Miss Seabrook,” announced the butler.
Five men and three women turned to stare. Laura stared back.
"I am Dr. Sparks,” said the leader. “This is Lady Spectre, a noted spiritualist. Miss Watson. Mr. Showalter.” He continued around the circle. As they parted ranks to allow her closer, Laura caught sight of the apparatus on the table.
A servant was vigorously turning a crank attached to a large metal disk. As it rotated, it rubbed against wool pads, producing occasional sparks. A wire ran from the disk's center to a metal ball atop an enormous glass jar, whose lower half was covered with metal sheeting.
"Carry on,” Dr. Sparks ordered the servant, then led Laura closer. “This is the world's largest Leyden jar, Miss Seabrook. We are filling it with electricity."
"Why?"
Lady Spectre beamed. “You are about to witness the culmination of years of study. Spectral phenomena—ghosts, to most people—are produced by souls trapped between this life and the next."
"Like poor Uncle Harold,” sobbed Mrs. Jones, sniffing into her handkerchief.
"And my great-grandfather, Alfred,” added a white-haired gentleman.
"Exactly.” Lady Spectre's voice turned seductively soft. “I have investigated hundreds of spectral hauntings. Hundreds, Miss Seabrook. And I have discovered that every one was the product of a violent death. Every one. And that is the secret of spectral phenomena. Life imbues the soul with energy, Miss Seabrook, very like the electricity Dr. Sparks captures in this jar. When a person dies a normal death, that energy propels the soul into the hereafter.” She flung her hands toward the ceiling, fingers spread.
Mrs. Jones gasped.
"But violence and emotional distress drain that energy, robbing the soul of its ability to move on.” Her arms collapsed. “It is doomed to wander in a formless state forever."
"Forever?” Miss Watson's thin voice cracked.
"Until now. Through the magic of electricity, we can now restore that lost energy, propelling the soul into the hereafter to reap its reward."
"Thus tonight's experiment.” Dr. Sparks curtly cut off Lady Spectre's mesmerizing voice. “My Leyden jar holds a larger charge than has ever before been amassed. By releasing it into the spirit, we can complete its journey."
"Isn't that dangerous?” asked Mrs. Jones.
"In the wrong hands, it can do great damage. But I understand and control its power.” He continued his exhortation, but Laura lost track of his words as she watched Lady Spectre.
The spiritualist resumed her preparations by unrolling a pair of wires. “You say the ghost always appears in this chair?” She glanced at their host, Lord Roger Duncan.
"Yes. The spirit was once Mr. Cavendish, who owned this house until he broke his neck falling down the stairs. He began appearing a month ago, which is why I called on you. I cannot have him upsetting my servants. I've already had to replace two maids and my cook. The housekeeper has threatened to leave unless something is done."
"Irritating,” agreed Dr. Sparks. “The uneducated do not realize they have nothing to fear from these lost souls. The deceased is asking for help. Rest assured, we will respond. He will meet his Maker by morning."
"How can you tell how much electricity is in the jar?” asked Laura, intrigued despite herself.
"I feel it boiling within.” Dr. Sparks touched a bare fingertip to the metal ball. “Come. See for yourself."
Laura studied the jar as she removed her glove. The knob narrowed to a thin rod that penetrated a wooden stopper, then supported a heavy chain that dangled to the bottom of the jar. More metal sheeting coated the lower inside.
She extended a finger to the knob, hesitantly at first, then more firmly. It tingled. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stirred, awakening more excitement than she had felt in days.
"How do you release it?” She turned as she spoke, brushing her other hand against the metal sheeting. “Oh!” Lightning blinded her, throwing her backwards. Only a pair of strong hands saved her from sprawling.
Voices rose on all sides.
Someone cursed.
Lady Spectre screamed that the experiment was ruined, pounding on the table as she raged.
"Are you all right?” asked Lord Roger, holding her upright.
"I don't know.” Her hand burned. “What happened?"
"You discovered how to release the electricity,” said Dr. Sparks, gesturing for silence. “But there is no harm done. We will merely start anew. The ghost is not due until midnight, so we have sufficient time.” His eyes pinned Lady Spectre, willing her to silence.
Laura backed away from the machine, unwilling to touch it again. Miss Watson and Mrs. Jones were whispering in the corner—probably laughing over her clumsiness.
The servant cranked at high speed. Dr. Sparks lectured on the properties of electricity, urging everyone to handle objects that had been exposed to it. Most emitted brief shocks when touched by a gloveless finger, but nothing as large as the Leyden jar.
Lady Spectre subsided as the jar collected a new charge, delivering observations on spectral phenomena as she elaborated on her theory of energy transference. Laura stayed well away from the table, hovering in the shadow of a bookcase.
"Your finger is red,” murmured Lord Roger, reaching over her shoulder to lift her hand. The motion brushed his chest against her back—and a muscular chest it was. “I hope it will heal."
"I am convinced of it, sir.” The mark had already begun to fade. Yet she did not protest when he rubbed it lightly. His bare hands produced tremors of excitement along her skin similar to those she'd felt when touching t
he knob.
"Is electricity a regular interest, Miss Seabrook?” He led her farther into a corner so they did not disturb Lady Spectre's lecture.
"No. But this demonstration sounded intriguing. And the location was convenient. I live across the square."
"You do not mind visiting a gentleman's house?"
She frowned, but his voice seemed teasing rather than critical. “I did not realize that it was a gentleman's house until I arrived. But it hardly matters since the gathering includes ladies."
He was still massaging her finger, sending ripples of heat up her arm. Lord Roger was a man in his prime, broad-shouldered, long-legged, confident. Not for him the rigid disapproval of narrow-minded gossips. He hadn't turned a hair upon hearing her name. Nor was he averse to newfangled notions—like using electricity to rid him of an unwanted ghost.
So she had found adventure after all. And an adventurer. The rasp of his fingers made her warm all over. When she lifted their joined hands to see what he was doing, he smiled, tightening his grip as his thumb traced circles on her palm. His dark eyes gleamed with pleasure, clearly entranced.
"Why aren't you at a ball this evening, Miss Seabrook?” he murmured into her ear. They had drawn behind the bookcase, out of sight of those clustered about the table. Dr. Sparks was approaching a critical point in the experiment, but Laura no longer cared.
"My sponsor is annoyed that I outshine my sister, so he refused to take me to Almack's. Lady Cunningham followed his lead,” she said, stretching the truth. “She wants me banned so her daughter can snare a high-ranking lord."
"Banned. Such a strong word."
"But true.” She sighed most tragically. “People are jealous that men vie for my favors."
"How unfair. Perhaps I can change their minds, my dear. As your champion, I can slay these silly society dragons. Have you plans for tomorrow?"
She shook her head. Lady Edmondson's note withdrawing the card to her rout had denounced her in scathing terms. Perhaps it was time to carve a new niche for herself in the wider world of adventurers. Her mistake had been to expect such men to waste time on frivolous parties with their rigid rules and disapproving eyes.
