Harlequin Historical February 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: Never Trust a RakeDicing With the Dangerous LordA Daring Liaison

by Annie Burrows

  ‘You did not know your sister would be here.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘A trifle awkward for you...and for her,’ she murmured.

  Linwood said nothing, but she saw the tiny betraying flex in the line of his jaw. She should be glad of it, revelling in it, using the tactic to her best advantage. But when his eyes met hers she saw beneath the strong silent guise and it was not gladness or a sense of triumph that she felt but the uneasiness of his discomfort as surely as if it were her own.

  ‘Linwood...and the divine Miss Fox.’ Razeby’s cheerful voice broke the moment as he sauntered up.

  ‘Razeby.’ Linwood gave a curt inclination of his head.

  ‘If you will excuse me for a moment, gentlemen.’ She drew her eyes from Linwood, glad of the interruption. ‘I must powder my nose.’

  She threaded her way through the crowd, smiling in amusement at the shocked disapproving stares from the ton’s matrons and the wistful lascivious ones of their husbands. Linwood would certainly be black-marked for bringing her here, she thought. That he had defied their wrath to have her here with him was not something that she wished to dwell upon. Although the room was crowded a path opened up before her, some ladies and even the odd gentleman turning their backs to her. Venetia was not bothered in the slightest. She was well used to it; she was, after all, an intruder here in a place that was their territory. They would equally well have been just as unwelcome in the demi-monde.

  When she walked into the retiring room the two matrons in there herded their young charges out, scowling, noses in the air, while the girls tried to steal surreptitious glances at the scandalous woman in their midst. The door closed with a resounding slam just in case she was not aware of their disapproval at her audacity to invade their world.

  She had no need to use the chamber pots behind the screens. Instead, she stood before the large peering glass that had been set up within the room and reminded herself of what she had spent the past three days thinking. There was an attraction between Linwood and herself; she could no longer deny it. But what she felt for him was lust. And lust, no matter how strong, could be conquered. She was not some weak-minded, feeble-kneed woman to let herself be dangled like a puppet from the fingers of any man, and especially not Linwood. He had murdered Rotherham. The only reason she was here by his side tonight was part of this game to lure him into revealing the truth. There were questions to be asked, a tongue to be loosened, a murderer to be caught.

  She fixed her hair and, removing a small pot of rouge from her reticule, applied a little to her lips.

  The door opened.

  Venetia did not even glance round, expecting the huff of disapproval and the slam, but there was only the quiet click of the door closing and the soft rustle of silk.

  Within the peering glass, Venetia’s eyes slid from her lips to the space behind her and saw Linwood’s sister.

  Lady Marianne did not look surprised to find her here. Their eyes held for a moment before she walked to stand by Venetia and share the peering glass. The reflected Lady Marianne smoothed a hand over the pale pink silk of her skirt. Venetia finished applying the rouge to her lips.

  ‘So you are the famous Miss Fox.’

  ‘And you are Lady Marianne.’ Venetia offered the rouge pot to the girl with a slight arch of her eyebrow.

  ‘Thank you, but, no,’ Lady Marianne declined most graciously.

  ‘Lord Linwood’s sister,’ said Venetia.

  ‘I own that privilege.’

  ‘I do not think your brother would approve of you talking to me.’

  ‘Probably not.’ Marianne smiled.

  The two women looked at one another. Lady Marianne had the same eyes as her brother, eyes that showed a huge depth of complexity beneath the surface.

  ‘But you make him happy when there has been much to cause him unhappiness. And so I approve of you, as long as you do not hurt my brother, Miss Fox.’

  There has been much to cause him unhappiness. Lady Marianne’s words seemed to catch at her. She brushed them aside, telling herself not to be so foolish. ‘I am sure that your brother is more than capable of looking after himself.’

  Lady Marianne gave the tiniest shake of her head. ‘He is rather better at looking after others. But then I suspect you might know that already...’ she paused ‘...since you are in love with him.’

  ‘Lady Marianne—’ Venetia stopped herself just in time.

  ‘I recognise the way you look at him.’

  ‘Really?’ Lady Marianne’s calm certainty irked her. The girl had no idea of the way it was between women like her and men like Linwood, even were the illusion that the ton thought true.

  ‘Yes...’ Marianne paused. ‘Promise me you will not hurt him.’

  She turned to the girl with a clever set down ready upon her lips, but there was something in Marianne’s expression that she could not bear to crush. Instead, she gave a nod of her head. ‘I should return to the ballroom. It would not do you good if it was realised that we had been in here together.’

  Marianne smiled warmly. ‘I do believe you have a concern for my reputation.’

  Venetia left before Marianne saw anything more of the truth on her face.

  Within the ballroom Razeby was still talking to Linwood.

  ‘I seem to have developed something of a headache,’ she said without any attempt at making it sound convincing. ‘I wonder, Lord Linwood, if I might prevail upon you to escort me home.’

  ‘But of course, Miss Fox.’ Linwood’s eyes were on hers; his face was serious, betraying not a single flicker of emotion.

  She let a little smile tease around her lips and she held his gaze with a boldness that had the ripple of a whisper around them.

  ‘If you will excuse us, Razeby,’ he said.

  The marquis raised his eyebrows and grinned, giving Linwood a knowing look.

  She rested her hand lightly in the crook of Linwood’s arm, as demure as any debutante, and together they left the ballroom.

  When they were alone in her carriage and on their way along the road, he looked at her through the light of the flickering street lamps.

  ‘Thank you, Venetia.’

  ‘I am sure I do not know what you mean.’

  He continued to hold her gaze and smiled, a real smile that transformed his face, and she felt her heart expand and flutter in her chest. She knew that he knew the truth, that she had left to spare his sister the embarrassment that their both being there was bound to cause, even if she had dressed it up as something else.

  ‘She has the same eyes as you.’

  ‘But a more tender heart.’

  She thought of the night they had spent together in Whitechapel, of how he had cared about justice for a poor woman, how he had cared for her in the carriage afterwards and all that she had learned of him that vied against the terrible crime he had committed. ‘I am not so very sure of that, Linwood,’ she said softly.

  He smiled again and the carriage rolled on towards King Street.

  * * *

  Linwood saw her again the next evening, in accordance with the handwritten note that had been delivered to him that same afternoon inviting him to dinner at her home. He had felt the heat curl in his stomach just reading it, at the thought of being alone with her in so private a place and all that such an invitation might mean.

  The dining room of her house had that same elegance and sophistication as Venetia herself. The walls were a pale soft beige, the dressings all in matching caramels and taupes, creams and gold. Understated, tasteful, yet with a quality and class that many aspired to and few achieved. The long dining table was mahogany, carved by the hand of a master craftsman, the Turkey carpet thick and plush beneath the tread of his shoes. The fireplace was an Adams, an elegant design, inspired by the Doric columns of a bygo
ne age. Above it was a large gilt-framed mirror and, on either side, a crystal-dropped wall sconce with a cluster of three candles. Opposite the fireplace was a large bow window, its cream curtains over-sewn with pale gold stripes, shutting out the rain and cold of the dark autumn night. On one of the walls he noticed a small Rembrandt. The lighting in the room was an unusual white-branched chandelier, hung with faceted crystals. It was lightweight compared to the heavy designs so currently in vogue, a combination of elegance and daring that was like that of Venetia herself, but then Venetia Fox was a woman who set fashions rather than followed them.

  Linwood had thought of nothing other than Venetia in all of the past days. Whatever else she was, this attraction between them was real and solid, and escalating in ways he had not imagined. He had never wanted a woman as he wanted her. He had never wished to know one as he wished to know her. The desire was more than physical. He liked her. He admired her. He even respected her, his opponent in this game. A woman of courage and unflinching nerve, of confidence and strength, yet beneath it there was softness and compassion and vulnerability. There was a connection between them, a strange bond that he had not felt before. She felt it, too. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way her body leaned in to his, hear it in her voice. The game was immersing them both. And he embraced it.

  He waited until she took her seat at the head of the table, before taking his at the foot. Ten feet of solid polished mahogany stretched between them.

  ‘Is it your own décor or that which came with the house?’

  ‘All my own.’

  ‘You have exceptional taste.’

  She dipped her head in a tiny acknowledgement and her mouth curved in a smile.

  ‘I could not help but notice the Rembrandt.’ The painting was worth a fortune, more than even the highest paid and successful of all actresses could afford.

  ‘It was a gift.’

  ‘From an admirer?’ He thought of Clandon and felt that same wariness and anger, but even Rotherham’s bastard son could not have stretched to buy such a thing. And then he remembered Razeby’s talk of Arlesford and Hunter, of Monteith and York.

  ‘From my father.’

  ‘Not a country vicar at all, then.’

  ‘No.’ She glanced away and he sensed her unease over the subject.

  They fell silent as Albert and the footmen arrived, bringing an array of silver serving dishes to set upon the table between them. Two footmen remained, standing smartly against the wall, eyes fixed front.

  ‘I hope you are hungry, Francis,’ she said and met his eyes directly once more. It was the first time she had used his given name, and he understood its significance.

  ‘Ravenous, Venetia,’ he replied, but his eyes were not on the food, only on her.

  She smiled as she helped herself to a variety of dishes.

  Linwood waited until she had completed her selection before making his. ‘The food is excellent.’

  ‘I shall pass on your compliments to my cook.’

  They talked of easy things, things that were comfortable, and over which they seemed to have much agreement. They talked and ate, while the footmen topped up their glasses with fine wine. There was no pretence of champagne when it was just the two of them.

  It seemed too soon that the food was eaten.

  The plates were emptied, the cutlery abandoned upon them. They looked at one another across the length of the table.

  ‘Shall we retire to the parlour for a drink?’

  ‘I would like that, Venetia.’ He followed where she led, watching the hypnotic sway of her hips, smelling the subtle scent of her perfume in the air.

  The parlour was a small room at the back of the house, furnished for comfort and privacy rather than show, but still with her recognisable stamp of elegance.

  There was a small bookshelf, a proper desk rather than a lady’s writing bureau, and a sofa and matching armchair positioned before a roaring fire. It was tidy enough, but not pristine as the other rooms had been. There were letters and newspapers piled upon the desk, a collection of pens beside them, a romance novel left abandoned on the table by the decanter and a newspaper balanced on the arm of the chair by the fire, as if she had been reading it earlier in the day. The whole room felt snug, warm, private, providing yet another glimpse into the life of the woman beneath the mask of the actress.

  They were alone, no sign of the servants. He closed the door behind him.

  ‘Brandy?’ she asked.

  He gave a nod. ‘Thank you.’

  She poured two glasses and passed one to him, lifting the other herself.

  ‘To friends, Francis.’ She raised her glass and held his gaze.

  ‘Friends, Venetia.’ He supposed that they were, of a sort, even if they were opponents, too.

  They touched their glasses together and let them linger a moment before drawing away.

  The brandy was smooth and mellow upon his tongue, as expensive as any in his father’s cellar. He watched her take a sip, watched her swallow it down, her every action unmistakably feminine in contrast to the masculinity of the drink.

  ‘Brandy, but not champagne?’

  She smiled. ‘Are you shocked? Rest assured, I do not normally invite gentlemen to dinner, let alone take brandy with them.’ She moved to sit in the small armchair closest to the fire.

  ‘Then I am the first?’

  There was a sober expression in her eyes before she

  nodded. ‘Contrary to what the world may think.’ The knowledge pleased him more than it should have.

  ‘Why not any of the others?’

  ‘An unnecessary question.’

  ‘Not to me.’

  Her fingers toyed with the stem of her glass where it balanced on the arm of the chair, but her eyes, when they met his, were bold. ‘Maybe the question you should be asking is why you?’ Then she looked away, reaching to set her glass down upon the small table and inadvertently knocking the newspaper balanced on the chair’s arm to the floor.

  She bent to retrieve it, but Linwood was there first, their fingers tangling together against the crackle of paper. Their eyes met. Desire pulsed and throbbed between them. He stroked a thumb against her fingers and felt her hand open beneath his. Her eyes seemed to grow darker. He felt the tiny shiver that rippled through her, saw the way her lips parted slightly before she lowered her gaze and slowly withdrew her hand from his.

  They rose together, their breathing in unison.

  ‘The London Messenger,’ he said.

  ‘Your own newspaper.’

  He gave a nod of acknowledgement and glanced down at the page she had been reading.

  ‘The murder of Rotherham,’ she said.

  ‘Has done wonders for the paper’s circulation,’ he said and knew that the game had just racked up a notch. He kept his voice calm and steady, as if the subject matter meant nothing to him.

  ‘That seems a harsh take.’

  ‘I am a harsh man. And I have made no pretence of my feelings regarding Rotherham.’

  ‘You have not,’ she agreed. She gestured to the newspaper article. ‘It makes no mention of the fire that destroyed his house.’

  ‘Little wonder. The fire was three years ago.’

  ‘Three years. How precise your memory is, Francis.’ She was a worthy opponent, indeed. He knew where this was leading.

  ‘Very precise.’

  ‘One might wonder as to why.’ She watched him.

  ‘It is not every night that a duke’s pile is razed to the ground. It was a spectacular blaze...by all accounts.’ Thrust and parry.

  The tension hummed between them. They were dicing closer to the edge than ever before.

  She paused and in that tiniest of silences was the roar of danger and desire. He knew the question that was comi
ng next.

  ‘Did you witness it?’ she asked.

  ‘You are very interested in Rotherham, Venetia,’ he said softly.

  ‘Is not everyone?’ She held his gaze; watching him as carefully as he watched her. ‘And you have not answered my question.’

  ‘Half of London witnessed it,’ he said.

  ‘What sort of man burns another’s home to the ground, and a duke’s mansion at that?’

  He thought of all the darkness of the past, and of Rotherham slumped dead across his desk with a bullet in his brain. He thought of Clandon’s suspicions, and of the questions that were now being asked about Rotherham’s murder. And he knew what he must do. He could see the flutter of the pulse in her neck, the dilation of the pupils in her eyes, each and every long dark lash that lined them. He stepped closer, moved his mouth to her ear. She made no move, stood as still as a statue, while all that was between them struggled and strained in the hiss of silence for release.

  ‘A man like me,’ he whispered. Her breasts rose and fell a little faster. He heard the soft quickening of her breath. ‘But then you have known that all along, have you not, Venetia?’

  She nodded as if she did not trust herself to speak. Her lips parted slightly. ‘And the rest of it...?’ Her chest held still along with her breath.

  The air was so tense that it almost crackled.

  He shook his head, but did not clarify if it was a denial of guilt or a refusal to answer the question. ‘Let us not talk of the rest of it tonight.’

  She released the breath she had been holding in a shaky gasp. They stared at one another without a word, before she moved to stand before the fire, looking into the flames that flickered warm and bright upon the hearth.

  In the silence he could hear the crackle of the coal and the slow tick of the clock on the mantel. It clicked forwards and the chimes sounded for the hour.