He couldn’t help but smile in return. “Is your mistress ready?”
“Oui, monsieur,” she said. “And she is beautiful. I made sure of that.”
“I think she is always beautiful.”
“Mais oui,” she agreed. “She really does not need me. She …”
“She is grateful for your loyalty,” said a musical voice behind Dani. “And you are right, monsieur, Dani is responsible.”
He stepped inside and for the briefest moment he felt his breath had been stolen away.
Her hair had been piled in curls with one long dark curl falling down around her left cheek and framing it. Her dress was midnight blue and made her gray eyes appear luminious.
She was, simply, the most seductive and intriguing woman he’d ever met. He reminded himself that she had been with Stanhope, staring up at him with the attention a woman gives a man when she intends seduction.
The reminder of his disappointment—even dismay—was like a festering wound, and he resented that. He didn’t want to care about anyone now, especially a woman who was obviously looking for an advantageous situation, even someone like Stanhope.
He still tasted her lips, felt the softness of her body against his. Her response to his kiss had been instinctive, surprised, then ever so receptive. His gut tightened whenever he allowed himself to think of those few passionate moments.
It would be pure hell accompanying this woman tonight when she incited painful reactions in his body and clouded his senses. He would need every one of them tonight. He had received Stanhope’s seal earlier today, though not the forgery, and he wanted to return it to the desk. Hopefully, the earl would not have missed it yet.
His gloved hands brushed her skin as he helped her with her cloak. From the burning of his skin, he might as well have had no cloth between them at all. He wondered if she felt the same blazing feeling as he did, and knew immediately from the way she flinched away from him that she did.
He saw in her eyes that she did not want this heated attraction any more than he did.
Because he wasn’t wealthy enough?
Well, he wasn’t. He was spending every penny he had to honor his father’s request.
He had a title, and the position of captain waiting for him when he returned. Nothing more. This was obviously a woman that went after larger game.
He swore to himself and then wondered whether the words were audible because she looked up at him and her eyes darkened.
“We should go,” he said.
But they stood there, unmoving, as if inertia had wrapped around them, and neither could break loose.
“We should go,” he said.
“Yes.” Not oui. Of course, she spoke perfect English, but usually she had a charming French accent. Now it was gone. He knew how difficult it was to maintain a role when emotions ran high. And, the devil take it, emotion roiled and boiled around them like a hurricane at sea.
Part of him wondered. It was only one word, and yet it was a telling word. That she chose that one instinctively rather than the one she should have grown up with.
Another piece of a puzzle.
It didn’t matter, he told himself. Nothing mattered except exposing Stanhope for what he was. He forced himself to take a step back, then she released a long breath. Her throat moved slightly, and it was like the flutter of a fragile bird.
She was no fragile bird, he reminded himself. She was a calculating woman who’d made it clear that she had designs on an older, monied lord.
When he’d moved, her gaze dropped as if he had broken some invisible binding.
He took a deep breath and stood back for her to lead the way to the rented carriage. She stood, waiting for him to open the door and offer his assistance. Christ, he would be there in that intimate interior with her. He remembered that first time. He’d almost ravished her then.
His body started reacting again and he felt his already tight britches grow even snugger. His blood warmed and thickened as he opened the door and gave her his hand. She stepped lightly into the carriage despite the skirts.
He moved to the seat opposite her, knowing that it would not be wise to take the cushioned seat next to her. Her light scent filled the carriage, and he thought how pleasant it was.
“Merci, my lord,” she said.
“My pleasure,” he said and not as easily as he had hoped.
“I did take your warning yesterday,” she said.
“Then why are you attending tonight?”
“Why are you?” she challenged.
“He has a shipping company,” Gabriel said. “I have business I wish to do.”
“With a man you do not trust?”
“If I was a woman, I would not trust him,” he said. “I am not. I can watch over myself.”
“And you do not think a woman can take care of herself?” She took her fan in hand and tapped her dress with it. “I have been taking care of myself since I was seven. I am supremely good at it.”
He shrugged. “Then so be it.”
The carriage clattered through the streets. The air outside was cold, but the temperature in the carriage was charged. Hell, it was damn heated.
“You speak English very well,” he probed.
She looked at him sharply.
“You have a British background?” he persisted.
“Non. An actress learns accents.”
“I said nothing about accents.”
“You are being rude.”
“Am I?”
“You are judging me. Neither you or anyone else has that right.”
“No,” he agreed. There had been accusation in his questions. She was right. He certainly had no right to pass judgment on anyone.
But her eyes told him he was not being relieved of guilt with that one word.
“What kind of business do you have with Lord Stanhope?” She obviously hoped to turn the conversation toward him.
“I have an estate and no income,” he said lightly. “I am told Stanhope is looking for investors and promises a huge return.”
“Even if he killed his wife?” she said, slightly mocking his charges.
He stiffened. He had never told her that Stanhope had been accused of killing his wife, only that he had been accused of murder.
“Yes,” he said. “And what would you know of it?”
She lifted one shoulder. It was not quite a shrug. “I do hear things, monsieur.”
They were back to monsieur again.
The atmosphere in the carriage grew tense again. “And you, my lord, do you have a family?”
He was startled, then suddenly realized that she must be referring to young Elizabeth. “No,” he said. “I do not. No wife. No children. I have never felt the need for attachments.”
“Then last night …”
“That was the daughter of my housekeeper. She expressed a desire to see the gardens. She was well chaperoned by her mother and brother.”
“Oh,” she said, and he saw that little flutter in her throat again as her gaze searched his face as if searching for the truth. Or a truth. “I would not think a lord would care that much about his employees.”
“I have learned that loyal servants are important.”
She didn’t say anything for a second, then she sighed. “Who are you?”
“I told you. The Marquess of Manchester, newly arrived from America.”
“That I believe.”
“And what do you not believe?”
“That you are a fool?”
He bowed slightly. “I thank you for that.”
“Then why are you pretending to be one?”
He arched an eyebrow, regretful now that he’d left the maddening quizzing glass in his rooms. It was far more effective in showing disdain for a comment. “Now you give me too much credit. I am but myself. The papers call me an American bumpkin and I suppose that some believe it to be so.”
Her expression expressed disbelief.
“I am, in truth, a gambler,” he a
dded, “and often not a very good one.”
“Then why …?”
“Are you not one yourself? You must understand the compulsion to wager on the turn of a card.”
“It depends on the stakes,” she replied.
“Exactly. The higher the stakes, the stronger the compulsion.”
“And what do you consider high enough stakes, my lord?”
“Oh, an easy life, I suppose,” he said, yawning.
“You have not had an easy life?”
Bloody hell, but she was quick. He was glad he wore gloves and had every time she had seen him. His calluses would quickly give him away. “Easy enough,” he said. “But fortunes are built on gambles.”
“And fortunes are lost.”
“Yes.” Even he was aware that his voice had a tinge of bitterness that shouldn’t have been there.
The carriage came to a stop. A second later the coachman opened the door.
Gabriel stepped down and once more offered his hand to Monique. For a moment she hesitated as though she too feared another touch. Then she reached for his hand and stepped down, immediately turning toward the steps, where other fashionably dressed men and women were mounting and going through a door held open by a servant in livery.
Every eye, though, turned toward them, and it was as if a scene had been locked in time. A tableau of perfectly still performers.
Then movement started again. Eyes turned away.
She gave him an odd little smile, as if they shared some intriguing secret and took his arm and gracefully ascended the stairs.
The marquess was more and more an enigma.
He displayed himself as one thing. But his actions—at least with her—seemed to belie that role.
She doubted if others would notice. They would not care enough to do so.
She didn’t care either, she told herself. But since she herself was playing a role, she recognized the slightly off-balanced errors of someone else. He too was an actor, at least at the moment, but she did not know why.
She didn’t want to know, as long as he didn’t get in her way. Perhaps he used the facade as a defense. Or maybe he was trying to expand his wealth and thought playing a fool might give him more insight.
It didn’t matter as long as he stayed out of her affairs.
Once she escaped the interior of the coach, she felt herself relax. She was always at her best when actually playing the role rather than anticipating it. She knew exactly what she had to do tonight.
The first step would be to rid herself of her escort.
Stanhope was standing just inside the door, a pretty young lady beside him. His smile—cool and calculating, she thought—faded for a moment when he saw her, and her companion. Almost as quickly as it faded, it returned.
“My dear,” he said. “It was so good of you to join us.” He turned to Manchester. “And the Marquess of Manchester. I saw you the other evening at Vauxhall Gardens. Miss Fremont told me you had been of assistance to her.”
The man next to her preened. There was no other word for it. And he preened exceptionally well. Monique was impressed, especially since she sensed he had probably never done so before.
“I am indeed honored to be invited,” he said. “Mademoiselle Fremont was kind enough to consent to come with me. The most beautiful woman in London accompanying me to the home of such a famous and successful man is truly dashing. I am just agog with London.” He saw the flicker of distaste in Stanhope’s expression at his misuse of words.
The girl beside him, though, did not change her expression. A tight smile did little to enhance a fragile prettiness.
Stanhope turned to her. “May I present my daughter, Pamela? She is here from our country house for the season. My dear, the Marquess of Manchester and Miss Monique Fremont. She is opening in a new play in a few days.”
Pamela’s eyes flew open for a moment as she acknowledged the introduction. They lit for a moment, then the life left them.
Her sister. Something moved deep inside her as she stared into the pale blue eyes of her half sister. She searched Pamela’s face, looking for similarities to her own. Would Stanhope see any?
She stopped when her gaze returned to Pamela’s eyes again. Sad. Hopeless. No spark of joy.
Of course not. She lived with a man who was a monster.
Monique wondered whether he had killed Pamela’s mother, or whether there had been another wife. Lynch had only said rumors suggested he had been responsible for his wife’s death.
She wanted to take the young woman in her arms. She wanted to take her away from the man who stood at her side. Instead, she merely curtsied. “Lady Pamela.”
The girl smiled shyly.
“Please enjoy the evening,” Stanhope said abruptly, ending the introductions. His eyes ran over her as if he owned every inch. “There is music in the drawing room and food in the dining area.” He turned to her companion. “I would like to speak to you later,” he said.
“At your pleasure,” Manchester replied.
She forced herself to look away. Lord Manning knew what Stanhope was, and yet he was willing to do business with him. She wondered whether he was fully aware of what his host was capable of. Was he intending to fleece him? Why else masquerade as a Sapscull? If so, she feared he was choosing the wrong person.
It was none of her business now. He was her escort, nothing more. She need have nothing else to do with him after tonight. She didn’t like the way he made her feel, the new hunger he aroused in her.
He was a distraction she did not need.
And perhaps a danger to her sister. If Stanhope intended to use her …
She hesitated a moment in front of her half sister. “I hope I will see you again.”
Pamela smiled again, a sad small smile.
Stanhope looked from his daughter to her, then back again. “Perhaps I will take her to see your play.”
“I will make sure you receive two excellent seats,” she said.
Stanhope turned then. “Perhaps Lord Manchester would like to accompany us.” He looked expectantly at the two of them.
“Yes,” Manchester said. “That would be most pleasant.”
Monique looked from one man to another, then at Pamela. The smile had disappeared and something like fear had replaced it. Manchester’s acceptance had prompted it. But why?
No. The answer was there in the calculating look in Stanhope’s eyes. For some reason, Stanhope was using his daughter—her half sister—as bait for Manchester.
Manchester looked oblivious, but his gaze settled on Pamela. That seemed to make her even more uncomfortable.
Then another couple came through the doorway and Stanhope turned away, as, obediently, did his daughter.
She and Manchester walked into the library where there was less of a crowd than in the dining room. “She is pretty,” Monique observed once they were out of hearing of her father. She wanted an answer. She wondered if there was more resemblance between them than she’d thought.
“Is she?”
“You appeared to like the idea of accompanying them to the performance of the play.”
“You promised good seats,” he replied glibly. Too glibly.
She stopped, looked at him intensely. “You can have a good seat anytime.”
“I find it convenient to go with our host. Unless you have a reason I should not.”
She had no reason to give him. She couldn’t say that Pamela was her sister and she would not allow her to be hurt. She couldn’t say her father had tried to kill her mother, and herself. She couldn’t say that she was intent on bringing him to some kind of justice.
Jealousy. No. She would not give him that satisfaction, particularly since there would be absolutely no truth in it. She cared nothing about him. Nothing.
“Non,” she said. “I simply thought you might enjoy supper after the performance.” As soon as she said the words she regretted them. But she suddenly feared for the young girl, who looked so vulnerable and unhappy
.
“I would,” he said. “I shall see it twice.”
She wanted to kick him. But she couldn’t show her interest in Pamela.
“Will you bring me a glass of champagne?” she asked. She wanted him to leave her. He was much too disturbing. And she had things to do.
“Will you stay here?”
The dratted man could read her mind. “Yes,” she lied.
His eyes crinkled with amusement. “I will find you,” he said. He gave her a crooked grin that said he knew she was lying. He turned and followed a crowd of people heading in another direction.
She stood there for a moment, aware of the furtive glances cast her way. They must wonder why she was here.
She stepped back in the shadows. Aristocrats and then ladies. She and Manchester were the outsiders. Novelties. Welcome for entertainment value.
Manchester? Where was he?
She thought about going up the stairs, but she had no reason and the hallway was filled. She would be noticed.
Then she smiled to herself. Maybe she would wait for him after all.
She’d planned to spill something on her gown. But she would enlist an unsuspecting Manchester in the charade.
She smiled at a woman who frowned at her, then sniffed and whispered loudly to her escorts, “Another of Stanhope’s whores.”
Her husband shushed her.
Monique simply smiled sweetly. She didn’t really care what any of these people thought. She blamed them nearly as much as she blamed Stanhope. They didn’t care if a merchant’s daughter was destroyed by one of their own. For a moment her mother’s hopeless face was stark in her mind.
“Miss Fremont?”
Manchester’s voice closed that particular door and she turned around, her hand outstretched as she reached for the glass she knew would be in his hand.
Her fingers brushed it and the contents splashed over her dress.
“Oh,” she exclaimed.
His expression didn’t change.
“My apologies,” he said, but he didn’t look apologetic. One dark eyebrow was arched in question.
“You are clumsy, my lord.”
“So I have been told.”
“Will you ask someone to help me?”
“Of course.”
He turned toward Stanhope, but not before she saw that infernal amusement in his face.
Dancing with a Rogue Page 11
