“Oh yes, my lord.”
He offered her his arm, and they walked to the large central table in the dining room, where guests were selecting tidbits from the lavish board. He picked up two plates. “What do you like, Lady Pamela?”
“Anything,” she said as the crowd at the table stared at them with curious glances. He could feel her discomfort.
“Would you like me to choose?”
“Please,” she said.
“Why do you not find us two seats,” he said, “while I fill our plates?”
He watched as she retreated to an out-of-the-way corner and claimed one of two seats. He quickly filled the two plates, his brimming, hers not quite so full, and joined her. A servant offered champagne and punch. Pamela took the punch, he took the champagne.
“Thank you,” she said shyly.
“You are welcome. I am not fond of dancing, myself,” he said. “But did you not have lessons?”
“My aunt taught me,” she said, “but I have never attended a dance before. And all these people …”
She ate small bites, casting quick glances around the room. He, too, was aware of all the stares. He even heard some of the comments. He knew she did, too.
“It’s the American imposter.”
“Stanhope’s daughter. Never even been presented at court.”
“She’s been hidden away. There must be a scandal.”
“And Manchester. An imposter. A buffoon.”
All the words drifted back to them and her face grew paler. “They are looking at us because you are lovely,” he said, refusing to acknowledge the group cruelty.
She put her fork down and looked at him. “You are a kind man, my lord.”
He couldn’t remember when anyone had called him kind. He’d been a hard taskmaster both as a sailor and as an American naval officer. He’d plotted a long laborious path of revenge. He’d never been kind.
“Please do not convey that sentiment,” he said.
“Why?”
“I am a businessman, Lady Pamela. I am also a gambler. Weaknesses are deadly.”
“Is being kind a weakness?”
“In some eyes.”
“Then I shall keep that observation to myself,” she said. “But I do not understand how Miss Fremont can prefer my …” She cut herself off and looked down at her plate. Her face was flushed.
“Thank you,” he said.
She ate slowly, and he realized she did not want to go back to the chair where she’d first been seated. He’d understood immediately the social etiquette that had placed young, unmarried women in chairs to wait for the young lords to request a dance. It must be excruciating for someone like Pamela, who was already terrified of her father and obviously in love with someone she couldn’t—or shouldn’t—be in love with, to have to sit in the midst of a crowd and yet be so very alone.
But they could linger no longer or she would be ostracized.
A quadrille was being announced. “Will you give me this dance?” he asked. “I warn you though that I will require your help,” he said.
That was quite untrue. The shipbuilder who had hired him as a lad and promoted him had also insisted he learn the niceties of society. “It will be important if you wish to progress,” he’d told a much younger man.
However, he could fake being awkward easily enough. She nodded and accompanied him to the floor. Her face was stiff, her smile false.
He bowed and whispered, “Look in the corner. Doesn’t he look like a turnip?”
Her glance went to a gentleman dressed in a purple waistcoat. He was nearly as round as he was tall.
She giggled, and then the music began. He made a point of watching other dancers, even stumbled a step or two, and allowed an embarrassed smile. He leaned down. “I warned you,” he said, and he saw her visibly relax as she coached him. She was the teacher, and he saw that she warmed to the role.
Through a sideward glance he saw Stanhope and Monique dancing, and he admired their grace together. He would not have suspected Stanhope of being a fine dancer, but he should have. Stanhope was a man to whom mastery meant everything. He watched as Stanhope leaned over and said something to her. She responded with a quick smile that made his heart sink.
He turned back to Pamela. She too had seen her father, and he could feel the tension returning.
“Do not look at him,” he said. “Look at me.”
She gave him a fleeting smile, and then the music stopped.
He knew the rules. Pickwick had informed him when Gabriel had mentioned he had been invited to the ball. He could not dance twice with the same young lady without declaring his intentions. And Pamela was new to the ton, new to society. Even if she cared nothing about it now, she might someday.
He reluctantly took her back to the chair.
Then he saw Monique detach herself from a group of men and make her way to the ladies’ retiring room. Minutes later he watched her slip out unobserved by the group of men who were arguing as to who had the next dance with her. She slipped behind the backs of guests, then made her way out the French doors to the veranda.
Damning himself for recklessness and stupidity, he followed her. She stood alone, obviously lost in her own world. He saw her take a deep breath, then gaze upward at the cloud-filled sky. A cool wind and a slight mist evidently kept everyone else inside, but it seemed not to bother her. Instead she seemed to welcome it.
He moved toward her, reached out, and touched her shoulder. “Your dress will get wet.”
She spun around. “You appear at the oddest times, my lord.”
“I might say the same of you,” he replied.
“I see that you find Lady Pamela quite attractive.”
“She’s a very pleasant young lady. You seem to find her father so.”
She tossed him a challenging glance. “Do you really believe so?”
He could easily lose himself in those eyes. He would sell his soul to know what she was thinking at the moment.
From inside came the first strains of a waltz. Her body swayed in motion to the music.
“May I have the pleasure?” he asked, knowing full well that she might refuse.
“Yes,” she said simply, taking his arm.
She was as graceful and light as he had imagined. Her smoky gray eyes were barely visible through the light that filtered outside from the room’s candles. He could see them in his mind’s eye—sultry and mysterious—as he whirled her around the veranda.
His gloved hand felt the tight clutch of her corset but even then he thought he could feel the flesh beneath it.
She moved with him in perfect synchrony, as if they were made to dance together, the actress and the rogue marquess. As if they were the only two people in the world as they spun and whirled.
Then the music stopped and so did the enchantment.
He looked down at her flushed face. Bloody hell, but she was lovely.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “You dance well,” she added in a low voice.
“For an American?”
“For the man I just saw stumbling in the ballroom.”
“You inspire me.”
Her eyes widened as she looked beyond him. He turned and saw Stanhope coming out the door. “I will tell Lord Stanhope that I was giving you a lesson in the dance, and you are an apt pupil.”
He grinned. “You are an exceptional teacher.” She gave him a sideways glance just as Stanhope reached them. His eyes looked even angrier, if that was possible, and Gabriel wondered whether he’d noticed the energy that hummed between Monique Fremont and himself.
He had. His glance swept both of them. “Mademoiselle,” he said in a stiff voice. “I believe it is time to go.”
She nodded.
Stanhope turned to him. “Do not play with my daughter, Manchester. I am warning you.”
But Gabriel knew he didn’t give a damn about his daughter. He was warning him about Monique.
“Rest assured, Lord Stanhope,” he said. �
��I think your daughter is charming. I was simply keeping Miss Fremont safe for you, and in turn she offered me a dance lesson.” He stopped. “Oh, and I thought you would like to know that the funds are on the way.”
He bowed and turned away.
Monique could feel Stanhope’s fury. It was taking every bit of his willpower not to show it. But it did show in the carriage—in the way his hand clutched the handle of his cane.
She wasn’t sure where it was aimed. Possibly at her and Manchester, but she had felt it earlier as well. He’d been a powder keg ever since he arrived at her town house. Something had happened today.
She knew her half sister felt it, too. Her face was carved in stone, her eyes were full of apprehension.
Stanhope had originally planned to take them to two balls. The second, he indicated, was at the home of an important investor who had wanted to meet the acclaimed Miss Fremont.
“I think we should take your daughter home,” she said.
She saw him evaluate that proposal.
“Yes, Father,” Pamela said. “I am tired.”
He turned on her. “I do not care what you are. I asked you to keep Manchester interested and you …”
Pamela bit her lips. “Lord Manchester danced with me and escorted me to supper. You know any more would be …”
Stanhope turned on Monique, his face twisted with fury. “And you, madam, you made a spectacle of yourself with Manchester.”
Monique lifted her chin to do battle. “You do not own me, my lord. You left me to go off to your friends.”
“You had no right to …”
“To what?”
“What exactly is he to you?”
“He is nothing,” she replied. And that was what he was. Nothing. She remembered the way he had leaned over and whispered something in Pamela’s ear, the way she had looked back at him with something akin to worship. Moments later he’d done the same blasted thing to her.
He was a scoundrel and a womanizer, and she couldn’t understand why she still felt warm inside whenever his image invaded her mind.
Stanhope rapped his cane on the back of the carriage. It came to a stop and a small door opened. “Your lordship?”
“Stop at my house,” he said.
In minutes the carriage rolled up to the Stanhope residence. He stayed in his seat as the driver stepped down, opened the carriage door, and helped Pamela alight.
Pamela soundlessly thanked Monique with her eyes.
Then the carriage moved again.
She looked at Stanhope. “Where do we go now?”
“The Lancaster ball,” he said.
She watched his face. “Something is disturbing you. Surely it can’t be that one dance?”
“No …”
She waited for him to continue. She’d discovered long ago that a wide-eyed glance was more effective than spoken questions. Patience had its rewards.
But not tonight. Not with Stanhope. “It has nothing to do with you, mademoiselle.” His lips turned into what she supposed was to be a charming smile. “I am sorry I was abrupt. Some business matters.”
“I understand,” she said.
“We shall enjoy the rest of the evening,” he said. “It should be a sad crush.”
“Sad crush?”
“A crowded affair,” he explained. “Your English is so exceptional I tend to forget that you are French.”
“Merci, my lord. It is my training as an actress.”
“Of course.” He was all charm now, though she still felt the tension in him. “Now let me tell you about our host and hostess. The marquess is so looking forward to meeting you.”
“Will the Earl of Daven or Lord Stammell be present?”
He frowned. “They do not often attend such functions. I imagine they are gambling at White’s or some other establishment.”
She fanned herself.
“I understand you had supper with Stammell.”
“He is an interesting man.”
“Strange. I never thought so.”
“I thought he was your friend.”
“He is my business associate.”
“Tell me about your businesses.”
“It’s much too complicated and boring for you, my dear. Why don’t you tell me instead about your impressions of London? How does it compare to Paris?”
Gabriel left the ball. He had other plans tonight.
Even at one in the morning the city was humming. Boston went to bed at night. London was coming alive.
He wondered how anyone accomplished anything when a night of revelry ended at dawn.
Gabriel had caught a few hours of sleep earlier, knowing it would be a late evening.
His objective tonight was to find Stammel or Daven and relieve them of their money. He wanted Stanhope to believe they had reason to steal from him. A few large losses would suit his plan just fine.
He realized it was a balancing act. He had made a reputation as a bumbler, and now he intended to be a card shark. It had to be dumb luck.
He could do that.
He made his way from one club to another. He missed Daven by a matter of minutes at one establishment. Then he found Stammel.
The man looked up at him through squinting eyes as Gabriel reached his table. “Room for another?”
“Ah, Manchester, is it?” Stammel said with a gleam in his eyes. The other men at the Stable looked at him curiously. “Marsh is just leaving.”
One man looked surprised at the news, then nodded. He swept up some notes and obediently stood.
Gabriel sat down. “What are we playing?”
“Whist.”
“Cannot say I know the game well, but …”
Several hours later he leaned back, a cigar in his hand. A pile of notes and paper lay in front of him.
“A bloody good game,” he said with satisfaction. “Never won so much before. Hardly won at all, in fact. Fancy that!”
“You have to give us the opportunity to win it back,” Stammel said.
“I jolly will, but not tonight, gentlemen. I can barely see the cards for the champagne.”
“Tomorrow night?” Stammel persisted.
Gabriel shifted positions and gave him a shrug and eyed one of the pieces of paper in front of him. “Perhaps. In the meantime, when can I expect you to settle with me?”
Stammel’s face reddened. “A gentleman would …”
Gabriel stood. “I have other affairs,” he said. “Other business.” His glance returned to Stammel. “One does not gamble what one does not have. I will expect your funds at my lodgings tomorrow.” He gave the address, turned, and bowed to the others. “A fine pleasure, gentlemen.”
He found his cane, stuck his quizzing glass in his eye, and made his departure. Once outside, he looked for a carriage. He had several hundred pounds in his pocket and a five-thousand-pound note from Stammel.
Chapter Thirteen
Monique dreamed she was dancing a waltz. Around and around, faster and faster until her feet no longer touched the floor. The whirling became feverish. She wanted to stop but her partner would not release her.
She knew she could not continue, that she could no longer breathe, but he would not let go. He went faster and faster …
Then she glanced up and saw he wore a mask. It seemed expressionless at first, then painted lips turned into a sneering smile.
She woke. She was bathed with moisture and felt racked by a terrible anxiety. She tried to recall every detail of the dream but with every passing second it faded as though she were trying to grasp a piece of fog.
Monique hadn’t dreamed since childhood. She’d lived in fear as a child. Her mother’s own terror had transferred to her. She had vowed she would not allow fear to rule her life, and the only way to do that was to eliminate the source.
She rose and went over to the window. Dawn was breaking. She’d been asleep less than two hours.
Dani must still be asleep in the adjoining room. She had stayed awake until Monique had
arrived home, her face drawn with worry.
They had shared a glass of sherry while discussing the evening with Stanhope. Monique did not mention the waltz with the American marquess.
Stanhope had been the perfect gentleman the remainder of the night, after leaving Pamela at his home. They had gone to the second ball, and she’d been grudgingly dazzled by a home that was more a palace.
She recalled the distaste with which she viewed the elaborate buffets, which would probably feed a good portion of London. Even though the host was an older man with a very young wife, he’d made more than a few ribald suggestions every time Stanhope had left her side.
The evening had given her a glimpse of why Stanhope was as powerful as he was. He could be charming. But even under that charm, an undertone of violence lingered, a subtle reminder that he would do whatever necessary to get his way.
People respected his power, feared his ruthlessness. She could see it in their expressions.
She had gone to bed with Stanhope’s dark image mixed with the blond hair and green eyes of Manchester prying on her mind. She hadn’t been able to banish the feelings she’d had when waltzing with the American marquess. She remembered the possessive feel of his hand on her, the mischief in eyes that were usually expressionless. He’d been a superb dancer despite the stumbling attempts she’d glimpsed earlier when he’d danced with Pamela.
As much as he’d tried to convince her it was all her magnificent instruction, she knew better. He had both confidence and grace that couldn’t be taught. Not in minutes. Especially with a dance so new.
Manchester was a chameleon. He was hiding his true self, and there could not be an honest reason for doing so.
Of course, honesty was not one of her better qualities at the moment, either. Was it a simple matter of like recognizing like?
Or did the attraction between them run much deeper? And at what point did their interests clash?
She’d spent a long time pondering those questions before slipping off into sleep. And then the nightmare.
Was something telling her to be even more wary of Manchester than she already was?
Was he even more dangerous to her aims than Stanhope?
She only knew she had to avoid him.
The waltz was a mistake in every possible way. She still remembered the intense look in his green eyes, the slightly amused smile on his lips, the confident feel of his hands.
Dancing with a Rogue Page 17
