The Danger of Desire

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Warren hunted the room for Delia and spotted her with her sister-in-law, the two of them holding up what looked like togas. No longer wearing mourning, Mrs. Trevor was more beautiful than ever, but it was Delia who drew his attention.

  She wore another horror of a gown—something that combined sprigged pink muslin with orange ribbons and enormous sleeves—yet all he could see was the animation in her lovely features as she laughed at something Mrs. Trevor had said.

  His chest tightened. It must be dyspepsia from his dinner. What else could it be?

  Determinedly, Warren turned his attention away from the two ladies to see Clarissa dictating instructions to a footman. He headed toward her.

  “What’s all this?” he asked as he approached.

  Breaking into a smile, she sent the servant off and approached to greet him with a kiss on the cheek. “You came! I thought you weren’t going to.” She drew back to look him over. “I would chide you for missing dinner, but I’m just so glad you’re here.”

  “And what exactly am I here for?” He surveyed the room. “Wait, don’t tell me. You and your guests are running off to join the circus.”

  She cast him a mock frown. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Taking acting roles at the Olympic Theatre? Planning to overthrow the government and reinstitute Roman rule? Starting a toga shop to be operated out of Stoke Towers? Edwin won’t like that one bit.”

  “Would you stop your nonsense and let me explain?”

  “By all means, explain. If you can.”

  “It was actually Delia’s idea.”

  Of course it was. “What has the chit done now?”

  Clarissa sharpened her gaze on him, and he realized what he’d said. For all Clarissa knew, the last time he’d seen Delia was when he’d danced with her at the breakfast.

  He hurried to cover his slip. “You do seem to think she’s in some sort of trouble.”

  “Is that why you paid a call on her a few days ago and convinced her to attend my house party?” Clarissa’s voice held a certain glee. “Yes, I heard all about it from Lady Pensworth. All the interesting little things you said to persuade my friend that you wanted her to go.”

  Damn. “You asked me to keep an eye on her.”

  “How very . . . diligent of you, considering that I had to twist your arm to do so in the first place. You said that you would only do it if I allowed you to beg off this party. And now you’re here to look in on Delia?”

  Uh-oh. “I’m here to see you, of course. I missed you in London.”

  “I’ve been gone two days,” she said archly, clearly not the least convinced.

  So he changed the subject. “Are you going to tell me what all this is about or not?”

  “All right.” Sparing him an assessing glance, she turned to gaze out over the room. “As soon as the Trevors and their aunt sent their acceptance, I invited them to come up earlier than the others today so we could visit a bit before the rest of the guests arrived. So while we were talking this morning, Delia suggested that it might be fun to have Jeremy do a sketch of the house party guests. She said we could even wear costumes for it, if we had them. I loved that idea, so we started chatting about it, and eventually we decided on a Roman theme.”

  He stifled his snort. “We decided? You and Miss Trevor?”

  “And Mrs. Trevor, who is a perfectly lovely woman. Did you know that she wants to try her hand at china designs for Wedgwood? Jeremy thought that was a fine—”

  “Clarissa!” he said sharply. “The costumes?”

  She sniffed. “Anyway, that was part of the reason we girls decided on Roman attire, since, as Delia pointed out, it would give Mrs. Trevor a chance to sketch some scenes herself. And Jeremy thought the whole idea quite grand, too. Consequently, Edwin sent servants off to London to borrow costumes from his friend who runs the Olympic Theatre, and there you have it. Part of our entertainment for the house party.”

  “I see.” Oh yes, he saw a great deal more than his oblivious cousin. Delia was manipulating the situation to her own advantage.

  Suddenly Clarissa huffed out a breath. “Oh, dear, those fellows over there are going to destroy the sandals with their tomfoolery. I must go.”

  And like the whirlwind that she was, she hurried off to lecture some reckless bucks in the corner.

  Warren took the opportunity to saunter over to where Delia now stood alone, examining a box full of headpieces that looked vaguely Roman.

  Moving up next to her, he said, in a low voice, “We missed you at Dickson’s last night.”

  She froze, then cast a furtive glance around them. “Keep quiet, for pity’s sake. Someone might hear.”

  “No one is paying attention to us. And I figured this might be my only chance to get you alone and tell you I brought the thousand pounds I owe you.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “And my pistol? Did you bring that, too?”

  “I’ll hold on to that for a bit. Perhaps it will encourage you to behave sensibly.”

  “By your estimation,” she muttered. “I think I’ve been behaving sensibly all along.”

  “You’ve certainly found a sensible way to hunt for your tattooed lord at Clarissa’s house party.”

  She flushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Weren’t you the one to suggest a sketch involving Roman attire? It’s very clever. Every gentleman’s forearms will be bared, and you can look for your sun tattoo to your heart’s content.”

  She shot him a suspiciously sweet smile. “I suggested it because Roman masquerades are all the rage. Didn’t you know?”

  “Hmm. I’m afraid I missed that bit of gossip.”

  Dropping her gaze to the headpieces, she said, “So, do you mean to participate in our little endeavor, too?”

  Her not-so-subtle reasons for asking roused his temper. “You would dearly love it if I said no, wouldn’t you? It would give you another reason to keep up your guard around me, because you could safely assume I am the villain you seek.”

  Glancing at him in surprise, she asked, “What makes you think I seek a villain?”

  He stared her down. “Because you wouldn’t hide your search if you were looking for someone trustworthy.”

  With a sniff, she picked up a gold-colored laurel leaf wreath. “An interesting theory. But you have no proof of any of this.”

  He bent to whisper in her ear. “Not yet. But I will.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.” With a frown, she moved away. “Impossible to have proof of something that doesn’t exist.”

  “Uh-huh.” Damn, but she was stubborn.

  And for some reason, that renewed his determination to unveil her secrets. Just seeing her again roused his blood more than any woman he’d ever met. Because any female who could come up with such a creative solution to her situation was a rare creature worthy of study. Worthy of sparring with.

  Worthy of marrying.

  He scowled. Don’t even think it. You know it wouldn’t work.

  Yet he couldn’t seem to make himself do the rational thing and leave the place. Instead, he followed her as she went to examine another box. “So when does your ‘little endeavor’ begin?” he asked.

  Relief that he’d dropped the subject of her secrets flashed over her face. “Tomorrow. Tonight we’re just picking out our costumes and such. Then, in the morning, Mr. Keane will begin sketching us in small groups, so the others can entertain themselves while two or three are being sketched. He says he can put everyone together later in one big image.”

  “I’m sure he can.” He picked up a helmet that was too warlike for his taste. “And what are you wearing for this grand sketch?”

  “You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

  Her coy smile threw him entirely off guard. He’d never seen her coy. He’d barely even seen her flirtatious.

  He enjoyed it. A great deal. He would like to see more of it.

  In that moment, he flashed on the woman she could be if s
he didn’t have to spend every waking moment worrying about how to take care of her family. He imagined a woman in her youthful exuberance, capable of teasing a gentleman and simply having fun with friends. A woman whose clever mind could be put to better use than card games. A woman who, in her full glory, could take society by storm. If only she didn’t have the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  To shake off that unnerving thought, he asked, “Tell me, Miss Trevor, what should I wear for this sketch?”

  Her pretty eyes brightened. “Why, Lord Knightford, you would trust me to choose your costume?”

  “Judging from the sudden glee on your face, perhaps not.”

  She tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and drew him across the room. “I can think of a few things I’d enjoy seeing you wear. Sackcloth. Ashes. Perhaps something called humility.”

  He chuckled. “Those aren’t very Roman.”

  “True. The caesars weren’t remotely humble.” She smiled up at him. “So I suppose we’ll have to settle for a toga for you.”

  “I’m game. As long as it’s not short.”

  She laughed. “Why? Do you have knobby knees?”

  What he had was a scar that might rouse comment. “Something like that.”

  “It can’t be that bad. I tell you what. If you let me choose your costume, I’ll let you choose mine.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise.” He leaned down to murmur, “Because my choice for you would be a costume too scandalous for polite company. Or better yet, no costume at all.”

  Sucking in a breath, she rewarded him with a vivid blush that set fire to his blood. Amazing that the woman could still blush after her weeks hanging about a gaming hell. He must provoke her into it more often—it turned her cheeks such a lovely pink.

  She released his arm. “Well, then, I suppose we’d best stick to choosing our own attire, since we can’t trust each other with even such a small endeavor.”

  “Not true. I trust you with many things, big and small.” Warren locked his gaze with hers. “It’s you who won’t trust me with a damned thing.”

  Swallowing hard, she walked off to approach a box overflowing with tunics and togas. “Oh, look, this one might fit you,” she said brightly as she held up some regal-looking approximation of Roman garb.

  She was changing the subject, her usual response when he tried to get at the truth. Very well. He would let her hide from him a little longer. Because this house party would give him the chance to speak privately with her aunt and sister-in-law as much as he liked, while Delia was busy looking for tattoos on gentlemen’s arms.

  If she wouldn’t reveal the truth, perhaps they would. Or at least they could give him some hints about how to proceed.

  So he would stay and stick this out. In for a penny, in for a pound. He would find out what the tattooed man had done to gain her ire, and then he would make sure that wrong was redressed.

  Then perhaps he could put this odd interlude out of his mind with a clear conscience, knowing he’d done all he could for her, and go back to his life of fulfilling his duties by day and wenching and drinking by night. Never alone, yet somehow always lonely.

  Funny how that didn’t sound all that appealing anymore.

  Thirteen

  Late the next morning, Delia wandered among the costumed guests gathered in the breakfast room, helping themselves to steamy heaps of shirred eggs, piles of sausages, towers of toast, and slabs of butter so creamy they could only have come straight from the estate dairy.

  But the food didn’t interest her as much as the costumes. While the ladies had dressed demurely, wearing floor-length tunics over their usual petticoats, with gloves hiding their hands and wrists, the gentlemen were more reckless. Some even wore the short-skirted togas that bared their legs from the knees down to the tops of their Roman sandals.

  And just as she’d hoped, their arms were all bared, since Roman clothing for men rarely had long sleeves. As she moved about the room, she paused to peek at a wrist here, a forearm there. Unfortunately, she hadn’t yet seen a single tattoo.

  She sighed. It had probably been too much to hope that the man she sought would be at the house party. Neither Clarissa nor her husband, Lord Blakeborough, who stood near the door as if debating how soon he could flee the melee, seemed the sort to associate with such a man.

  “I see that I’m late to the party,” said a loud voice.

  Delia turned to find Warren standing next to his friend by the door, wearing a short-skirted toga. Her heart nearly failed her. Warren did not have knobby knees, not in the least. And though his Roman sandals were the strapped kind that fully covered his calves, she could still tell that they were the well-muscled calves of a man who rode often and well.

  My oh my. Warren in Roman warrior costume was truly a sight to behold. The man would make Mars himself look like Prinny bursting out of a kilt. Roman gods would fight to look like Warren.

  Not that she was surprised he would be so . . . amazing in a toga. Warren had a way of putting every other man’s looks to shame.

  Lord Blakeborough said, “You know, old boy, if you didn’t always sleep until noon, even in the country, you wouldn’t be late to everything. But given that you stayed up drinking with Jeremy until the wee hours of the morning, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Have you ever known me to go to bed before dawn?” Warren quipped.

  “Can’t say I have.”

  It occurred to Delia how odd that was. Plenty of gentlemen stayed out all hours during the Season in town, but in the country? At a house party? Wasn’t it odd that Warren kept such late hours here?

  She had no time to contemplate that anomaly before he spotted her and headed her way.

  “Good morning, Miss Trevor,” he said as he approached. “You’re looking quite fetching in your costume.”

  Unlike some of the other women, she wore her sleek, floor-length tunic without petticoats. And she was rather glad she’d left them off when Warren skimmed her with a heated look that sent her pulse into triple time.

  The man had certainly perfected the rakehell stare. With any other man she would have laughed, but his stare sparked fires in the most intriguing parts of her body, which made it hard to resist swooning.

  Lord save her. Swooning, indeed. “You look rather well yourself,” she murmured, treating him to a similar assessment. “I see that you chose the short toga after all.”

  “I always live dangerously.”

  “You do indeed.” She sighed. “And lately so do I.”

  “I know.” He leaned close. “That’s what I like about you.”

  She fought a blush. This . . . thing between them was insane. Whenever she was near him, she lost all common sense. He had this odd effect on her that would surely prove unwise in the end.

  “It’s not by choice, you know,” she said.

  “Isn’t it? You could marry, yet you’ve discarded that possibility for the dubious chance of paying off your estate with your winnings.”

  “If I must choose between servitude to a man or servitude to Camden Hall, I choose the latter. It’s more predictable.”

  “As the owner of several properties, I can assure you that running an estate is not predictable. One bad harvest, and you’ll realize that.”

  She made a face at him. “Why must you depress my spirits? And just when I was beginning to enjoy myself.”

  “Were you? Then I suppose I shouldn’t show you this.” He brandished his arms for her inspection. “No tattoos. Did you notice?”

  “Of course,” she said, though she hadn’t. She’d never really thought him a possibility for her quarry.

  “Which gives you one more reason to trust me.”

  She glanced around, spotted a door leading out to the conservatory, and tugged him through it. As soon as they were at least partly alone, she said, “It doesn’t rule you out as the friend of the man I seek.”

  “I would tell you if I were.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. A ma
n like you, with lifelong ties to men of high rank, wouldn’t betray them to a woman like me.”

  He bent to whisper, “You’d be surprised what I would do for a pretty woman.”

  “Stop that,” she whispered back. “I know quite well that you say such things to every female you meet.”

  To her surprise, vexation tightened the corners of his lips. “Not exactly,” he said tersely.

  “You can’t blame me for thinking so. I’m not the one spending my nights in the stews.”

  “No. That’s Jack Jones.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Is it? Perhaps I’m searching for a woman with a moon tattoo.”

  “Very amusing.” She glanced into the breakfast room, but no one new had arrived, and she’d already looked over the guests who were there. It wasn’t as if there were hundreds of them. Stoke Towers was large, but not that large.

  As if he’d read her mind, he asked, “Have you found your fellow with the sun tattoo among the guests?”

  “Regrettably, no.”

  “Personally, I think you’re looking for something akin to a unicorn. But if I ever meet a man fitting your requirements, I’ll let you know.”

  “Will you?” she asked tartly.

  He eyed her askance. “There you go again, refusing to trust me.”

  “It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s all men.”

  “Because of your brother. And your father.”

  His insight startled her. “Perhaps.”

  Compassion showed in his face. “I’m not like either. I’m very forthright.”

  “Hmm.” She ventured a shot in the dark. “Then perhaps you’ll tell me why you never go to bed before dawn.”

  His face closed up. “I prefer the night, that’s all.”

  So there was more to his nightly habits than he would admit. “In other words, you don’t want to reveal your secrets any more than I do mine.”

  “You have secrets?” he said, with that smirk that said he’d caught her in an admission she hadn’t meant to make.