by Allegra Gray
“A very fine knight you appear to be,” the princess loftily proclaimed. “But I shall bestow my favor upon no knight who has not first proven himself in a quest.”
“A quest?” The sot fairly panted with eagerness. Graeme grimaced—and tried to ignore the surge of anger that this mysterious beauty might bestow her “favor” upon such a lout. Why should he be angry? He had no claim to her. He didn’t even know her name. Although the females at this masquerade seemed to be tossing their favors around rather liberally, Graeme couldn’t quell the fantasy of an Indian princess who chose him, and him alone, for such an honor.
“What sort of quest?” the knight asked.
Aware the princess was watching, Graeme made a cup of his hands, then held them up as though making a religious offering.
“The holy grail?” She sounded amused. “Yes, of course. The most time-honored of all quests. My good knight, it is the holy grail which I seek.”
“But men have searched in vain for hundreds of years, even died on that quest,” the knight complained.
“Oh. I see. I should hate to be responsible for anyone’s death, of course. In that case, I believe I should settle for a rose.”
Graeme wished she wouldn’t settle for anything—at least not anything involving the drunken knight.
“A rose for the lady. Indeed. My dear, I shall return promptly.” He swaggered off.
Graeme watched him go, the wisdom of the lady’s request sinking in as he observed the man look around in bewilderment, then head a different direction. This early in the spring, he was going to have a difficult time finding a rose.
He smiled. It appeared the damsel in distress had no need of his help after all. She blew out what could only be a sigh of relief, then walked toward the far end of the terrace. This time, he wasn’t going to let her disappear without an introduction.
"Well done.” He fell into step beside her. If only he could see her face. Did that veil conceal a smirk? Or fear?
“You.”
It was not exactly the enthusiastic greeting he had hoped for.
“I thought,” Graeme replied carefully, “you might be receptive to a more…proper…introduction.”
She tilted her head and gave a low laugh, then waved a hand through the empty space surrounding them. “Proper? Who shall make such an introduction? No one, and nothing, about tonight is proper.”
She sighed again. "I saw you, watching just now. Do you wish to pursue me as well? If you do, I must beg of you—please, desist. I am far too exhausted to engage in any further flirtation tonight."
Graeme was spared the necessity of replying to that unusual pronouncement, for her pursuer of moments before dashed up, frowning at Graeme. He thrust out his chest. "She was with me.”
"I am not with either of you," the Indian princess replied, her tone mildly irritated and her accent distinctly British.
The knight dropped to his knees before her and begged, "Allow me another chance to prove myself worthy—a man of culture and refinement. You are the most intoxicating woman to grace this event. If you leave…" He put a hand to his heart.
"Step around him," Graeme advised.
The princess nodded. She sidestepped and passed the over-ardent knight.
"Je suis desolé," he called to her.
The princess froze mid-step, swayed, then crumpled.
Graeme managed to catch her just in time.
He swept her into his arms and moved off quickly, though not without one blistering look at the swine who'd given her trouble.
He looked down at her limp form, unable to completely subdue his body's immediate reaction to her slim curves, the weight of her in his arms. Damn. This was a far cry from the introduction he'd hoped for.
What did one do with an unconscious Indian princess whose name he didn't even know? And who, for that matter, was not really an Indian princess at all? And what in the bloody hell had that fool said to cause her to faint?
A breeze lifted her veil. It fell away from her face. Moonlight reflected on a pale complexion, a light fringe of lashes and a pert nose. Beautiful.
Carrying her back through the ballroom would draw too much attention. He headed for a side door—a servants’ entrance, most likely.
There had to be a place to set the lass down without placing her person or her reputation at risk. Though, as she’d just pointed out, no one seemed overly worried about propriety in the Wicked Baron's home. Rather the opposite.
He managed the door, easing them both into what appeared to be a private wing of the home. The next door he tried led to a small music room. He spotted a chaise in one corner. Perfect.
As he transferred her weight to the chaise, his mystery lady stirred.
Charity blinked. Heaven help her, what had she done now? Just as quickly, she remembered. The stranger—her stranger—watched her anxiously. Well. He’d rescued her after all.
He was handsome, in a sort of unrefined way. Broad shoulders, strong jaw. He was so…so much a man. No matter how perfectly tailored his evening wear, no matter how fine the cuts of cloth, the garments could not transform him from strapping warrior to gentleman of leisure.
Even his forearms were thick, corded with muscle and sprinkled with hair. A rush of desire flooded her, so much that she lifted her hand to touch his arm, to feel his skin on hers, before she realized what she was doing and snatched her hand back.
A moment too late.
The door opened, and a giggle turned to a gasp. “Oh dear, terribly sorry!” a woman apologized, nudging the man behind her back out the door.
He peered around her, his gaze taking in Charity and her rescuer near the chaise, then returning to the ample bosom of the woman at his side. “What’s the problem?” he asked. “There’s plenty of room.”
“This lady is not feeling well,” her rescuer informed them. “You might find better amusement elsewhere.”
The other man looked skeptical, then shrugged. “Come on, Elsie.”
His partner giggled. As she left, she called to Charity with a wink, “I do hope he can make you feel better, dear. He looks quite capable.”
The door closed, and Charity released a horrified laugh. “She didn’t believe you for a second.”
He shared the laugh. “I daresay not. Though I spoke the truth. You are not well.”
“I am perfectly all right,” she insisted. “Better than all right.”
Graeme heard her words. But they were belied by the haunted depths of her eyes. He peered closer in the dim light.
Blue. Even in the dark they were blue. And even in the dark, there were shadows beneath them.
Her pupils were tiny dots in those oceans of blue.
He frowned. “We both know better. Have you had too much drink?”
“Only wine.”
“Is something else amiss, then?”
“Your concern is kind, sir, but I assure you I am merely overtired. I did not sleep well…last night.”
He sensed more to her story, but pushing would get him nowhere. He did, however, believe her claim of exhaustion. Even on the terrace, she’d told him she was too tired to flirt. “I wish to help you. Where are the people you came with?"
She scrunched up her nose as though trying hard to recall. "I cannot say exactly. Though they must be somewhere about. They wouldn't leave without me."
Graeme considered that—for about a second. "Well, you're leaving without them."
Her eyes flew open. "I most certainly am not."
He gestured impatiently at their surroundings. "We cannot stay here all night—already we must hope you were not recognized by that pair that interrupted us.”
“I don’t believe I know them.”
“Good. They definitely won’t know me. I am not from London.”
“Your accent. Scots.”
He nodded. “But my anonymity will not save you. Wicked Baron's masquerade or not, I've no intent of taking liberties with the reputation of a woman whose name I do not even know."
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Medford,” he replied, watching her lips quirk in a smile that acknowledged the odd circumstances of their introduction. “It is Miss Medford, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“A relief, indeed. Graeme Ramsey Maxwell, at your service.”
A tiny furrow appeared between her brows. “I know that name. Maxwell, Maxwell…Lord Maxwell. You’re an earl.”
“That I am,” he confirmed. “Now, as to leaving.” He quashed a surge of regret at the necessity of cutting their strange encounter short. “I shall see you home.”
“Pardon?”
“I cannot leave you to fend for yourself, princess, while I search out your friends.”
She pushed up on the chaise. “I am quite recovered now. I shall be well able to fend for myself.” The arm that supported her weight trembled. She followed his gaze to it and quickly shifted positions.
“Stand up,” he ordered.
“What?”
“Stand up.”
She put a hand on her hip and thrust out her chin. “Who are you to—”
“Since you insist you can fend for yourself, stand up.”
She quickly stood. Then swayed.
“As I thought.” He pushed her gently back to the seat. “Now that we’re through arguing, surely you can see there is but one solution here—we make an unobtrusive exit, and I see you safely home.”
How could someone look so mutinous and beautiful at the same time?
“How do I know you’ll keep me safe?”
He cocked his head. “You don’t. But do I seem inclined to harm you?”
She dipped her head. “I concede your point.”
“Good. Then, if I support you, can you manage to walk and appear merely intoxicated, rather than frighteningly weak?”
Her lips parted in surprise, and Graeme gave into the urge that had possessed him from the moment he’d seen her. He’d kissed her neck, yes, but now that he’d seen her lips…
He did it swiftly. Far too swiftly. The merest taste, and he pulled back. God. He could happily drown in that taste.
“What was that for?” she spluttered.
He smiled. “To seal the deal. Come on.”
Before she could remember he’d just insulted her by calling her weak and having the gall to kiss her, he took her arm and, steadying her, led her from the room. Along the way to the exit, he pointed at various portraits, rugs, and décor, bending his head toward hers and whispering silly commentary. To anyone else, there would seem nothing amiss.
Miss Medford walked with her eyes cast down, only occasionally flicking a glance up to smile at something he said. Almost as though they shared a secret. Almost like lovers.
They took the same exit back to the terrace and had nearly worked their way around to the front, where waiting carriages with drivers lined the street, when a turbaned woman strolling the opposite direction stopped in her tracks.
In a surprised voice that carried clearly through the night air, she exclaimed, “Miss Charity Medford?”
Beside him, Charity gasped, then took off running.
Chapter 3:
In which Charity is launched out of the proverbial frying pan and into the fire.
“Your Grace, I beg of you,” Lady Priscilla Medford said to her son in law, the Duke of Beaufort, as they traveled home from the Foxbeals’ ball in the duke’s luxurious carriage. “Charity listens to no one anymore, save perhaps you, as the benefactor whose generosity has propelled her popularity in the ton.”
Alex Bainbridge, Duke of Beaufort, silently reminded himself that he loved his wife Elizabeth more than enough to put up with her less-than-ideal relatives. “Charity would be quite popular regardless of my support,” he replied. “But what would you have me do?”
“Encourage her to marry,” her mother pleaded. “Soon. I thought last spring’s…experience…would have taught her a much needed lesson. But instead, the girl has grown wilder than ever. I truly fear, if we do not marry her off post-haste, she will do something to render herself unmarriageable.”
Alex didn’t bother to deny this prophesy. Truth be told, he was surprised it hadn’t happened already.
“The other day,” Lady Medford continued, “she informed me she’s rejected six offers. Six! Surely at least one of them came from a respectable source.”
Alex raised his brow. Indeed, all six had—but that had been last year, the Season when Charity had first made her bow. He’d quashed the many others that he’d deemed unworthy before they’d officially become offers. With Charity’s father in the grave, someone needed to look after his wife’s younger sister. Her laughing spirit and zeal for life—traits that won her the affection of everyone she knew—landed her in scrapes more often than not.
But this Season? Charity was still popular, to be sure, but with a different crowd. Not the sort of people amongst whom she was likely to find a loyal husband.
“She has my encouragement, but I can hardly force her to the altar,” he pointed out. “Nor would I wish to.”
“Perhaps she just needs time,” Elizabeth offered.
“You’ve turned soft since Noah was born,” he teased her, referring to their three-month old son.
“Well,” Elizabeth argued, “Charity chose to attend Almack’s with Mary Summers tonight rather than join us. “What better place for her to go, if we are hoping to see her married and settled?”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. Lady Medford nodded her agreement, though the tilt of her head suggested she remained unconvinced.
“Perhaps if you were to specifically endorse two or three young gentlemen,” Lady Medford suggested. “You could throw a party, Elizabeth, and be sure they were invited. It would still be her choice, of course…”
Alex didn’t point out that, since the last rejection two weeks ago, no one else had come knocking. Instead he tried to reassure the women. “As you said, she is at the marriage mart this very eve. We shall all simply have to hope fortune beams upon her there.” He refrained from making any additional promises. As much as he loved Charity, he had a feeling that what his mother-in-law asked now—reining her wild daughter in and convincing her to marry—was a task nigh on impossible.
Graeme took off after Charity as she ran from the masquerade, catching up and ushering her toward his carriage.
“Who was that—the woman who called your name?” he asked after they tumbled inside and slammed the door shut.
“It doesn’t matter,” she panted. “It only matters that she knew me. I’m not supposed to be here.”
Interesting. “I see. Where are you supposed to be?”
“Almack’s,” she admitted miserably. “Though I suppose the hour has grown too late. I ought to be home.” She gave him the address.
Graeme paused. Almack’s? That place was filled with young innocents and their mamas, and the fops who sought to marry them. Never mind that he’d considered paying a visit to the venerable marriage mart himself. A female guest of the Wicked Baron was an unlikely candidate for Almack’s. She’d recognized his name, too. Almost as though she’d studied DeBrett’s Peerage.
And then there was the matter of the address she’d just given him. Things weren’t adding up. Unless London had undergone dramatic change since his last visit, Miss Medford lived on a highly respectable street, home to some of London’s nobles. An unlikely residence for a courtesan, unless she were very discreet. Or very skilled. His gaze fell on the lush curve of her lip.
He swallowed hard, then repeated the address to his driver, cracking the door for just a moment.
When he turned back to her, she seemed to be assessing him. He cocked his head, waiting.
Finally she gave him a weary smile. “It was nice knowing you, however briefly, Lord Maxwell.”
“You wish that I s
hould not attempt to renew our acquaintance?” He frowned.
She gave a hollow laugh. “Fear not, my lord. Your gallantry tonight has not gone unnoticed, or unappreciated. But as to renewing our acquaintance, you needn’t bother. By my estimate, I have about eight hours to live. Possibly ten.”
“What?”
“That is about how long it will take before gossip spreads and one of my mother’s friends decides that the morning hour is decent enough for her to take on the ‘unpleasant’ duty—which of course she will greatly relish—of calling upon my mother to inform her of my whereabouts this night.
“It will happen earlier rather than later,” she said knowingly, “for whichever friend it is, she will not dare risk someone else beating her to the opportunity of being the one to relay such scandalous news.”
“Ah,” Graeme replied. Miss Medford not only resided at a respectable address, she apparently shared that address with her mother. Not a courtesan, then. The more he learned, the deeper the mystery grew. Just who was this beauty—and what had she been doing at such a masquerade?
“Actually,” she interrupted his thoughts, “could you ask the driver to stop just around the corner? I can see my own way from there.”
He chuckled. Having decided to play the gallant, he wasn’t about to leave the job half done. That would only rob him of her company sooner and deny him the answers he sought. “Miss Medford, it would be negligent of me to send a lady in distress onto the dark streets of London, alone. I consider it my duty to see you safely delivered home.”
She made an expression somewhere between a frown and a pout when he didn’t give her the answer she’d hoped for. But a moment later, a smile pulled at the corner of her lips. “You are far more chivalrous than the ‘knight’ I met earlier.”
He chuckled, absurdly pleased.
They sat in silence a moment. Her respectable address, not to mention her disapproving mother, made her off-limits for a liaison in Graeme’s book—no matter where they’d met. But he couldn’t suppress the desire that rose once more as he studied her slim curves in the shadowy carriage. Not a liaison. But a courtship? Was it possible he’d been drawn to the single true maiden attending the masquerade?
