Some Like It Wild

by Teresa Medeiros

  By the time the night of the ball arrived, all of London society was in a frenzy of anticipation.

  Especially Pamela.

  The rest of her trousseau had been delivered only that morning, freeing her to choose her attire for the evening from a dizzying array of selections. With Sophie’s help, she had finally settled on a high-waisted ball dress of airy French gauze draped over a petticoat of ripe mulberry hemmed with not one or two, but three flounces that swayed like a bell with each step she took. Her puffed sleeves were gathered just off the shoulders, accentuating the arched wings of her collarbone and the graceful curve of her throat. Her square-cut bodice revealed only a tantalizing hint of her generous cleavage.

  Sophie had outdone herself dressing Pamela’s hair, coaxing the heavy coils into a profusion of loose curls and securing them atop her head with mother-of-pearl combs in a coif that Sophie assured her was the very height of French fashion.

  She looked every inch a lady, which didn’t explain how she ended up frozen in the arched doorway of the ballroom, her icy fists clenched inside her silk gloves and her satin slippers rooted to the parquet floor. She’d never seen her mother suffer a single moment of stage fright, but she’d heard sobering tales of other unfortunate actors who had been paralyzed by it.

  As her panicked gaze swept the crush of guests crowding the vast ballroom, all of whom would soon be gawking at her, whispering about her and finding her lacking, tiny black dots began to swim before her eyes. She didn’t belong on stage. She belonged in the wings, where she could applaud the efforts of others and safely hide from the glare of the footlights.

  But then the guests parted to reveal a lone man who towered head and shoulders over most of them. Pamela drew in a deep breath and the dots vanished, leaving her vision crystal clear.

  Had he been in attendance, Connor’s tailor would have been crushed. Connor had forsaken the elegant evening attire so painstakingly measured and cut for him in favor of the rich woolen folds of his kilt and plaid. Several of the female guests were already stealing peeks at his bare knees from behind their fans and doubtlessly speculating on what he wore beneath the pleated skirt of the kilt. He did the traditional Scots garb such honor that by morning half the gentlemen in London would be frantically summoning their tailors so they could order their own kilts and tartan stockings.

  Connor seemed utterly unaware of the stir he was causing. He only had eyes for her.

  As their gazes locked, a devilish smile curved the corner of his mouth, reminding her that it had only been a few short hours since he had slipped into her bedchamber and into her. Her fists slowly unclenched. Her feet began to carry her forward as if they had a will of their own.

  A harried footman stepped into her path. “Wait, miss! It’s not proper for you to proceed. You must allow me to announce you to the guests.”

  Recognizing him as the same servant who had tried to refuse her entry on the day they had arrived at Warrick Park, she gave his arm a fond pat. “That’s quite all right, Peter. I already know who I am.”

  As she swerved around him and began to wend her way through the guests, her chin held high and a smile flirting with her lips, she knew exactly who she was.

  She was a lady. Connor’s lady.

  By the time she reached his side, his smile had faded and he was scowling down at her cleavage. Bewildered by his expression, she glanced down at herself but saw nothing amiss. She’d never seen him gaze at her chest with anything but the warmest of admiration.

  “You’ve no jewelry,” he finally said, his scowl deepening.

  She touched her bare throat self-consciously. “I know it must look a little odd, but I didn’t want to spoil my lovely ensemble with a string of paste pearls.”

  “Don’t apologize, lass. ’Tis my fault. I should have thought to summon a jeweler along with all of those infernal dressmakers.” He cast a furtive glance around the room, an avaricious glint lighting his eye when he spotted a sparkling diamond necklace adorning the overripe bosom of a silver-haired matron. “Would you like me to steal something for you to wear?”

  Pamela’s husky ripple of laughter attracted several curious glances. “Given the way the woman is eyeing you, I’m sure the two of you could work out a trade of some kind.”

  Connor shuddered. “No, thank you. I have a better idea anyway.”

  Pamela’s laughter died in her throat as he reached back to his own nape, unfastened the delicate gold chain he wore, and drew his mother’s locket out of his shirt. She stood utterly still—hardly daring to breathe—as he circled behind her and draped the necklace over her head. The locket, still warm from his skin, nestled against her breastbone as if it had been handcrafted just for her.

  She touched her trembling fingertips to the smooth gold, knowing the locket hadn’t left his heart since the night his mother had given it to him so that he would never be able to forget who he was.

  His hands closed gently over her upper arms. “Once we’re wed,” he whispered in her ear, “I’ll drape you in a king’s ransom of diamonds and rubies and pearls. You can wear them for me when you’re wearing nothing else.”

  She turned to face him, her hand still pressed to the locket. “You can buy me those trinkets if it pleases you,” she said softly, “but this will always mean more to me than any king’s ransom.”

  As if on cue, the quartet of musicians seated in the corner struck up the first soaring strains of a Viennese waltz.

  Delighted to find an excuse to be in his arms without causing a scandal, Pamela beamed up at him. “Would you care to dance, my lord?”

  Folding his brawny arms over his chest, Connor smiled down at her with equal tenderness. “Hell, no.”

  “They make a striking couple, don’t they?” Crispin observed, joining his mother at the railing of the portrait gallery overlooking the ballroom.

  She was dressed all in white again. Like a bride. Or a ghost.

  “Indeed they do,” she agreed in a tone that was surprisingly amiable.

  Connor was standing behind Pamela now. Crispin watched as he gently rubbed her upper arms before bending his lighter head to her darker one and whispering something in her ear.

  “What did you do with that broadsheet I found?” Crispin asked his mother.

  She shrugged one pale shoulder. “Nothing of import. I simply made a few inquiries.”

  “And just what did you learn?”

  A smile curved her lips. “All in good time, my son. All in good time.”

  Growing weary of her little games, he shook his head in disgust and turned to go.

  She rested her hand lightly on his arm. “Never forget, my darling boy, that everything I’ve done has been for you. Everything,” she added, her meaning impossible to miss.

  He turned to gaze into her dark blue eyes, chilled anew by the absence of emotion within them. “That’s precisely what I’ve always been afraid of.”

  Sophie pressed her ear to the bedchamber wall, groaning in frustration as the distant strains of a Viennese waltz came wafting up from belowstairs. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see herself twirling around a candlelit ballroom in Crispin’s arms with every admiring eye fixed on them.

  She threw herself down on the settee, glaring at the door. There hadn’t been a single opportunity for Crispin to pay her another nocturnal visit. Pamela had rarely left her bedchamber in the past week, much less the house. Given the intriguing thumps and muffled moans which emanated from her sister’s chamber each night after the candles were extinguished and she believed Sophie was asleep, Sophie wasn’t sure she could blame her.

  She rose to restlessly pace the room. Pamela had promised her that as soon as she and Connor were safely wed, she would reveal to the duke and the world that Sophie was her sister and not her maid. Sophie hugged herself, smiling to imagine the stunned look on Crispin’s face when he discovered she was no lowly maidservant, but…but…the sister of a marchioness!

  Her gaze fell on the rejected gowns still piled
haphazardly on the bed. Instead of moping, she supposed she could make better use of her time by hanging them in the dressing room before they wrinkled. She certainly had no intention of pressing them.

  Feeling a bit like Cinderella after the wicked stepsisters had gone off to make merry at the prince’s ball, she gathered up an armful of the gowns. But when a lustrous pearl-trimmed bodice caught her eye, she let the rest of the gowns slide carelessly to the floor.

  The silk of the high-waisted evening dress had been dyed a rich cornflower blue that perfectly matched the shade of her eyes. Unable to resist the temptation, Sophie held the gown up to herself and waltzed over to the cheval glass to admire her reflection. The dress would have been all wrong for Pamela but it was perfect for her. Well, at least it would be if she could find some cotton batting to stuff the bosom.

  Humming along with the music drifting up from the ballroom, she swayed back and forth in front of the mirror before finishing her impromptu waltz with a graceful twirl.

  When she faced the mirror once again, she was wearing an evil little smirk. “She borrowed my gowns, didn’t she?” she reminded her reflection. “Why shouldn’t I borrow hers?”

  Before she could lose her nerve, she scrambled into the dressing room and tugged one of their old battered valises down from the shelf above the dormer window. The case was stuffed with discarded props they’d filched from the theater over the years, including the music box pistol Pamela had used to take Connor hostage. It didn’t take Sophie long to find exactly what she needed to complete her ensemble.

  Pamela pursued Connor relentlessly through the crowd, ignoring the avid glances they were getting. “What do you mean you can’t dance? I don’t understand. I’ve never seen a man so light and graceful on his feet. Why, you practically dance every time you move. Every time you move,” she added under her breath, remembering a particularly spectacular motion he had executed in her bed only that morning. He certainly couldn’t deny having rhythm.

  “My mother tried to teach me to dance when I was a lad. It did not go well.”

  “But any man who can fence and recite poetry as well as you should be able to dance!”

  He cast her an arch look over his shoulder, pointing out the illogic of that statement without a word.

  Pamela doubled her steps to keep pace with his long strides. “Why didn’t you tell the duke? I’m sure he would have engaged a dancing master for you.”

  “I almost killed the fencing master. Can you imagine what I’d do to a dancing master?” Connor groaned as he veered around a marble column only to find his path cut off by Crispin.

  “I need to speak with you,” Crispin said, his lean face grim.

  Crispin shot the portrait gallery a wary glance, but except for generations of glowering Warricks, it appeared to be deserted.

  Connor added his glower to theirs. “So what’s it to be this time—a duel of words or swords? I’m afraid I didn’t bring my volume of Burns, but I’m sure we could scare up a sword or two if watching you get your fool head cut off will entertain the guests.”

  “Please.” Crispin drew closer to them, his voice low and urgent. “I just need a few minutes of your time.”

  He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a collective gasp went up from the crowd.

  All three of them turned as one to discover a golden-haired goddess garbed all in blue framed by the arched doorway. The Venetian half mask she wore only added to her irresistible aura of mystery.

  As they watched, she rose up on the toes of her dainty little slippers and cupped her hand around the footman’s ear to whisper something in it.

  The footman cleared his throat uneasily before announcing, “Le Comtesse d’Arby.”

  Chapter 25

  It appears that someone is trying to upstage you,” Connor murmured, chuckling beneath his breath.

  Pamela’s amber eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Someone has been trying to upstage me since the day she was born. Why, the little vixen is wearing my new dress!”

  Within seconds everyone was whispering and pointing and gawking at the mysterious beauty who had been bold enough to wear a mask to a ball that didn’t require one.

  Crispin’s jaw had gone slack, along with the jaws of most of the men in the ballroom. He seemed to have forgotten all about his errand and its urgency.

  “If you’ll excuse me…” he murmured, drifting away from them and toward the ravishing creature in the doorway like a man sleepwalking through a beautiful dream.

  Pamela started to follow, but Connor seized her by the elbow and hauled her back. “There’s no harm in it. Let the lass have her fun.”

  A throng of admirers quickly gathered in the middle of the ballroom floor to gape at the new arrival. Before Crispin could even elbow his way through their ranks, rumors had begun to ripple through the crowd.

  The mysterious comtesse with the velvet choker fastened around her slender throat was a French orphan whose parents had been taken by the guillotine. She was an infamous courtesan who hoped to secure a position as the marquess’s mistress. She was a French spy who had been sent to wrangle secrets from the militia by seducing their commanding officers.

  Crispin didn’t hear a single person guess that she might be a common maidservant masquerading as a comtesse in her mistress’s pilfered clothes.

  When an eager young fellow tried to cut in front of him so he could reach her first, Crispin neatly hooked his foot around the man’s ankle, sending him sprawling to the parquet floor.

  “Forgive my clumsiness. So terribly sorry,” he murmured, stepping right over the man without breaking his stride.

  She had been expecting him. She didn’t even bat an eyelash when he caught her elbow in a possessive grip and urged her into the crush. “So is your mistress going to send you packing for pulling this reckless little stunt?”

  She bit her bottom lip, looking more coy than worried. “No, but she might very well spank me.”

  “She beats you?” Crispin was incredulous. As far as he was concerned, it would be criminal to leave any mark on such exquisite flesh.

  “Not even when I deserve it,” she admitted with a sigh. “But she has been known to send me to bed without my tea and biscuits when I’ve been exceptionally naughty.”

  As several provocative images of her being “exceptionally naughty” in his bed flashed through his mind, Crispin tightened his grip on her elbow, shepherding her into a curtained alcove and away from the prying eyes of his uncle’s guests.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, urging her around to face him.

  Now that they were all alone she didn’t seem nearly so bold. As he began to back her toward the wall, the feathers on her mask began to tremble ever so slightly. “You know who I am. I’m Miss Darby’s—”

  “—maidservant,” he finished for her. “And I’m the Prince Regent.” He planted his hands against the wall on either side of her head, making it impossible for her to escape his piercing gaze. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Sophie,” she whispered.

  “Sophie,” he echoed and somehow in that heartbeat of time before his lips descended on hers, it was enough for the both of them.

  Crispin felt a surge of triumph when he felt her clutch the back of his coat, not to pull him away but to urge him closer.

  “Sophie,” he breathed against her parted lips, suddenly finding it the most entrancing name in all the world.

  He drew away first, desperate to bring his rioting passions under control before he did something they would both regret.

  “How did you recognize me tonight?” She blinked up at him, her sultry blue eyes shadowed by the cat-eye slant of the mask’s eyeholes. “How did you know I was the comtesse?”

  Unable to keep his hands off of her despite his best intentions, he traced the delicate curve of her jaw with the back of his fingers. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to find you. I would have known you anywhere. Anytime.”

  She ducked her head, her unexpected sh
yness just as entrancing as her boldness had been. “I don’t suppose I made a very convincing comtesse.”

  “On the contrary. I thought it was a remarkable performance. Had I been at the theater I would have leapt to my feet and shouted, ‘Bravo!’ at the top of my lungs.”

  She slowly lifted her head, her eyes narrowing. “What did you say?”

  “I said I would have leapt to my feet and shouted, ‘Bravo’…” He trailed off, watching in alarm as the color began to drain from the bottom half of her face. “Sweeting, what is it?”

  “You!” she breathed, backing away from him.

  He followed her step for step, bewildered by the abrupt change in her demeanor. Before he knew it, they were on the other side of the curtain and beginning to attract a small but fascinated audience.

  She pointed a trembling finger at him. It didn’t take him more than a glimpse of her stormy eyes to realize it was trembling not with fear, but with rage. “You! I know who you are! You’re one of those miserable wretches from the theater who pelted me with rotten vegetables.”

  She reached up and tore off the mask, baring her face to him and the world. Crispin’s heart plummeted toward his shoes as he finally remembered exactly where he’d seen that magnificent face before.

  It wasn’t uncommon for him and a bunch of other rowdy young bucks to terrorize the town on a weekend. Usually their mischief was limited to seeing who could swill the most cheap gin without casting up their accounts on their shoes or tossing unsuspecting passersby into a horse trough. But on one fateful Friday night, when they were already deep in their cups, they had stumbled into a smoky, second-rate theater off Drury Lane.

  When Sophie had taken the stage, he had been just as transfixed by her beauty as he was now. Then she had opened her exquisite mouth and ruined everything.

  As she had stuttered out her lines in a wooden monotone, the theater had erupted in catcalls and hoots of laughter. Before he knew it, one of his friends had shoved a rotting tomato into his hand. He had tossed it without thinking, then felt worse than rotten when he saw that beautiful face streaked with tomato juice and bits of pulp. She had turned and looked right at him in that moment, her face proud and pale, her blue eyes darkened by accusation just as they were now.