Lord of Deceit (Heiress Games Book 2)

by Sara Ramsey

  Why in the hell was she a virgin?

  Why had she pretended not to be?

  And what was he going to do with that knowledge?

  He had always been singleminded on missions and in conversations — he couldn’t afford to be distracted. But where his control usually felt like an iron gate between his mission and his other thoughts, memories of the previous night kept slipping through the cracks.

  “I had other things to see to this afternoon,” he said to his sisters, hoping to quell them.

  That was a lie. He’d spent the afternoon rambling along the cliffs, trying not to think of Octavia. More importantly, trying not to think of why he’d run away from her — and why, as soon as he’d left, he had immediately wanted to go back.

  “Would those other things involve ghosts?” Portia asked.

  “Or Briarley heiresses?” Serena added.

  Briarley heiresses. They saw Octavia as an heiress — perhaps believed that Rafe was attempting to woo her, and win her, before any of the other suitors found her.

  A thought slipped through the cracks. If another suitor found her, would Octavia take that man’s offer?

  “Neither of those conversations are appropriate,” Rafe said. “Don’t you want to cajole me into taking you to Brighton?”

  Serena laughed. “We realized we can be far more useful here.”

  Rafe sipped his whisky and said nothing. It didn’t do to encourage them.

  Not that they needed encouragement. “If you and Thorington marry Briarleys, our family might have enough money that we don’t need to be so hasty in making matches. What can we do to help?” Portia asked.

  Rafe looked past them to see who might be within earshot. The rooms were too crowded for real conversation. Ferguson, the Duke of Rothwell, had approached Thorington and Callista with an annoyed look, and their conversation looked like it would be interesting — Rafe read the currents in the room like a sailor might read the sea, and he noticed how the people around that trio turned to catch what they were saying while pretending to maintain their own chatter.

  He nodded in their direction. “You should focus your efforts on Thorington. He needs your help more than I do.”

  They glanced at the group. “Thorington should be doing more to befriend Ferguson,” Portia said. “The duke is quite charming to everyone else. He would give his blessing to Thorington and Callista if Thorington made any effort to make an alliance.”

  “I doubt that,” Rafe said.

  “Ferguson’s sisters say he is easy enough to manipulate, once you understand him,” Serena added.

  “You should go manipulate him, then,” he said.

  But he lost that gambit. Thorington, Callista, and Ferguson suddenly left the drawing room together, headed for the hallway.

  “You cannot distract us that easily, brother,” Portia said. “And anyway, Thorington looks well and truly caught without needing our help. We can work on Ferguson’s acceptance of it later. You’re the one we’re concerned with.”

  They didn’t know it, but they didn’t needed to meddle with him. A memory slipped through the cracks — Octavia, with her siren’s voice, telling him he would have to take payment from her body.

  He took another sip of whisky and added another lock to the gate in his mind. The sisters claimed they couldn’t be easily distracted, but they usually could be if he encouraged them to bicker with each other. “Which of you has had better luck with the men here? Do you need me to talk to your possible suitors since Thorington is too busy trailing after Callista to notice what you’re getting up to?”

  It was a clumsy attempt. He couldn’t think of anything better, not with the rain and Octavia’s voice in his head. Serena wasn’t fooled. “Where is she, Rafe? Why isn’t she here?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Another memory. Octavia, with her hair tumbled over the pillows and her smile luring him in.

  He drained his glass and poured another.

  His sisters laughed. “At least tell us what really happened in the Maidenstone clearing last night,” Serena said. “You took us there. You owe us an explanation.”

  Perhaps it was the burn of the whisky down his throat. Perhaps it was the thunder that shook his concentration. Perhaps it was that feeling he had in his bones — the feeling that something was wrong, that some unexpected force was about to strike.

  He stared them down. “It’s not your bloody business.”

  Their faces weren’t identical — they had different fathers and different features. But the surprised look was the same. Rafe never snapped at them. But he couldn’t answer any of their questions.

  He needed to wait for the party to dwindle before leaving the drawing room. And anyway, he wasn’t sure if Octavia would want to see him. He also didn’t want to have the conversation he’d promised her. But he couldn’t stay away any longer. Maybe, if he saw her, he could exorcise her from his thoughts….

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He usually didn’t apologize, either, but he didn’t want to hurt them. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s someplace I need to be.”

  They were still shocked, but Serena straightened her spine. “You cannot avoid us forever, Rafe. Meet us in the morning to explain, or we’ll tell Thorington.”

  “Telling tales on each other?” Rafe asked. “Not very sporting.”

  Rafe didn’t want Thorington to know that the third Briarley heiress was nearby — or that Rafe had kept her a secret from everyone. His sisters likely guessed that. Portia smiled smugly. “Enjoy whoever it is you’re meeting with,” she said, in a voice that said she was thinking of secret romances and pretty fairytales. “But don’t try to avoid us tomorrow.”

  He nodded curtly as he set aside his glass. He was already thinking, again, of Octavia, and whether it would be giving away too much to ride over to her in a storm like this — whether it would suggest feelings that he didn’t, or couldn’t, have.

  As it turned out, he didn’t have to brave the storm. A collective gasp from the other drawing room drew his attention. With his previous observations, he would have guessed it had something to do with Thorington and Ferguson. But this gasp was more shocked — as though one of Maidenstone’s ghosts had returned to startle them.

  Which, he supposed, was almost true.

  Octavia stood in the doorway.

  The light framed her, adding a burnished glow to her dark hair and a wild glint to her eyes. Her light pink dress was a shade a debutante might wear — but the cut was daring and the fabric was damp enough that it clung to her legs almost indecently.

  Her body looked made for seduction. But her face looked made for murder. She swept a gaze over the assembled crowd. A hush descended on the drawing room. Everyone knew who she was — and those who didn’t were quickly informed, in the quietest whispers, by those who did.

  She looked briefly, directly, at Rafe. She gave him only the slightest nod before continuing her slow survey of the room.

  Thunder rumbled, matching the faster tempo of his heartbeat.

  “That answers the question of where she is,” Serena murmured to Portia.

  Rafe wanted to drag Octavia from the room. He wanted to ask why she was here. He wanted to gut the man nearest him, who must have said something inappropriate to elicit muffled, lewd chuckles from his companions.

  He wanted to strip her out of that dress and make love to her again — better, this time, now that he knew to go slowly, to give her time to adjust to him and take more pleasure for herself.

  But he’d been on missions that had gone badly before. He couldn’t do anything now, save for waiting it out and trying not to betray himself. He couldn’t reveal to anyone that he knew where Octavia had been.

  And he couldn’t, yet, reveal to Octavia that he wanted to be nowhere as badly as he wanted to be next to her.

  That thought startled him. He shoved it back behind the gate in his mind.

  He retrieved his glass and splashed more whisky
into it. He would be truly foxed, for once, if he wasn’t careful — but if he couldn’t go to Octavia, he needed a drink.

  “Are you no longer meeting someone?” Serena asked innocently.

  “Go to the devil,” Rafe said.

  His sisters laughed. But they sounded sympathetic. And for once, so unexpectedly that he would have thanked them for it if he had thought to, they stopped meddling and left him alone.

  Left him alone to observe the currents and the way the room adjusted to this new, extremely unexpected development.

  Lucretia stood with Lady Maidenstone and Anthony. She had looked wan even before Octavia’s arrival. The party had taken a toll on her. She didn’t have Lady Maidenstone’s serenity or Callista’s joy to see her through the strain of what was, after all, a difficult situation. Rafe hadn’t paid much attention to her the past few days, other than to note any changes to her mood that might affect the party.

  But he had observed her enough to know that the look on her face was unexpected. She wasn’t angry. He had missed the crucial moment when her face might have told him everything, since he had stared at Octavia like a lovelorn schoolboy rather than immediately assessing the room. But even though the first shock was over, her face was still too open to protect her.

  She looked sad. Resigned, even. And, oddly, maybe even relieved.

  Octavia walked straight toward her. Lucretia held still like a soldier facing an enemy charge — training and backbone overcoming the very obvious instinct to turn and flee. But her hands trembled. If she’d held a gun, she might not have been able to fire straight.

  Octavia wouldn’t have had that problem. He could tell that she was angry, but she walked with a slow, measured tread across the drawing room. The crowds parted in front of her, yielding to her inexorable force.

  “Lucretia,” she said, when she came to a stop in front of her. Her voice carried easily in the silence that had fallen over everyone else. “I apologize for my late arrival, but it seems that my invitation was lost. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve come to stay for the duration?”

  Then she kissed Lucretia on the cheek. It might have been a cousinly gesture — to the assembled crowd, it looked friendly enough.

  But Lucretia flinched as though she’d been struck. “When did you…?”

  Lady Maidenstone laid a hand on Lucretia’s arm. Rafe hadn’t paid attention to the widow, but a glance told him that she wasn’t as surprised as she should have been by Octavia’s arrival. She said something to Lucretia, too low to be overheard.

  Lucretia’s jaw set. Color returned to her cheeks. The switch from resignation to anger added life to her eyes. She wasn’t as dazzling as Octavia or as unconventionally charming as Callista, but she could be appealing when she wasn’t as withdrawn as she usually was.

  “Welcome home, Octavia,” she said. “You’ll find your room in order.”

  Then she turned her back on Octavia, giving her the cut direct.

  Rafe wanted to intervene, try to smooth things over, try to charm the crowd. Or, more importantly, to kiss Octavia until the hurt look in her eyes faded into something else.

  But he sipped his whisky and watched.

  Watched too closely, perhaps. There were others in the crowd who were capable of observation, even if their skills didn’t match his own.

  Octavia shrugged when Lucretia cut her, as though she had expected it. But Rafe thought Lucretia had miscalculated. Octavia had made a gesture of peace and Lucretia had refused it. That refusal would endear Lucretia to the most prudish women in attendance, who would die before accepting a connection with someone as ruined as Octavia was.

  But some of the women and most of the men eyed Octavia as though they were curious, not horrified.

  Octavia looked around, apparently deciding which person she might safely approach without being cut again. It was crucial for her to choose correctly — once another person cut her, the crowd was more likely to turn against her. She might find nothing but turned shoulders and petty whispers.

  She made brief eye contact with Rafe, but she didn’t come to him.

  He wanted to go to her. To show the crowd that he accepted her — that they could accept her, and adore her, despite her reputation.

  But he didn’t have to. After a pause that was almost too long, Ferguson’s wife Madeleine approached Octavia, greeting her as though she was delighted to see her. Rafe relaxed slightly. The duchess’s acceptance was far more important than his.

  He could focus his efforts instead on the shadows, where he worked best. A few carefully placed words and compliments, a few new rumors, a few reinterpretations of old stories — he could turn his skills toward changing her reputation from the background.

  Not that it would be easy. If it was only the matter of her ruin four years earlier, he could have done that in his sleep. But she had been Somerville’s mistress — it was a lot to ask their peers to accept her. Even if Madeleine fully accepted her, there would be others who wouldn’t.

  He lingered on the side of the room, watching. The eddies and currents shifted, adjusting to the new formation created by Octavia’s arrival. She was suddenly the center of everything — a whirlpool that drew some in. Others stayed well back, assessing the danger.

  He could guess what they were all thinking. Would a would-be suitor stand a better chance if he approached her immediately, as if he didn’t care about her reputation? Or was it better to wait and see whether she was more well-behaved than she had been? And should the women give her the cut direct, as they always had in London? Or should they follow the duchess’s lead and accept her to avoid incurring Ferguson’s displeasure?

  Octavia stood at the center of that, seeming entirely unaffected. She didn’t need Rafe to play the knight in shining armor. Which was a good thing, since that wasn’t a role Rafe knew how to play.

  He ignored the realization that he wanted to play that role for her.

  However, he wasn’t the only person watching the scene. Ferguson, Thorington, and Callista had returned to the room immediately after Octavia’s arrival. Ferguson joined his wife almost immediately after Madeleine started talking to Octavia. He seemed entirely charmed by her — which the other suitors would notice, even if they didn’t have Rafe’s skills at observing a crowd. If Callista had already been lost to Thorington, as most of them assumed she was, and Octavia had more of Ferguson’s affections than Lucretia did, Octavia would be inundated with offers.

  Rafe clenched his hand around his glass as the first men approached her. He reminded himself that this was a good thing. They should stop trying to ruin the party and let Octavia direct her efforts toward winning outright.

  But ruining the house party had been fun — the most fun he’d had in ages.

  Watching Octavia marry someone else was not his idea of fun.

  In his dark ruminations, he stayed still for too long. It was an amateur mistake. He never should have displayed that much interest in her arrival.

  Ferguson had seemed to be entirely occupied with welcoming Octavia. But a few moments later, he walked to Rafe’s side. “You depress me, Lord Rafael,” Ferguson said, pouring himself a whisky from the decanter.

  Rafe had met Ferguson many times in London and spent a week watching him at Maidenstone. He knew the man’s tricks — and he guessed that Ferguson and Thorington didn’t like each other in part because they were too similar. So Rafe used the same humor he would have used to manage Thorington. “I would inquire as to how I have depressed you, but I doubt that it would be enlightening.”

  Ferguson acted affronted. “I am always enlightening.”

  Rafe watched the currents shift again. His sisters had joined Octavia’s circle — those daring minxes should have known that unmarried ladies would be judged far more harshly for associating with her than married ladies would be.

  “Where are your witty responses?” Ferguson asked. “You seem distracted.”

  Rafe’s instincts came to life, too late. He had revealed too m
uch of what he cared about, in a place where such information could harm him — and in a place where such information could harm Octavia.

  If the gossips knew that she had shared her bed with Rafe less than twenty-four hours before, they would be merciless in their assessment of her character.

  He turned to Ferguson, already regretting that last glass of whisky. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Miss Briarley’s arrival has shocked everyone. How have I depressed you, since you seem to want me to ask that question?”

  “I am depressed because I cannot stomach the idea of letting Maidenstone go to your family. Just when I think I’ve warned off Thorington and Callista, you stand here looking at Octavia like you can barely stand to be apart from her. It’s good that Lord Anthony has no interest in Lucretia, or I’d have to burn the abbey down and walk away.”

  Damn. It was too late to change whatever Ferguson had seen on his face, but there was still hope that he could change the perception of it. “Neither Anthony nor I have any designs here,” Rafe said. “But if you must burn the abbey, evacuate the wine cellar before you do.”

  Ferguson wasn’t easily fooled. “I’m sure Lord Anthony wants nothing to do with marriage, or with Lucretia. But I trust you’ll believe me when I say that I will not condone a union between you and Octavia.”

  “I wasn’t aware that I asked for a union with Octavia,” Rafe said blandly.

  Ferguson gestured in her direction. Rafe didn’t turn. He didn’t need to look at her to guess what he would see. She was already on her way to conquering the party. With the possibility of a fortune and a house attached to her, along with her indomitable personality, she could win over enough people to make a life for herself. As long as she behaved impeccably, and as long as she inherited Maidenstone, she might find acceptance.

  If she misbehaved, or if she didn’t inherit….

  “She needs this,” Ferguson said, his voice low. “I don’t know her, and I don’t know why she didn’t come to the party before this — I was led to believe that she didn’t want to. But I know of her. And I would guess that the circumstances of her ruin weren’t fair. If she wants to return to society, this is her best chance.”