Stolen Kisses

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Miss Benton,” he said, as his gaze reached her eyes. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” He reached for her hand, but with a slight start she put them both behind her and took a step backward.

  Emerald eyes looked directly into his. “I am appreciative that your quite…thorough perusal of my person has deemed me adequate for you to converse with, my lord. However, I have perused your reputation—and find you to be someone with whom I do not wish to be acquainted. Good evening.” She turned her back and walked away to rejoin her admirers.

  Jack stood where he was for a moment, flabbergasted. The chit had actually cut him. Miss Sanford uttered something unintelligible, gave him a quick curtsey, and hurried away as well. The movement roused him, and he glanced down at his outstretched hand and slowly lowered it again.

  His wild reputation generally made him a titillating guest for the more daring hostesses, on the rare occasions he attended their balls and soirées. Females might be wary of him, but never did they insult him to his face. The cut had certainly been seen; he could already hear the wave of quiet snickers and giggles going about the assembly room. Black anger and frustration burned deep in his chest and down his veins to his clenched fingers. She’d felt the attraction between them, too; he knew it. And she had just cut the wrong man.

  Jack stalked back to his cronies.

  Price took one look at his face and began shaking his head. “She’s a mere babe, Jack. Leave it be.”

  “Why do they call her the Ice Queen?” the marquis asked Camilla tightly.

  She gave a slow smile. “Much as you like to keep up on things, I can’t believe you haven’t heard of her. Her mother was Elizabeth Benton, Viscountess Hamble.” She raised a painted eyebrow at his dark, unchanged expression. “No? Shame on you, Jack. Lady Hamble’s the one who took up with the Earl of Greyton and ran off from her family six or seven years ago.”

  That explained his ignorance. “I was in France,” he said. Camilla’s smile faltered. “Continue.”

  “Jack,” Price began again.

  Landon snapped his fingers. “I remember. Greyton needed a bankroll to edge off the hawks—he was near bankrupt. Thought Lady Hamble was plump in the pockets and won her off. Turned out everything was in her husband’s name, though, and she hadn’t a feather to fly with. He left her in Lincolnshire and married Lady Daphne Haver a week later. She’s hare-lipped, but her papa was so pleased to get her off that he bought Greyton out of twig.”

  “Lord Hamble pulled the family out of London,” Camilla took up the tale. “When she came begging back, he turned her away. She died a few months later of some illness, but he hasn’t been back in town since. Now that the Ice Queen’s come of age, she’s out to restore the family’s good name.” She snickered. “And believe me, she’s the one to do it—Little Miss Respectable.”

  Jack looked across the room again. She was waltzing with the Earl of Nance, and Jack glowered as he watched the pair for a few moments. She hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction since the cut, and he wondered if she thought she had disposed of him. Her second mistake of the evening. “Is that her father who came in with her?”

  Lady Maguire nodded. “And the other’s her brother, William.”

  “He’s the one I took two hundred pounds off of at the Navy Club the other night,” Landon supplied. “Boy doesn’t know a damned thing about cards.” He grinned. “I’m meeting him at Boodle’s later.”

  “Jack,” Price pleaded again, “for God’s sake, d—”

  “You said you weren’t interested in making a purchase,” Dansbury snapped. “Has that changed?”

  “Well, no,” Price hedged, “but you can’t mean to—”

  “Then leave off or go away,” Jack continued blackly. He forced a slight, dark smile. “I’ve a game in mind.”

  “I knew it,” Landon chuckled. “She won’t be respectable for long.” He turned to Price. “One hundred quid says the Ice Queen’ll be warming our Jack of Spades’ bed by the end of the Season.”

  “That wee small-breasted thing?” Camilla laughed gratingly. “Jack wouldn’t bother. Besides, she doesn’t want to be warmed. She hates mischief, and she’s already worried that her brother’s going astray in London.” She tugged at Jack’s sleeve. “Let’s go,” she cajoled. “You hate it here, anyway.”

  Jack’s eyes flicked to the brother. The tall, tawny-haired boy looked fresh down from university, and from his expression was chomping at the bit to do something bold and reckless.

  “Astray and mischief are my specialties, my dear.” He disengaged himself from Lady Maguire. “Perhaps I might lend a hand.”

  “Jack,” she wailed.

  “Don’t worry, Cam. Price will see you home.” He made a mental note to send her a diamond something-or-other in the morning to quell any inconvenient feelings of jealousy and to keep her quiet until she found her next true love.

  Jack could be very patient, and he had every intention of seeing to it that the Ice Queen was thoroughly melted by the end of the Season. Another line from Shakespeare crept into his thoughts, and he smiled grimly. “‘Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war,’” he intoned, then winked at Ernest. “I’ll join you and young William Benton at Boodle’s, I think.”

  Chapter 2

  “There’s Mary Fitzroy,” Penelope Sanford said, leaning over to whisper into Lilith Benton’s ear. “Do you think she’s heard about last night, yet?”

  “Shh, Pen.” Lilith kept her eyes directed toward the front of the room, where Lady Josephine Delpont played Für Elise on the pianoforte. The piece was a particular favorite, despite the mediocre interpretation. “I’m listening.”

  “But Lil, Mary will faint dead away when she hears what you said to the Marquis of Dansbury.”

  With a put-upon sigh, Lilith glanced at her friend. “I would be quite content if you never mentioned last night or the Marquis of Dansbury ever again,” she said in a hushed voice. “It was simply a brief, unfortunate encounter, and it is over with.”

  “It was spectacular,” Pen insisted stubbornly. “I wish I had been as bold.”

  “I was not bold,” Lilith protested, scowling. On her other side, Aunt Eugenia sniffed and glared at her. Lilith quickly wiped the expression from her face and straightened. As her aunt had lectured her a thousand times, a lady did not scowl during a recital, lest those present think her jealous of the performer.

  When the piece ended Lilith joined in the polite applause, and Eugenia Farlane stood. “You girls may go to the refreshment table,” she instructed, in her clipped, dry voice. “Nibble only, of course. I must go congratulate Lady Delpont on Lady Josephine’s fine performance.” A brief wince contorted her pale, thin features. “One can only hope the final piece is slightly more suited to her talents.”

  Lilith curtsied. “Yes, Aunt.”

  As soon as she was out of sight, Penelope tugged on Lilith’s hand. “Come on, let’s go find Mary.”

  “Pen, no,” Lilith said, exasperated. “The sooner this is forgotten, the better.”

  Grinning, Pen clasped her hands in front of her like an opera diva. “‘My lord, I have perused your reputation and have no wish to converse with you.’ Oh, Lil, I thought he was going to pull out a pistol and shoot you dead, right in the middle of Almack’s.”

  Lilith glanced over her shoulder, but thankfully, Aunt Eugenia and Lady Delpont remained deep in conversation. Her aunt would have nothing but harsh words for gossip concerning someone of Dansbury’s ilk. Since her mother had left and her aunt had come to live with them, Mrs. Farlane had had her share of harsh words for Lilith, as well. Stephen Benton had made a mistake in marrying Elizabeth Harding, and Eugenia made it her personal mission to see that the Benton name was restored. Sometimes Lilith wished she wasn’t quite so religious about it. “I couldn’t very well have him speaking to me, Pen, but shooting me?” she continued skeptically. “For heaven’s sake, don’t be so melodramatic. I imagine proper folk refuse to speak to him all the time.”

/>   “I don’t think they do.” Miss Sanford led the way toward the crowded refreshment table. “Actually, I don’t think he speaks to proper folk very often. I saw him only three times all last Season.” She stifled a giggle beneath an embroidered handkerchief. “But then, I don’t frequent clubs and gaming hells.”

  Finally Lilith smiled. “You’re being completely silly, now. I truly don’t wish to speak of him any longer.”

  “But you absolutely cut him,” Pen insisted, taking her arm again, “and I must tell Mary about it.”

  “Oh, Pen, please don’t,” Lilith protested again, to no avail.

  Mary seemed quite impressed when Penelope cornered her and animatedly related the tale. Lilith had heard stories about the marquis before she’d ever set foot in London: wild stories of duels and drinking and gambling and womanizing. Though she’d never expected to meet him, she had imagined him to be half panther and half devil, provoking stark terror in every proper female he approached.

  Yet she hadn’t been terror stricken in the least. Mesmerized, perhaps—at least momentarily. He certainly looked like a devil, wearing stark black with no ornamentation to speak of, drawing her attention simply by virtue of his dark, commanding presence and his dusky, bewitching eyes.

  The Marquis of Dansbury was tall, with dark, wavy hair a little longer than the current fashion, high cheekbones, and curved, sardonic eyebrows. She had kept her hands clenched behind her back so he wouldn’t see them shaking when he spoke to her in that deep, musical voice. And until Penelope had informed her who he was, she had very much wished to meet him. To her continuing vexation, she couldn’t stop thinking about him, and wondering what it would be like to be the focus of someone as wild as he was.

  “Lilith, you are so brave,” Miss Fitzroy gushed, fanning her face. “I don’t know what I would have done if he had approached me.”

  “It was nothing,” Lilith insisted, growing a bit impatient with the continuing adulation. She glanced over her shoulder to see that Mrs. Pindlewide had just wandered into earshot. “And please don’t tell anyone else what transpired,” she continued in a hushed voice. “If they saw anything last night, they would merely assume that he asked for a dance and that I gave him my regrets because my card was full.”

  “But Lilith, weren’t you terrified?”

  Lilith furrowed her brow. “Why in the world would I be terrified?”

  “Don’t you know? He killed a woman once for slighting him.”

  For a moment Lilith froze, remembering the glitter of anger in those dark eyes. She forced a disbelieving smile. “I’m certain that’s not true.”

  “Oh, but it is,” Penelope put in. “In France, six or seven years ago. My cousin Samuel told me all about it. She insulted him, and he was very drunk, and he shot her dead.”

  Then he was the dark, amoral demon those stories made him out to be. A flash of disappointment surprised her. “I suppose I should be grateful that he wasn’t drunk last night, then.”

  She wondered again what in the world had possessed her to speak to him in the first place. Simple silence or a polite nod and a greeting would have sufficed just as well—much better, in fact. Though from all accounts, the Marquis of Dansbury was not someone to be politely disposed of.

  Why had she encouraged him to approach? She had no business staring at a complete stranger—but once their eyes had met, it had been…extraordinary. Though Lilith knew herself to be an intelligent, sensible female, there had been nothing logical in the way her pulse had begun to race at the mere sight of him. But someone of his reputation could ruin hers merely by looking at her in the wrong way. Thank heaven he had left Almack’s shortly after she’d cut him.

  She shook herself. There were far too many other things for her to be worrying over without the unfortunate confusion with the Marquis of Dansbury. Lionel Hendrick, the Earl of Nance, had proposed again last evening, and so had Mr. Varrick, Viscount Sendley’s son.

  “Do you know anything about Peter Varrick?” she asked, lifting a biscuit from the table and nibbling it.

  “He’s pock-faced,” Penelope said promptly, wrinkling her nose.

  “I know that. But have you heard anything about his character?”

  “You mean you don’t care that he looks as though a flock of chickens has been at him?”

  “Of course I would prefer a pleasant countenance in a husband,” Lilith admitted reluctantly, wishing she could grimace and scowl and giggle as Pen did. Instead, as she had constantly been reminded since her mother’s flight, she must always remember herself. Too much rested on her; she couldn’t afford to indulge in impulsive behavior, in manner or in speech. Or in thinking. “But it’s not necessary.”

  “Oh, Lil, he’s ghastly.”

  “He has a fine, quiet reputation,” she insisted.

  “So does a tomb.”

  Lil looked back in her aunt’s direction and lowered her voice. “It’s not as though I have a choice.”

  Penelope gave a small, sad smile. “I know. Apologies.” Despite her gaiety, Pen had a strong compassionate streak, and Lilith felt fortunate to count Miss Sanford first among her friends. “Where’s your brother this afternoon?” Pen asked, thankfully changing the topic. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Of course not. I imagine William’s still to bed, sleeping off his amusement. He didn’t return home until nearly six o’clock this morning. He told Bevins he’d acquired a fabulous new set of cronies, been allowed to see the inside of something called Jezebel’s Harem, and lost ten quid. Which probably means fifty.”

  Her brother had been determinedly carousing since their arrival in London. Just out of a detested four years at Cambridge, and moneyed for the first time in his life, he was an easier mark than he liked to think. Restoring the family’s honor was a gargantuan enough task without William’s wild streak appearing.

  “I’m certain it’s completely innocent,” Pen reassured her.

  Lilith sighed. “Oh, I doubt it.”

  “So who actually has proposed to you so far?” Mary returned to the topic nearest her heart. “I’ve received only one offer, from Freddie Pambly—and my father says he’s not plump enough in the pockets to make up for his fat head.”

  Lilith chuckled. “I have received my share of offers,” she conceded, “but I don’t believe it’s polite to count.”

  “Oh, posh,” Pen retorted, rolling her eyes. “She has four offers. The Earl of Nance, Mr. Varrick, Mr. Francis Henning, and Mr. Giggins.”

  “What of His Grace, though?”

  Penelope’s smile vanished. “Hush, Mary.”

  Lilith’s amusement died abruptly as well, and a slight tremor ran through her. “I have received no offer from the Duke of Wenford. Please don’t say anything,” she murmured, “but I hope he chooses elsewhere.”

  Geoffrey Remdale, the Duke of Wenford, was the same age as England’s mad King George, and it was rumored that the two men had been friends as youngsters. Lilith had difficulty believing His Grace had ever called anyone friend, that he’d ever laughed at a quip, ever smiled in acknowledgment of a witty riposte. White-haired, with steel-gray eyes above a curved hawk’s beak of a nose, he had sought her out at Lady Neuland’s dinner soirée, and asked her age, weight, and height, as though she were some sort of horse. Since then, Wenford had twice sought out her father at parties and they had spent several minutes in discussion. Her father had never revealed the topic, but only smiled when she asked whether he had heard anything of interest. His good humor made her nervous.

  Wenford had been married thrice and had buried all three wives, none of whom had borne him an heir. Rumors were that after six months of marriage, his most recently deceased wife, half his age and still ten years older than Lilith, had gone to bed one evening with a glass of elderberry wine and hemlock rather than awaken another morning at Wenford Park. Fanciful and dramatic as the story was, it had stayed in the back of Lilith’s mind ever since those eccentric, half-mad eyes had turned in her direction.
/>
  “Lil?”

  Lilith started and looked at Pen again. “Beg pardon?”

  “You look in such doldrums. Don’t worry. I’m certain His Grace will find some dour-faced widow who thinks he’s the very picture of romance.”

  Lilith smiled reluctantly. “Yes, you’re likely right. I imagine he asks the height and weight of all the debutantes.” Her grin grew. “Preserving the standards of the realm, you know.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the butler intoned, though there were woefully few gentlemen present this afternoon. “If you would care to retake your seats, Lady Josephine is about to recommence.”

  With a sigh, Lilith turned to find her aunt. She and Penelope were halfway to the music room when someone behind them gasped. A wave of whispers began at the far end of the hall and swept toward them. Lilith turned around—and froze.

  Topping the stairs behind a flustered-looking footman, and accompanied by another gentleman, was the Marquis of Dansbury. His companion wore a self-conscious look, his lips pinched in an ill-humored smile of apology. Dansbury looked completely at ease as he strolled through the gaping crowd of women. His stark black dress of the evening before had been exchanged for a forest green coat and beige trousers, but the lighter colors didn’t at all lessen the impression that he was dangerous. Neither did his mildly amused expression as he stopped before Lady Delpont and took her hand.

  “My lady, I do apologize for being so very late. I only just awoke.” He leaned forward as if speaking in confidence, though he didn’t bother lowering his voice. “I was completely cast away last night, you know. Absolutely sluiced over the ivories.” His smile could have caused a nun to forget her vows.