by Lara Temple
‘Another attempt to lull me into submission, Lord Sinclair?’
‘I don’t fight lost battles, Miss Silverdale. I leave them for others and withdraw to a safe distance until the dust settles. This is farewell.’
He bent to touch his mouth to hers. It was meant to be brief, light, but the moment his mouth touched hers the memory of their unfortunately intimate first kiss took the lead. She wasn’t the only one curious whether it had been an anomaly.
It was different, but not in the way he had hoped. She didn’t stand passively under his caress this time. Her lips parted, rubbing against his, her hands smoothing up over the lapels of his coat to rest for a moment on his shoulders. He felt a peculiar fear as her lips shifted against his, so soft, but seeking something he knew would test his control. He held still, debating whether to continue, but she didn’t stop, her hands slid upwards, raising herself as she canted her head, tracing his lips with hers, her breath feathery and warm over his skin, her fingers moving gently against the skin above his cravat, as soft as her kisses and just as damaging.
As during the war, when he couldn’t retreat he advanced.
‘You wanted to experiment? This is a kiss, Olivia,’ he murmured against her lips before taking possession of them. She was curious? Hell and damnation, so was he.
He was prepared to pull back at the first sign of resistance or fear, but she was ahead of him again. She pressed against him as he gathered her body to him, as he splayed his fingers deep into her hair, coaxed her lips apart with his, drawing them between his, dampening them with his tongue, tasting and suckling them. She tasted of cinnamon and brandy and beyond it a scent that caught at his chest because it was already so familiar he wanted to bury his face in her hair and fill his lungs with it. Her lips moved with his, making it impossible for him to draw away.
‘It feels so good...’ Her words were just a whisper of warmth against his mouth, but they felt like a blow from Gentleman Jackson in his prime. The transition from light to dark was so sudden his hands shook against the need to crush her to him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be in control. After all his warnings to her, he was knowingly walking into cannon fire.
Her lips opened, her tongue darting to meet his, the moment of contact sending a shudder through her, or through them both, he could not tell the difference. After the first moment of shock, he sank into her, finally allowing himself to kiss her thoroughly, without caution or calculation, his hands and mouth exploring and discovering with a hunger he didn’t try to mask. Part of him still hoped she would recoil, put an end to it before he was stripped of what little control remained. The knowledge that he would have to stop was eating away at his insides; there was something wrong with the world if he had to stop this.
There was a great deal wrong with the world as he knew all too well.
He grasped her arms above her elbows. ‘Enough.’
She shook her head, her fingers tightening in his hair, her lips pressing against his, pulling at them gently, her tongue caressing and tasting as he had tasted her, sending vicious bolts of need through him, as sharp and uncompromising as iron stakes.
‘Enough,’ he said again, stepping away from her. ‘Goodbye, Miss Silverdale.’
* * *
Olivia stood, staring at the closed door.
There, it was over, as he said. He was gone. But it didn’t quite make sense. She hadn’t been prepared, not for him leaving like that. It wasn’t just the throbbing aftermath of the kiss. It did not seem possible that he could leave so easily. Somehow she had come to believe she would overcome his resistance and make him part of her quest.
But that was folly. She knew what he was and knowing that she should be grateful he had even done as much as he had in tracing the Eldritches. She should be grateful, but all she felt was emptiness and disbelief.
She looked at her wall of lists. He was right to think her delusional. And right to run. She should do the same. It was foolishness incarnate to allow herself to depend on someone like him. She had put all her faith in a rake before and it had caused untold damage to herself and to others.
Like a bee sting, the likes of Lucas Sinclair were best drawn quickly.
Chapter Seven
‘Regarding Brook Street, my lord...’
Lucas looked up from his correspondence as Tubbs, his butler-cum-valet-cum-procurer-of-information, stoked the fire.
‘Well, Tubbs?’
‘Information about the two ladies was a little scarce on the ground seeing as all the servants accompanied them from Guilford, including a groom and two postilions to tend to their carriage and horses in the stables on Morton Mews, my lord.’
‘I have faith that such obstacles did not stand in your way, Tubbs.’
‘Naturally not, sir. They merely required some additional effort. My Jem knows a man in the stables and I’ve had a word with the link boys in the area.’
‘And?’
‘And word of Miss Silverdale’s worth and presentability has spread since their invitation to the Barnstables. The carriage is to take them tonight to Countess Lieven’s ball and there is some expectation that a voucher to Almack’s is in the offing.’
‘Countess Lieven. Straight to the top of the social ladder. I am impressed with Lady Phelps’s social prowess.’
‘I believe the credit is due to Miss Silverdale in this instance, my lord. I had an easier time with Lady Barnstable’s servants who have developed an interest in the young lady seeing as she has been added to the top of their lady’s list of possible brides for her son. Apparently while at that good lady’s soirée Miss Silverdale held a lengthy conversation with the Countess.’
‘Did she? Stranger and stranger.’
‘The footman said they discussed something about banks in Austria after the peace.’
‘Good God.’
‘Indeed, sir. Interesting that she should catch the eye of the Russian ambassador’s wife.’
‘Miss Silverdale is not connected to our concerns on that front, Tubbs.’
‘Of course not, sir. Will you be accepting the Countess’s invitation, then? You were considering going, were you not?’
Lucas had not been considering it, but then Tubbs would know that. Despite his friendship with and interest in the Lievens and the concerns of the Russian emissaries in London, he found such society events tedious and more often than not a waste of time. His reputation made any attendance on his part a topic of conversation and speculation and hardly left him room to conduct his own business.
He wondered again at her chaperon. He would not have chosen to catapult someone as unconventional as Miss Silverdale directly into the clutches of one of the patronesses of Almack’s and particularly not the likes of the shrewd Countess Dorothea Lieven. Not that it was any of his concern. As long as it kept Miss Silverdale occupied and distracted from her fantastical plots, her entry into society was a boon. In fact, he should do what he could to promote that entry. All the most fashionable members of the ton would be present at the Lievens’ ball—it would be a true baptism of fire for Olivia Silverdale. Perhaps his presence would draw some of that fire. Or fan it. Either way he could make himself useful. He returned his quill to the inkwell.
‘I might attend after all, Tubbs.’
* * *
‘My dear Olivia, this is marvellous. That will be your second dance with Lord Pendleton in as many days. I think our position is assured,’ Elspeth murmured behind her fan as the peer withdrew, having secured the quadrille with Olivia.
‘Money has that effect on people and London is apparently no exception.’ Olivia kept her voice low.
‘Nonsense. You look delightful in that dress. I am so glad Madame Fanchot could provide our gowns on such short notice. Those shades of peach and ivory are quite lovely.’
Olivia resisted the urge to point out that the chief reason Madam
e Fanchot was so generous with her time and skills was because Olivia was of that rare breed of customer who paid her bills immediately. Whatever the case, as Elspeth said it was an exquisite dress. Growing up in a male household she hadn’t thought much about her clothes until Bertram returned from London. Even then her horizons were limited by Mary Payton’s modest view of feminine fashions. It was only when Elspeth took her to Madame Fanchot that Olivia realised why Bertram mocked their provincial fashions.
So now she was dressed in the finest London had to offer and perched on an uncomfortable sofa in what was, according to Elspeth, one of the most coveted ballrooms in the realm.
She tried to feel impressed with her sudden elevation from the modest house outside Guilford or the provincial society of Gillingham, but could only feel bemusement. From the moment she came to London she had been operating in a dream, allowing herself to do things she never would have contemplated in the past, not even before Bertram.
She was no longer the smallest of the Silverdales, tagging after her brothers, or the foolish girl so blinded by a rake’s charm she lost all self-respect. In fact, she was no longer certain who Olivia Silverdale was beyond her wish to redeem Henry for the Paytons and for herself.
Certainly Olivia Silverdale would never in a hundred years have flung herself at a man as she had at Lucas Sinclair, without an ounce of modesty. Mary Payton might have called her wild, but she had never been that flavour of wild. Just thinking of what a fool she had been...
Again the wave of both cringing shame and scalding heat spread through her at the memory. No wonder he had run. She had scared away her best asset and now she had no idea what to do to convince him to return. Not that there was anything she could do if he did not wish it done. He was one of those people who were singularly un-doable. But even if that bridge was burnt, she could not imagine returning to her safe sanctuary in Guilford. She had picked up the reins of her life and it was impossible to contemplate letting them slip once again.
‘Smile,’ Elspeth cautioned. ‘Lady Westerby is approaching with her eldest son. She has two unmarried sons and four unmarried daughters.’
‘Poor woman. Shall I be expected to provide all their dowries?’
‘Hush!’
Olivia did hush and smiled at something Lady Westerby said, docilely accepted her son’s invitation for a country dance and resigned herself to another bout of polite patter about nothing at all.
* * *
On their return towards the sofas after their dance Olivia heard a rising buzz of voices and stiffened. Just thus society in Gillingham hummed every time she appeared during those horrible weeks after jilting Bertram. Her heart kicked and bucked and she called it to order. An unknown like her was unlikely to be the target of malicious mutterings.
‘By George, it is Sinclair,’ Lord Westerby said in a half-whisper. ‘The Countess must have applied the rack and thumbscrews to have him attend an event such as this.’
Her heart, just settling, went from trot back to canter.
‘Sinclair?’ she asked.
Lord Westerby smiled.
‘I forget, you are not from London. The Earl Sinclair. Friend of the Count and Countess, but your paths aren’t likely to cross.’
‘Why not?’
He blinked at her directness.
‘Well, he’s not quite...you know. In any case, he isn’t interested in proper young women. Wouldn’t want him to meet my sisters, though they wouldn’t mind meeting him.’ He chuckled a little. ‘He’s one of the Sinful Sinclairs. Strange family. Always some scandal or other. His grandfather and uncle died under a cloud and his father was killed in a duel over...well, not quite the thing to talk about, you know. Point is, he and his brother, the Honourable Charles Sinclair, rarely attend this kind of function. Spend most of their time kicking up dust on the Continent...’
He faltered as they passed by Countess Lieven and that formidable woman raised a gloved hand, beckoning them. Lord Westerby audibly drew breath before turning them in their hostess’s direction. She was handsome—slim, dark-haired and sharp-faced, with a tongue and wit to match. It was lucky Olivia had not known how feared the Russian ambassador’s wife was before they engaged in conversation at Lady Barnstable’s. But now Olivia’s nerves were not concerned with her hostess’s social power, they were fully engaged in preparation for her unexpected meeting with the tall, dark-haired man who stood with his back to them.
Her hostess spoke first. ‘Good evening, Lord Westerby. Miss Silverdale. How are you enjoying your first London ball?’
‘Very much. Everyone has been most kind,’ she answered properly, risking a glance at Lucas as the Countess made the introductions, but he met her gaze as blankly as any stranger.
‘You are lucky, then, Miss Silverdale,’ he said once the introductions were complete. ‘Kindness is not a common virtue in London.’
‘Perhaps it is not merely luck, Lord Sinclair,’ she replied, meeting his eyes rather more directly than was accepted.
Countess Lieven waved her fan leisurely, her finely drawn mouth hovering on the edge of a smile. Lord Sinclair bowed.
‘I shall have to make up my own mind. Has Miss Silverdale received your sanction to waltz, Dorothea?’
‘She has not, Sinclair. However, I shall be sending Lady Phelps vouchers for Almack’s.’
‘Close enough. With town so thin of entertainment, can you not satisfy me? I promise to behave.’
Countess Lieven snorted and closed her fan.
‘I look forward to the day. Very well, you have my sanction. But you should apply to Lady Phelps. She may prefer to advise her charge against you. Now let us find Christopher, he will be tickled you have come. And with a wish to waltz.’
* * *
‘You cannot be serious! I most certainly will not approve such a request. The man is...’ Lady Phelps pitched her voice low, the words shoved out between her teeth ‘...a rake. He is head of the Sinful Sinclair clan.’
‘Yes, dear Elspeth, I know. However, should he indeed carry through on his threat and ask me to dance, you will smile and approve.’
‘Olivia, I stand here in your mother’s stead...’
‘Not a good example, as you well know, Elspeth. I trust your judgement far more than my progenitors, but in this case you shall have to trust mine.’
‘Olivia, I realise that men such as Sinclair can be fascinating, but there is a reason he is not considered a good marital prospect despite his title and property. Certainly someone like you, without any experience in society and, if you will excuse my plain words, no extraordinary physical beauty or arts, has no possibility of securing him.’
‘I do not wish to secure him. Or anyone else for that matter. It is merely a dance.’
‘No, it is a waltz. Your first in London society, before you have even been introduced at Almack’s. It is a signal honour that the Countess has approved such a distinction, but perhaps given your age and the paucity of entertainment ahead of the Season it is comprehensible. If you must waltz, do so with Lord Westerby or Lord Barnstable.’
‘They have not asked me. Lord Sinclair has.’
‘Do you even know how to waltz?’
‘I learned the waltz with Phoebe and all my brothers practised with me as partner before I left Gillingham so I have become an expert at protecting my toes. Hopefully I shan’t make a fool of myself.’
‘My concerns are a trifle more serious than whether you trip.’
‘You are being uncharacteristically dramatic, Elspeth. What on earth could he do to me in the middle of a ballroom?’
‘I hope you do not find out. Oh, dear, here he comes. I was hoping you had misunderstood.’
By the momentary dimming of talk around them, followed almost immediately by a rising buzz, it was clear those around them had noted his approach to that part of the ballroom where the matrons and debutantes held sw
ay. Olivia tensed at the unwanted attention and focused on Lord Sinclair. She could read nothing in his expression but slight amusement as he made his request of Elspeth, though it deepened at Elspeth’s barely veiled disapproval.
She waited until they were positioned on the dance floor to speak.
‘I am surprised, Lord Sinclair. You were quite clear in your intent to wash your hands of me. This is a most peculiar way to do so.’
He took her hand and placed his other lightly at her waist as the orchestra began the first flourish of the waltz.
‘I was clear in my intent not to further your investigations. Those are two different matters.’
‘That reinforces my conviction you have a hidden reason to asking me to dance. May I know your agenda? So I can decide whether to align myself with whatever it is you are plotting?’
‘I leave the plots to you, Miss Silverdale. As you pointed out, my besetting sin is curiosity. I thought you had no time for society and yet here you are, in the very heart of it, charming the distinctly uncharmable Countess Lieven. Can you fault me for wondering what you are seeking here?’
‘I thought you would be pleased I am engaging in interests other than conspiracies.’
‘Are you? There is no ulterior motive to your sudden decision to enter London society?’
‘None. You could have asked me that without bothering to invite me to dance and putting your reputation at risk, you know.’
‘My reputation?’
‘As an unrepentant rake. Being seen dancing with a dowdy northern heiress is bound to tarnish it.’
‘My dear, anyone dressed in one of Fanchot’s masterpieces cannot be labelled dowdy.’
‘You can tell this is made by Madame Fanchot?’
‘Is it not?’
‘It is, but how—? Never mind.’ She cut herself off, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks. Elspeth had let fall that the many fashionable men were known to pay for their mistresses’ wardrobes amongst other things. Ever thorough, Mercer’s report on Lord Sinclair had included the name of the widow reputed to be his mistress and when she had seen beautiful Lady Ilford at the Barnstables’ soirée that woman had indeed been wearing what looked like a Fanchot concoction of black net over a Pomona-green dress and a stunning emerald necklace. Clearly his lordship was generous with his paramours.
