Revenge Wears Rubies

by Renee Bernard

  “No, I didn’t.”

  The pause lengthened as she waited for him to offer an excuse, and it was clear by his stance and expression that she wasn’t going to get one so easily. A small twinge of her first impression of him, as a deadly predator not to be trifled with, returned. “And if I asked you directly?”

  “I would probably say I was catching my breath.” He smiled again, and this time the heat that bloomed inside of her betrayed itself on her cheeks. Haley put up a gloved hand to suppress the blush and then turned and fled.

  There’d been no introductions. It was unthinkable to even consider asking his name or offering hers at such an unorthodox encounter. But what kind of gentleman stood in unlit galleries and made no effort to defend himself? He’d been dressed in evening clothes as any respectable guest would have been, but now she felt a measure of genuine alarm at the idea that he may have been some sort of burglar or criminal lurking in the shadows above them all. And I directed him to Mr. Bascombe’s private library!

  She pushed away the ridiculous notion of courteous burglars in evening coats with a stern internal lecture on the rules of small talk. The temperature and number of guests—why can I never remember to just mumble something innocuous about how warm the room is or to compliment the party for its popularity?

  At the door at the bottom of the staircase, she hesitated. The crush of the guests awaited her, and Haley took a long, slow deep breath to try to recapture an illusion of calm. If the stairwell had been wider, and there wasn’t the imminent threat of that stranger following at any moment, she’d have indulged in lingering there a while longer. But she wasn’t foolish enough to risk one more misstep.

  Horrifying enough if anyone notes me coming back through this door and then sees him coming after! They’ll think it was some preplanned tryst! It was a new thought and one that propelled her quickly through the door.

  Luckily, the few guests in the hallway didn’t appear to make any special note of her unorthodox reentry, and Haley made an effort to move without any guilty haste to draw their eyes. To avoid Lady Pringley, she deliberately chose another doorway at the far end of the salon nearer the card tables and demurely began a quiet search for Aunt Alice.

  After a few minutes the bobbing yellow feathers at last betrayed Aunt Alice’s whereabouts, and Haley felt a small measure of her anxiety dissipate at the sound of the woman’s familiar chatter. “I don’t think they’ve decided where to settle, Mrs. Bianca. Though my hope is—”

  “You cannot let them go north! I know this Mr. Trumble is some sort of industrialist, but what a fate for your dear niece!” Mrs. Bianca’s arch tone was softened by an emotional tremble in her voice. “My young cousin abandoned Town for some factory-filled village in the north and her health was destroyed before she’d seen a single spring in that unfeeling burg.”

  Aunt Alice caught her eye as Haley approached and with a subtle gesture, assisted Mrs. Bianca in realizing that the subject of their speculation was now close at hand. “Have you met my niece, Miss Moreland?”

  To the lady’s credit, when Mrs. Bianca turned, there was almost no trace of her distress. “I had not the pleasure, till now. How do you do?”

  “I am well, thank you, and the pleasure is mine.” Haley extended her hand, liking Mrs. Bianca’s soft features and warm brown eyes. She was only a little younger than Alice and had certainly meant no harm with her dire warnings. Mrs. Bianca wasn’t alone in her disregard for anyone involved with trade. High society reveled in denigrating anyone touched by the industrious northern provinces and the “new” money it generated. Her father’s title and family connections had kept certain doors open to them, but she had no doubt that once she was truly Mrs. Herbert Trumble her social environment would change—no matter where they chose to settle. “It is such a lovely party.”

  “Mr. Bascombe has a talent for drawing together the most interesting guests!” Mrs. Bianca flourished her fan with an experienced hand. “One of which, I shall confess, made a particular point in begging me for an introduction to you once I’d achieved your acquaintance. Your aunt was most intrigued to hear of a Mr. Galen Hawke!”

  Aunt Alice readily agreed with a merry nod that sent her yellow feathers dancing. “I’d say so! After all, most men seek an introduction after seeing a young lady, don’t they? But this gentleman has determined to meet you without any idea of you at all!” She sighed enviously, a twinkle in her eye giving away her humor. “If only the men of my generation were so forward-thinking!”

  Haley shook her head and smiled. “Why not make Mrs. Bianca your conspirator and take the introduction for yourself, Aunt Alice? Since he knows nothing of me, I think you’ll make a very fine Miss Moreland to make his acquaintance. Then you can judge for yourself about Mr. Hawke.”

  Both women openly laughed at the notion, but Mrs. Bianca recovered to reply, “I don’t think he’d appreciate the game.” Glancing over their heads, she raised one of her hands as if to signal a servant for another glass of champagne. “And I won’t be the one to deny him the chance to meet such a charming young woman.”

  “Do you know him well?” Aunt Alice asked.

  “Not well, I’m afraid.” Mrs. Bianca seemed to consider her response before continuing, “But his father, the Earl of Stamford, is on good terms with my family, and my cousin’s brother by marriage is their vicar. And although Mr. Hawke is the second eldest son, the family is very respected in loftier circles than these, so it’s not an inquiry to make light of.”

  Haley wasn’t sure Mrs. Bianca’s description of his pedigree had the desired effect the speaker had intended. He sounded like a pompous thing to insist on introductions and cow poor women with distant connections to him into making his wishes manifest. She couldn’t remember any circumstantial ties to an Earl of Stamford that would make his son think to “beg” for an introduction—and frankly, after an already eventful evening in an overcrowded room and above it, Haley didn’t think she wanted to rectify the situation. “Well, if you see him, please convey my regret that you weren’t able to fulfill his request. But I really should find my fiancé and—”

  “Leaving so soon?” The deep male voice directly behind her almost made her yelp in surprise, but Haley’s astonishment had more to do with how familiar its timbre was than its location. He couldn’t be!

  “I was . . .” The words seemed to dry and catch in her throat as she turned to face her handsome friend from the gallery. Green. His eyes are impossibly green. Oh, dear!

  “Ah, Mr. Hawke!” Mrs. Bianca stepped in eagerly. “Mrs. Shaw, Miss Moreland, may I introduce Mr. Galen Hawke?”

  Aunt Alice managed to pink up like a girl at her first outing as she extended a gloved hand, openly smitten with the handsome Hawke. “You may! What a delight to meet you!”

  Haley bit the inside of her cheek to ensure she didn’t follow suit, or give in to the nervous bubble of laughter at being so squarely cornered. If he mentions the gallery, I’m not sure what I can say to explain myself.

  As he gallantly bowed over her aunt’s fingers, his gaze lifted to meet Haley’s, and Haley almost jumped at the sensation of fire and ice down her spine.

  He spoke as he straightened to face her. “You’ll forgive my impatience to meet you, Miss Moreland, but I had no faith that you would simply find me.”

  Haley gasped, but the reaction was lost on the other women as they laughed and fawned on the striking younger man in their midst.

  “What is to forgive? Miss Moreland is highly regarded and it speaks well that you wished to meet her and make her acquaintance, don’t you agree, Mrs. Shaw?” Mrs. Bianca spoke in a breathless rush.

  “I shall have to,” Aunt Alice said. “We have so few acquaintances in London.”

  Haley’s eyes widened at the mortifying confession, but she knew there was nothing for it now. Instead, she did her best to recover what small remnants of calm she could and disregard how much more potent Mr. Galen Hawke was in full candlelight. “There, you see? An easy introd
uction, after all, and you’ve apparently been forgiven, so what more could we say?”

  “Tell me how you find London, Miss Moreland.”

  He spoke as if it were still just the two of them alone in the shadows. He looked only at her as if nothing else mattered—not the setting, nor the dozen people within earshot, or even the two rapt elderly ladies fanning themselves at his elbows.

  And without realizing it, Haley felt herself doing the same. “I would rather be home, I think. But you mustn’t tell anyone, Mr. Hawke.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “What secrets are we keeping?” Herbert came up to the quartet, his brow a bit moist after enjoying a rousing debate on dog breeding techniques with Mr. Melrose. He held out a hand to Mr. Hawke. “Not that I am one for them, sir! I admit, whatever bits of news I manage to remember, I cannot then also remember whom I should tell and whom I shouldn’t. It’s quite a quandary, so I warn everyone to keep me out of the game!” He laughed, and then went on cheerfully. “I am Herbert Trumble. And you are?”

  Mrs. Bianca interjected herself with a nervous flutter. “This is Mr. Galen Hawke. I was just introducing him to Mrs. Shaw and Miss Moreland.”

  “At your service, Mr. Trumble.” Galen nodded his head, his expression politely neutral as Herbert continued to pump his arm up and down with distracted enthusiasm. “Miss Moreland was telling me how she was finding her time in London.”

  Herbert grinned. “She loves it! But then what woman doesn’t wish for all the social niceties?”

  Haley reached out to gently restrain Herbert by the arm. “Perhaps you should . . . let go of Mr. Hawke.”

  “Ah!” Herbert released Galen, his look apologetic. “I forgot I had ahold of you, sir! My goodness, I hope I haven’t just done the same thing to Mr. Melrose! In this press of people, I suppose it’s instinct to want to grab onto something and hope you get pulled out of the crush eventually, eh?”

  Galen nodded. “A good instinct if you’re drowning.”

  Haley held her breath at the quiet barb but wasn’t sure what to do. Mr. Hawke was looking at her again, with an intensity that made her feel vulnerable and conversely powerful at the same time.

  Thankfully, Herbert was blissfully unaware of the cross-currents in the conversation. “Just so! Lucky for me I know how to swim!”

  “Mrs. Shaw was saying that you wished to widen your circles while in Town,” Galen said.

  “Indeed, yes! Mr. Bascombe has been very accommodating, but a man can never have too many friends in London,” Herbert agreed, and Haley marveled that she alone seemed to feel a growing sense of alarm at how easily Mr. Hawke maneuvered everything. She’d been about to retreat and congratulate herself on escaping relatively unscathed. She’d been about to laud her own good moral character for not making any direct comparisons between the broad-shouldered handsome Hawke and her diminutive and somewhat doughy fiancé. She’d been about to vow never to see the mysterious and dangerous Mr. Hawke ever again and—

  “I’ll make some arrangements and ensure that you have social calls and invitations enough to make this Season . . . extremely memorable.” Galen’s smile was diabolical as he bowed to signal his intention to withdraw.

  “How generous! Yes, thank you, Mr. Hawke! That would be lovely for Miss Moreland, and much appreciated.” Herbert beamed.

  “Too generous!” Haley finally found her voice. “I wouldn’t want to impose . . . and you hardly know us to—”

  “Haley!” Aunt Alice’s shocked whisper ended the argument. She turned to Mr. Hawke. “Introductions in country society are harder to come by, you can imagine, and my niece is not yet used to the faster pace of London. But we are overjoyed to discover such an easy welcome in Town and such a kind mentor.”

  Haley did her best to recover what dignity she could after her aunt’s hinting that she was some country bumpkin overwhelmed by town courtesies. She attempted a smile. “Yes, overjoyed, Mr. Hawke. And since it is, as you say, no imposition, then please . . .”

  “I’m flattered. And I hope to see you again soon, Miss Moreland.” He inclined his head in a polite nod before turning away and disappearing into the crush.

  Mrs. Bianca sighed. “With his family connections, you could be dining with duchesses before the month is out, my dears! What a perfect gentleman he is!”

  Haley’s instinct was to argue the point of Mr. Hawke’s gentlemanly perfection, but she knew better. Herbert was beside himself at the “happy turns” the party had taken, and Haley wasn’t about to spoil his evening with hysterical suspicions about a stranger’s generosity. I’m being too sensitive, perhaps. It could all be innocent, the coincidence of running into him hiding in the shadows and then learning that he’d been seeking an introduction. He couldn’t possibly have known that I would try to get away from the party up there! And there’s nothing sinister in offering to make a few social connections on our behalf. . . .

  Except there’d been nothing innocent in his looks, or the wicked smile that had lit up his eyes when he’d made his offer. He’d ignored everyone else and spoken as if they were alone, even with Herbert at her side. Haley instinctively knew that if Mr. Galen Hawke had anything to do with it, she would be seeing a great deal more of him in the next few weeks.

  And it would happen with Mr. Herbert Trumble’s happiest permission.

  Chapter 3

  Galen avoided his host on the way out, artfully sidestepping the polite bids from others for his attention or for conversation. Instead, he went directly to the main foyer and summoned a servant for his coat and hat and was gone before Bascombe or his political cronies could delay him.

  His mind was reeling from the unexpected twists and turns in his first attempt to meet the object of his vengeful plan.

  Miss Haley Moreland was quite different from the woman he’d anticipated.

  In fact, he’d been so sure of his premonitions that he’d withdrawn from the party confident that he’d be able to recognize her the instant he spotted her below. John had described her in vague poetic terms, but Galen imagined that she would be passably pretty, in a cunning and calculated way. He’d guessed that she would be quite the social butterfly, seeking out the loftier or livelier elements in the room to further her ambitions. He’d pictured a dozen different variations of Miss Moreland, the heartless siren, and then just when he’d decided on the most likely candidate, wearing yellow organza below in the salon, she’d startled him into nearly breaking her neck.

  Not that he’d known it was her. Not at that moment.

  It seemed that John’s fair love possessed a wicked wit and was more prone to hiding in the ferns than elbowing her way to center stage. Even so . . . Mr. Herbert Trumble’s amusing lack of social graces spoke volumes to Galen about Miss Moreland’s character and apparent willingness to cheerfully marry a mud troll for his money.

  Hell, it would serve the girl a delightful measure of justice to be married off to that colorless pigeon! The thought warmed him for a fleeting moment, but then the dull chill of his strategy returned in full force. Leaving her to the long, dusty grind of a loveless marriage didn’t suit Galen’s plans.

  And now that he’d seen the lovely Miss Haley Moreland, he was truly looking forward to the game. Not that his own pleasure was a consideration, but as he’d stood before her in the salon and observed the delicious change in her coloring at every compliment, Galen wasn’t oblivious to the curl of anticipation that had unfurled inside of him. Granted, she was a tall beauty with a sleek, ripe figure that defied a man to keep his sinful thoughts to himself despite an army of chaperones (much less one elderly aunt’s watchful eyes). And Miss Moreland did possess the requisite porcelain skin and classic patrician features that seemed all the fashion these days. But unlike the golden curls that so many women sought to copy, her hair was a defiantly stunning mahogany brown. Heavy silk curls hung down between her shoulder blades and back from her face to frame eyes the color of the sea, and Galen guessed that few men could withstand th
eir storms. And there again she strayed from the fashion plates—no sleepy-lidded doe eyes staring out with innocent indifference. Wide eyes with a beguiling spark of wit met the world, and Galen wondered how a soul could be so malicious and still look out at the world with such a clear appeal.

  But what truly warmed his blood were the signs that Miss Moreland might be, in fact, a unique creature in their midst. She hadn’t fluttered or fawned, and unlike any woman he had known, she had spoken the truth before censoring herself or considering her audience. She’d been so refreshingly direct that he couldn’t help but wonder how far the trait might extend. Would she be as direct in her desires? Would she be so natural when faced with raw passion? This seduction would be sweet and slow, by his choice, not by necessity.

  She’d been like two different women, in the gallery and then in the crowd below. At first, a mischievous sprite far out of bounds but apparently unafraid of the dark—or him. And then on the main floor of the salon, she’d been all polite graces, a regal beauty determined to keep her calm despite all his attempts to unsettle her. But it was the sprite he suspected John had loved, and it was that fearless side of her he needed to draw out if he was going to win her over and achieve his aim.

  For if there had been a small tendril of mercy, a faint hint of regret inside of him, he’d let it die at the sight of her in that glorious red dress. She was a bloodred ruby brought to life with an allure and a power all her own. She was a vision of fire and beauty, but like a gem, cold to the touch and heartless. She was a siren with dark secrets of her own, and Galen’s soul felt scorched by the desire she inspired in him.

  Perhaps if he had seen even a faint nod to the state of mourning she had abandoned—a simple black ribbon trim or a plainer gown in a muted color. But instead she’d adorned herself in a fiery silk that defied every weeping widow and mocked true sentiment. Every flounce and fold of expensive ruby material sang of her indifference, and Galen’s fingers had itched to tear her out of the offensive thing.