A speculative expression crossed his face. “I understand. Later, then.”
“Yes, perhaps.” How she wished all these dratted people weren’t around them!
He glanced down at the floor. “Beg pardon, my lady, but I believe you dropped something. Perhaps from your reticule?”
She started to protest that her reticule was sitting on a chair somewhere when she looked down and saw a folded piece of paper. “Oh! Yes, I must have . . . that is . . . Thank you, sir.”
As she bent to pick it up, he tipped his head at her and was gone. She unfolded the slip of paper to find the scrawled words, The east terrace. Fifteen minutes. He’d been prepared in case she refused him, thank goodness.
Sliding the paper inside her glove, she headed off toward the kitchen in case anyone was watching who’d heard their exchange. But just as she reached the other end of the ballroom she glanced back to see Papa now speaking to her cousin.
She groaned. Clearly Aunt Flo had won the battle, and Mr. Keane was being ordered to dance with her. She’d better escape while she could.
Out in the hall, she paused for breath. Did she dare meet Tristan alone? Might Papa stumble across them?
It seemed unlikely. Papa would find it too cold to go outside, and Tristan had chosen his rendezvous spot well. The east terrace couldn’t be seen from the street and had to be accessed from the library rather than the ballroom. So it was unlikely that anyone would stumble across them by accident.
And thanks to her white lie about the champagne, she had an excuse for being absent from the ballroom—as long as no one mentioned it to Aunt Flo. Now she merely had to pray that Tristan could disappear without comment, too.
Unfortunately, someone stopped her in the hall to ask about the musicians, so by the time she sneaked through the library and out onto the terrace, it was twenty minutes later, not fifteen.
Oh, Lord, he wasn’t here. He’d gone.
But wait—was that tobacco she smelled?
“You’re late. I began to think you weren’t coming.”
The husky words, spoken from out of the darkness, sent a frisson of anticipation coursing along her skin. Drat him. The last thing she needed with her life in a shambles was to feel frissons of anything for the scoundrel, yet they seemed to happen with astonishing regularity.
“I had some trouble getting away,” she said to the glowing tip of his cigar, all that she could see of him. “We don’t have much time, so you’d best get right to it. It wouldn’t do to be caught out here together.”
He emerged from the shadows, and the gas lamp from inside bathed his serious expression in a soft light. “I suppose your ‘papa’ warned you off. Is that why you refused to dance with me?” When she didn’t answer at once, he waved the cigar, painting a swirl of smoke between them. “Let me guess—he told you I was a big bad wolf who ate sweet young virgins like you for breakfast.”
The apt description rankled. “He’s not as narrow-minded as you think.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“You can be very annoying sometimes, do you know that?” She pulled her shawl about her thinly clad shoulders. “It’s freezing out here. Tell me what you learned in Liverpool.”
“Fine.” Dropping the cigar onto the terrace, he crushed it with his heel. “I assume you understood what I was trying to convey yesterday at the park.”
“Yes. That I wasn’t listed in the Customs records as having entered the country with Mama and Papa.”
“Actually, you were listed.”
“What? But I thought—”
“Unfortunately, when I saw the entry I realized that the original had been altered and an addition made. So I looked up the fellow who’d worked for Customs at the time, and he confessed the truth.”
When he hesitated, she prodded, “Which was what?”
“Your parents came through Customs without a babe in arms. But a month later, your father returned to Liverpool and paid the gentleman a substantial sum to alter the record. The Customs officer only admitted to it when I told him I was there seeking the truth on your behalf.”
Her head swam. She must have swayed a little, because Tristan stepped up to steady her with a hand beneath her elbow.
“Are you all right?” he murmured.
Somehow she managed a nod.
His eyes bored into her. “You already suspected this. It shouldn’t come as a shock.”
“It’s just that . . . until now, it all seemed rather abstract. Like some fantastical story from a fairy tale about children discovering that their parents were really kings or something.” She met his gaze. “But when you speak of bribes of officials and Customs records . . . it becomes so much more real. True.”
“Ah. I can understand that.”
He stood so close that she could feel his warm breath float across her cheek. But when she saw the sympathy in his eyes, it was suddenly too much for her. He was too much for her.
Feeling exposed, she tugged her arm free and moved away from his perceptive gaze to the railing, where it was easier for her to think. “None of this proves that my parents were Gypsies.”
“No. I won’t know that until I do more investigating.”
Staring down into the garden, she clutched the rail for support. “When? How soon can you start?”
“I already have. I asked around town today and learned that there’s an encampment of Northern Romany clans near Chelsea. Since most of the Gypsies from particular shires know others in their area, I’m hoping that they can tell me about those from Yorkshire. Or that they may be from Yorkshire. You never know.”
She faced him. “I want to go with you when you visit them.”
“Not a chance.” His eyes glittered like stars in the semidarkness. Or ice crystals that no amount of female persuasion would melt.
“Why?” she demanded. “I’m paying you. So if I say I want to go—”
“I take it that you don’t trust me,” he said, his tone harsh.
“No . . . I mean . . . yes, I trust you.” She rubbed her chilled arms. “That’s not the reason I want to go.”
Leaning one shoulder against a pillar, he scrutinized her with the sort of intense look she supposed was necessary in his profession. “Then what is the reason?” One side of his mouth crooked upward. “Tiring of your cousin already, are you?”
She huffed out a frosty breath. “That’s not it, either. I just . . . I need to hear every word for myself. What if the Gypsies’ account sparks a memory of something I overheard as a girl? Or what if they reveal details that only I can make sense of in light of my childhood?”
He stared at her. “You don’t understand. I may have to go to several encampments before I glean anything of substance. And how the devil will you get away from this town house to go gadding about town with me?”
“I could do what I did last time. Tell Papa that Ralph and I are going for a walk.”
He snorted. “If your Ralph knows one iota of this, he will go straight to your father. He was clearly conflicted yesterday in the park. If you continue much longer to abuse his confidence, he will betray it. He knows who pays him.”
She sighed. “You’re probably right. But there must be some way we can manage it.”
“Sorry, but I’m fresh out of ideas for how to sneak a young lady out of her home without her parents . . . her guardians noticing.”
This situation was slipping from her fingers moment by moment. She hated that feeling. She was used to being in control. “Well,” she said peevishly, “I daresay you could think of some way to let me come along if it meant not having your activities of last summer exposed.”
He chuckled. “Is that a threat? Because you may recall what happened the last time you attempted that with me.”
She knotted her shawl in her fist. “I swear, sometimes you can be very—”
“Annoying,” he finished with his usual smirk. “You already said that.” Then his smirk vanished, and he pushed away from the pillar. “But I might be w
illing to come up with a scheme for taking you with me. If I were given the proper incentive.”
“Incentive?” Given the flare of heat in his gaze, she doubted he meant money.
As he came toward her, the terrace seemed to shrink to encompass just the two of them. She gulped down air, trying to calm her agitation.
Trying to still the excitement unfurling in her chest.
Then he held out his hand. “Dance with me, princess.”
8
TRISTAN WANTED, JUST once, to feel their bodies moving in tandem. To have her in his arms again. It was a foolish whim, but he wanted it all the same. And he could swear she did, too.
“Dance with me,” he said, this time making it a demand.
“That’s all?” she asked, her eyes luminous in the gaslight. “Just a dance?”
He couldn’t suppress his grin. “You were hoping for more, were you?”
“No! I mean . . . I merely assumed, given your reputation . . .”
“What exactly did your father tell you about me?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
She twisted the ends of her shawl in one hand. “Leave Papa out of this. He’s merely being cautious and looking out for me.”
“By throwing you at Keane, a man you barely know.”
“A man I have to marry, if Aunt Flo’s tale of my past turns out to be as true as it’s beginning to seem.”
That inflamed his temper. “All the more reason you should dance with me while you still can.” When she didn’t take his hand, just continued to stare at it, he added, “Come, Zoe, it’s just a dance.”
She glanced beyond him to the French doors leading out onto the terrace. “Someone might see.”
Obviously she meant Keane, damn it. And the image of her and Keane laughing and whispering together in the receiving line earlier rubbed him raw.
Stepping within a breath of her, he hardened his tone. “No one will see anything—we’re alone out here. My price for letting you go with me tomorrow is a dance, so you either pay it or I go alone. Simple as that.”
Fire flared in her face. “Do you always have to blackmail women to get them to dance with you?”
“Not usually. Most of the time I merely have to ask.”
He lifted his hand to brush her cheek, and she swallowed. The motion of her throat enthralled him. God, she was beautiful, a fairy princess in this light. It made him ache to touch her all the more.
But when he reached for her waist and she stepped back, he went on in a bitter voice, “Are you refusing me because you despise me? Or because you’re afraid you might actually enjoy dancing with a low fellow like me?”
“I’m afraid of Papa shooting you!” When he lifted an eyebrow at that, she said, “Or your shooting Papa. He said he would call you out if I danced with you.”
“Did he, now?” At least her refusal wasn’t because of Keane. “I don’t care what your father threatened. I want my dance.” He held out his hand again. “The risk makes the reward all the sweeter.”
Desperation lit her face. “There’s no music.” Seconds later, the muted sounds of a waltz being struck up drifted to them from the ballroom, and she groaned.
He laughed. “Fate is conspiring against you. And who are we to resist Fate?”
She mumbled an exasperated oath. “Oh, all right.” She took his hand. “But only one, or Papa will get suspicious and come looking for me.”
“One dance will suffice,” he said, laying his other hand on her waist to pull her as close as he dared. Which was far closer than would be proper in a ballroom.
Good thing. He wasn’t feeling particularly proper at the moment. Just the way she followed his lead as he fell into the intimate steps of the waltz sent his blood soaring.
He had her in his arms again. For a while, anyway, before she ran off to try to tempt Keane into offering for her.
With a scowl, he dragged her up against him until she was practically anchored to him at the waist. Keane could go to hell.
Her gaze shot to his, soft and searching, and he met it brazenly, his heart thundering in his ears. For the first time, he wished she was not heir to an earl. That she was not determined to save her father’s estate for future generations. That she really was a Gypsy princess he’d met in a forest somewhere, and he could offer—
What? Marriage? He must be daft. He didn’t need or want a wife right now. For the moment, he preferred his rootless existence.
Liar.
“You . . . dance well,” she ventured, her cinnamon-scented breath driving him to distraction.
“You sound surprised.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d have many chances to dance, given your profession.”
And your station.
At least she’d left that unsaid. “I used to live in Paris, remember? Dancing well is practically a national requirement.” They took a few more steps together before he added, “You waltz pretty well yourself, princess.”
“You must stop calling me that,” she murmured. “Yesterday I had to evade several questions from my cousin because you let it slip.”
Good. “I suppose that was foolish of me.” He bent his head to her ear. “But surely when we’re alone, I can be forgiven for it.”
He was far too close for propriety, but he didn’t care. If she wanted him to put some distance between them, she could push him back, and the fact that she didn’t roused such fierceness in him that he could no longer resist his urges. Still waltzing her about the terrace, he began to kiss her delicate ear, then her satin-skinned cheek.
She gripped his hand painfully tight . . . but didn’t push him away. “So . . . so what is your plan?” she breathed into his hair.
“For what?” He traced her jaw with his mouth.
“You said . . . if I danced with you, you’d come up with a scheme for getting me out . . . of our town house.”
“Ah, that.” He nuzzled her neck. “Well, we need a tactic that gets rid of your Ralph.”
“Most assuredly. He would tell Papa for certain if I met you somewhere to go to a Gypsy camp.”
He tongued the sweet silk of her throat that had been tempting him all evening, and she let out a gasp, then persisted in continuing her blasted conversation. “B-but the only way for me to go anywhere without him is . . . is for me to go with Aunt Flo or some other suitable . . . female.”
What the devil was she talking about? Oh, right. How he was to extricate her from the town house without Ralph. He’d better figure that out right quick if he wanted to keep kissing her.
“Would my sister be considered a suitable escort?” he asked.
“Your sister?” She pulled back, a smile breaking over her face. “Of course! That’s brilliant! If the duchess came here to take me shopping, no one would think anything amiss.” Her smile abruptly faded. “But then you’ll have to tell her the whole story about my past, and I can’t risk that.”
“I don’t have to tell her a damned thing. She’ll get you out of the house, I’ll meet you to take you off her hands, and then we’ll arrange a place for you to join her once we’re done.”
She eyed him skeptically. “Will she agree to that?”
“Lisette will agree to anything I ask, trust me.” Indeed, she’d be happy to see him with a respectable female for once and not his usual run of light-skirts. “All I require is a few moments alone with her tonight to explain the situation. Then she can request permission from your guardians before we leave.”
As they kept dancing, she glanced away, her brow furrowed. He hoped she was being sensible, considering all the ways this could go wrong. And realizing how foolish she was to insist on going with him.
“My cousin is spending all day again tomorrow arranging the paintings for his exhibit,” she finally said, “so as long as Papa doesn’t guess that you’re involved, he’ll probably allow me to go shopping with your sister. She is a duchess, after all.”
So much for Zoe being sensible. “Having a duchess for a sister does have certain a
dvantages.” A thought occurred to him. “But won’t your aunt wish to join us?”
“Leave Aunt Flo to me. She hates shopping, so I’m sure it won’t take much to talk her out of the excursion.”
“Then shopping it is.”
She’d met her side of the bargain, so he had to meet his. And it might be good for her to experience a Romany camp firsthand. It might prove to her that they weren’t the sort of people she’d assumed. He still believed that her father must have taken a Gypsy mistress. It was the only explanation that made sense.
Unfortunately, it didn’t change anything about her situation. She would still feel compelled to marry her cousin.
The thought roused his temper. He would simply have to convince her that marrying Keane was a mistake. That she’d be better off trying to keep the past hidden.
Or he would find her Gypsy mother and buy her silence. That might work.
For what? Making sure some other fellow feels free to marry her? What good does that do you? If you’re not willing to marry her yourself, then why do you care if she marries Keane?
Determined to ignore the logic of that, he released her hand so he could manacle her waist with both arms and tug her flush against him. When she lifted her hands to his neck, he exulted. For the moment, she was his, damn it. Only his.
The fragrance of violets, her fragrance, engulfed him, and he buried his face in her hair once more. With a groan, she arched her head back, giving him access to her tender throat, and he kissed and tongued the hollow there until he thought he’d burst into flame.
Her throat moved convulsively. “Th-the music has stopped.”
They were barely dancing now anyway, sketching rapidly shrinking circles on the terrace. “Has it? A pity. I guess we’ll have to do something else to entertain ourselves.”
“Like what?”
“This,” he rasped, and kissed her cheek. “Or this.” He kissed her nose. “Or even this.” And he brought his mouth down on hers.
How the Scoundrel Seduces Page 10
