by Reid, Stacy
Mansfield shot him a curious glance. “Is something the matter?”
“Everything is just right,” Rhys returned evenly, unable to tear his gaze from her. Somehow, he hadn’t expected her to appear so…so lonely. Why hadn’t she taken a lover if she’d decided that was what she needed? He could never understand hesitancy in pursuing one’s desires.
The earl arched a brow. “I admit I was quite baffled when you called in my chips by requesting an invitation to tonight’s ball. I never thought you a man to be comfortable at these events.”
“Hmm,” Rhys said noncommittally. He remained in the shadows, leaning against the balustrade. “What do you know of Her Grace, the Duchess of Hardcastle?”
Mansfield sucked in a sharp breath. “Good God, man, how is the duchess in your crosshairs?”
“I mean her no harm.”
“Does she have anything to do with why my debt is being released for an invitation to tonight’s ball?” The earl tugged at his cravat.
Though Rhys did not mix much with the bon ton, he understood enough that he was not able to approach her in public as if they had prior acquaintance. “As my sister explained it, the fact that I was invited to a private ball is an indication of my respectability. But since I am relatively unknown, I thought it best to prevail upon our connections for an introduction.”
“If you mean her ill, let me tell you now I shall not allow it.”
Rhys had been brokering information for the earl for quite some years now, and they had developed a sort of tentative friendship Rhys did not put much trust in. The man understood that when Rhys turned his attention to a person of interest, in short order he would uncover their darkest secrets they wanted to bury or a craving they would promise anything to see fulfilled. “You have no power to allow or disallow me anything, Mansfield. But to ease your concern, the duchess isn’t in any trouble.”
The earl frowned. “Then what?”
Rhys had no bloody idea what. Information was the most powerful currency with which he dealt, and to unearth a secret of hers, or to simply have her indebted, Christ, the value of having a duchess beholden to him was incalculable. It was a desire to see her in this setting, to assess her power and influence, that had driven him. Though if he was honest, the woman herself was a powerful draw. Last night, without the benefit of sleep, he’d dreamt of seducing her. He wanted to peel the clothes off her body, wanted to worship every inch of her skin before delving deep into what promised to be bliss.
His cock stirred. Grateful that he had lingered in the dark, Rhys took a deep breath, willing the heavy ache in his groin to subside. “I simply wish to meet a beautiful lady. You have the connections to see it done without overt scrutiny. Need I remind you that you owe me?”
“Good God, you are not attracted to her, are you?” A startled laugh busted from Mansfield. “I am certain I do not need to remind you that she is a duchess…and you are…God damn it…you are…”
“A lowborn scapegrace unworthy to lick her golden slippers?” Dark amusement roughened Rhys’s voice.
“Her bloodline is as blue as her eyes.”
Mansfield’s warning was justifiable. The duchess was the daughter of an earl, the widow of a duke, and the mother of another one. Rhys was a lowborn mongrel, half English, half Irish, who had been in the gutter for too long. He acknowledged his background and history was dubious, but he had worked relentlessly to make a name for himself as a shrewd businessman. He had made himself, layer by layer, into a wealthy landowner, and he knew it was folly to be so arrested by Her Grace. She was poised, graceful, beautiful, and regal and uncompromising in her bearing.
He wanted to take his lips on a journey over her bare shoulders, down until he could use his lips and tongue to do wicked things between her thighs. Rhys fleetingly wondered if women of high society made love with the same abandon and lustiness of women of the lower classes. He doubted it; they seemed so prim and proper—even the duchess now glowed with icy aloofness.
She was so much more than he was, and he should be doing everything in his power to kill the unusual desire stirring in the corner of the soul he had locked so carefully away. Pushing aside the need to learn about the bewitching beauty standing in a sea of laughter and frivolity but appearing so unhappy, he instead concentrated on how to foster a connection. This was the closest he had ever gotten to such elevated stature, and he needed to ruthlessly cultivate the position, but only as a connection to be curried, used, and manipulated for the betterment of his family.
Chapter Five
Georgiana wove her way along the periphery of the ballroom, which was filled to its capacity with the elite of England. She’d been at the ball for less than an hour and was already restless. Her sister, Ellie, was engaged in the waltz with a very handsome and distinguished young gentleman. Georgiana smiled at her sister’s exuberance, and hoping she wouldn’t be stopped again to exchange more inane gossip, she headed to the terrace.
She was waylaid by the marchioness Lady Carlisle, another dear friend.
“How delightful you look, Georgiana. By next week we will see young ladies also wearing strands of pearls within their hair that way.”
She smiled. After two years of isolated mourning, she had thrown herself into society, carving a place for herself within the ton. Fashion had been her outlet, beautiful clothes and lavish hairstyles the armor she had hidden behind lest the world would see how adrift she was. Tonight, she was garbed in a pale-blue gown, her hair caught in a pile of curls, three strands of pearls entwining with her curls, to hover above the peak of her forehead.
“So many sought-after gentlemen approached you for dances tonight, and you’ve declined them all. I cannot credit you are still undecided on a lover,” Daphne said, arching her left brow, a mocking glint in her dark-brown eyes.
“I’m dreadfully bored,” Georgiana admitted ruefully. “The conversations are the same every night.”
“It is not like you to be so undecided. I provided you with a list of the ton’s most estimable gentlemen for an affair three days ago and—” Her friend faltered, shocked fascination settling on her face. “And who is that?”
Georgiana glanced in the direction of Daphne’s stare. Good heavens. It was Mr. Tremayne and the Earl of Mansfield. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Lord Mansfield.”
Daphne shot Georgiana a chiding glance. “I was referring to that wonderful specimen with him. The man whom our prime minister just approached. I’ve never seen him before.”
“Hmm,” she responded noncommittally, hating the quickening beat of her heart. Why was he here? She hadn’t thought after seeing him in the park a few days ago she would chance upon him within society again. It did not escape her awareness that until two weeks ago she had never met the man before and now he seemed to be everywhere.
A quadrille started, and Daphne’s partner swept down on them to claim her hand. Georgiana had not accepted a partner for this set and was free to discreetly observe the man. She watched as Lord Liverpool shook Mr. Tremyane’s hand. He was untitled, not even a gentleman, but was evidently tolerated in polite company because of his wealth and his arsenal of secrets. Who is he really? Shrewd, powerful perhaps, handsome…and an enigma. He clearly did not belong, yet many lords subtly acknowledged him, to which he barely inclined his head. He bowed to no one, spoke to no one. Instead, that dark, arrogant head did a discreet sweep of the room before it settled on her and remained.
Sweet heavens.
She looked away, suddenly made uncomfortable. It irritated her that he was capable of making her feel such discomfort. She couldn’t say she was charmed by his exemplary and amiable manners, but then again, he wasn’t a gentleman, nor did he pretend refinement. Yet now he seemed so uniquely elegant, as if he had been raised in the finest household and attended the best school.
There was a single unavoidable truth Georgiana could no longer ignore—she was irrevocably drawn to Rhys Tremayne, tempted by his mere presence. All these thoughts were inapprop
riate. From everything she had gleaned from her brother, Mr. Tremayne had built his name and fortune on other’s secrets, other’s shames, their scandals, and their fears. There was something wicked building inside her to make her even be attracted to such a man.
“There is a man whose gaze has not left your person since his entrance almost fifteen minutes ago,” a voice stiff with disapproval said from behind.
“Mother,” Georgiana said warmly, turning to face Countess Fairfax. Her mother was garbed in a light-blue gown with a matching turban decorated with small white feathers. Her ears and neck dripped with diamonds, and she looked ten years younger than the forty-six years she had seen. “I’d not expected to see you tonight.”
“Evidently not, given this wanton display of impropriety,” she said, her regard snapping to Mr. Tremayne and back.
“I cannot control the admiration of another.”
“Admiration? Scandalous is what it is!”
Mr. Tremayne’s eyes had indeed not moved from her person. His gaze measured each rounded curve of her body. The man hadn’t the decency or the breeding to realize how shocking his behavior was. No other lady had captured his attention, and she was distressingly thrilled at the notion she commanded his admiration.
“If he approaches you tonight you must not acknowledge him,” her mother commanded frostily.
Her mother had always guarded the family’s reputation quite fiercely. Her parents had spent so many years badgering her on what was proper conduct, she wondered if her mother ever tired of her vigil to ensure their reputation remained pristine. Anything could cast doubt on someone’s respectability. It was only a few weeks ago at Lady Derwood’s dinner party that Miss Miranda Thornton had had the misfortune of asking for more soup. The poor girl had been labeled as unrefined and vulgar. Though Georgiana agreed her manners needed improvement, she had hardly thought the girl’s lapse worth repeating. Georgiana had remained gracious to Miss Thornton, encouraging others to be just as kind.
Her mother flicked open her fan with artful grace and continued her diatribe. “Despite his presence here, he is clearly of questionable breeding.”
Georgiana sighed. “Are you familiar with him, Mother?”
“Of course not!”
“I daresay then that you have no notion of the manner of man he is.”
Her mother harrumphed, and Georgiana was startled at her defense of the man when he was indeed a reprobate.
“I’ve heard of an attachment between you and Lord Locksley,” the countess murmured, steering the conversation in the direction she was clearly eager to delve.
“There is no attachment.”
“He led your brother to believe there would be an announcement soon?” Her mother’s words were posed as a question as she watched Georgiana with light-blue eyes that glowed with keen intelligence and serious matchmaking fervor.
“He made an offer. I have not accepted.”
“You rejected his offer?” her mother said in shocked reproof. “His disposition and circumstance are very pleasing. My dear, you are frightfully stubborn. It has been five years—”
“I’m aware of how long my husband has been buried,” she snapped. “Your urgings are becoming tiresome, Mother.”
“At least think of dear Nicolas. He will need a gentleman’s influence to be the best possible duke. Surely you must see this and acknowledge your desire to remain unmarried is selfish and detrimental to your son.”
Georgiana sucked in a breath to hear her mother so boldly suggest she was insufficient to rear her son to be the best man he could be. A fear that had long dwelled within her heart reared its ugly head. Was she providing for all of Nicolas’s needs? Hardcastle could have left his brother in charge of the family finances, but the duke hadn’t. He had trusted her with their son’s legacy, because the duke did not trust his brother’s prodigality with money. She resented her mother implying she was unequal to the task.
“Lord Locksley is imminently suitable to be a father figure for Nicolas,” her mother murmured. “And while this is indelicate to mention, I’ve heard it said he is a knowledgeable lover.”
Dear Lord. Before she could retort, a voice interrupted.
“Your Grace, if you please, may I introduce you to Mr. Rhys Tremayne, a business associate of mine.”
Distressingly, her pulse hammered, and she shifted slightly to face the earl and Mr. Tremayne. He cut quite a dashing figure in his black trousers, well-fitted matching jacket, and an exquisitely designed silver waistcoat. He possessed a cool aura of combined razor-edged grace and danger in one package, and it was frightfully appealing. Mr. Tremayne managed a veneer of respectability by his fine manner of dress and his curious connections to the Mansfields.
“Mr. Tremayne,” she said, tilting her head in acknowledgment.
His eyes dipped to the hollow of her throat, before leisurely strolling up to meet her regard. The man was far too arrogant for his own good.
“Your Grace,” he said with a short but very elegant bow. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His gaze lowered to her mouth, his desire to kiss her a tangible thing. Good heavens. The man had no shame. The eyes of the ton were upon them.
She knew the disturbing sense of wariness again that she had felt the first day she met him. “Mr. Tremayne,” she murmured coolly. “A pleasure.”
Lord Mansfield made the introductions with her mother, and though Mr. Tremayne’s regard had shifted away, Georgiana felt as if he were aware of every fidget and the slight tension winding itself through her. When all the necessary polite introductions had been completed, he turned to her.
His eyes contained a flash of challenge that stole her breath.
“May I have the honor of this dance, Your Grace?”
Her mother gasped softly, and Lord Mansfield tried to affect a nonchalant mien, but his dark eyes blazed with curiosity and caution.
“Are you familiar with the waltz, Mr. Tremayne? That is the dance being announced.”
“I am,” he replied simply.
The refusal hovered on her lips, but the distance seeping into his eyes affirmed that he expected her rejection. Her mother’s outraged countenance also indicated she expected Georgiana’s refusal. It was silly of her, the way her heart was suddenly suffused with an ache. She had always lived her life above reproach, without scandal, to please her duke, her family, and even herself, for she had set a high standard on her comportment as a duchess. The slightest incident could lead one to disgrace, and she was reckless to even contemplate dancing with a man like Rhys Tremayne. “Yes.”
Surprise flared in his eyes before he smoothly masked his reaction. Her mother and Lord Mansfield seemed equally shocked at her capitulation. It was indeed noteworthy and might even merit a mention in tomorrow’s scandal sheet. The thought was enough to make her reconsider. Then it was too late, for suddenly she was there with the other couples on the dance floor, and she was swept into a waltz. The man moved with such dignified power and grace, she was startled and impressed. They twirled across the ballroom, and Georgiana could feel the eyes of society upon them. She waited for him to say something, anything, but they danced in silence.
Her body felt incredibly alive, every sense feeling somehow keener, sharper. Just from a simple dance, she was so aware of him. She tried to assess him critically. A faint blue-black shadow already darkened his aggressive jawline. Instead of giving him an unkempt appearance, he seemed roguishly dangerous. As for his body, she could find no flaw in those wide shoulders, lean waist, and long limbs. How would his lips feel pressed to hers? What would it be like to have this man as her lover? The unbidden thought sent a jolt of heat through her body. The sensations were altogether strange but not entirely unpleasant. A flush worked itself through her, and she fervently hoped she was not blushing. It disturbed Georgiana that she couldn’t suppress the increasingly desperate craving erupting in her body and tugging at that cold, lonely place.
“You will be mentioned in tomorrow’s paper,”
she finally murmured. There would be unceasing speculation about the man the Duchess of Hardcastle had deigned to partner with for a waltz. A few of the barbs might possibly be directed her way, but more of the speculation would be about this stranger in their midst.
Their gazes locked for long, silent moments. “And this bothers you?” he drawled.
“No.”
“Then why was it worth a mention?”
“Society can be very fickle and extremely hypocritical. Perhaps you have a family who will read the papers.”
“Is this your roundabout way of asking for my family connection?”
Her chin lifted slightly. “Of course not.” Though she was very curious about the manner of man she danced with.
“My mother devours the gossip pages with relish. If I was somehow deemed important enough to grace the pages, she’d be tickled, I’m sure. She has a flair for the dramatic.”
“I see. My family will not be as enthused as yours. I can already sense the recriminations that will be heaped upon my head.” She gasped silently at her uncensored admission.
“So, you are overly concerned with your reputation.”
“Sometimes all a person needs is their reputation to carve their place in the world, wouldn’t you agree? Is it not your dastardly notoriety as The Broker that makes you the only man to turn to when information is needed? You’ve created a monopoly on your brand of service. In fact, your reputation precedes you. It is the same for me, Mr. Tremayne. I am the Duchess of Hardcastle. My presence is coveted in all drawing rooms in England. Any scrutiny that will call into question the honor of my reputation is decidedly unpleasant.”
