by Lavinia Kent
“Not at all.” Ruby looked down. “Many men think in such a way, have no imagination for what life could be. I just had hoped for more from you.”
Her words cut, although he could not pretend to understand. Just as she could not understand. A man of his class, his responsibilities, needed a wife of certain qualities, and they were not the qualities necessary for a good fuck. “I think I will retire upstairs. You are correct: I do need to relieve some tensions, before I say things I do not wish to.”
“The Countess is here. Are you in such a mood? She has been quite disappointed that you have not been available recently. And she is not a woman who takes disappointment well. Someone always pays for her displeasure—although some of my clients do not seem to mind.” Ruby’s voice held no trace of her thoughts, although he knew she held no fondness for the Countess.
“The Countess?” He thought of the tall, elegant woman who liked to inflict pain as well as receive it. Her one rule was that she liked to play at the extremes. Briefly he had found excitement in such games, but that had faded as he’d realized the savagery that existed beneath the pale skin—and just how far she would go seeking her thrills. “No, I am in the mood for something a trifle softer. Is there anybody new visiting? Anybody more petite?” He wished he could take the last question back. He had never before cared for small women and did not want Ruby reading too much into his words.
“Try the second door in the left hallway. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with her, but I imagine you’ll think of something. She is uncomfortable with what she wants and feels a need for punishment. I am sure you will be creative and yet not too harsh. She is quite new to the game.”
Without another word, he nodded and left. Yes, that sounded like just what he needed.
Chapter Twelve
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Louisa stood outside the large town house and took that last breath of fresh air, that last breath of freedom.
It seemed symbolic that the moment she walked through the door the very quality of the air would change, would become hot and heavy, filled with the smell of too many people, too much food, too many flowers. Even the smell of the beeswax candles would be pervasive and unpleasant. She hadn’t put on her own scent this evening, knowing that even the fresh scent of lemons would only add to the strong odor.
She tightened her hands into fists, squeezing as tightly as she could and then releasing. Despite her efforts her hands were shaking, and she glanced down at them, remembering standing before that other door a month ago.
If she’d made it through that door she could make it through this one.
It wasn’t as if she’d never been to a ball before. She’d been to dozens and dozens of the blasted things. Of course, she’d never gone to one in direct pursuit of a husband—she’d known she was destined for John long before she’d danced her first quadrille. But countless women attended them every day seeking matrimony. Surely it could not take that much bravery.
And hadn’t Lady Perse had suggested that this was the perfect place to start her search for a husband?
Only her fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.
One more deep breath, then she lengthened her neck, dropped her shoulders, and swept in.
It was one thing to be afraid. It was another to show fear.
That had been one of her mother’s lessons.
Besides, there was nothing to fear.
She knew almost everybody here—not well, it was true, but well enough to know there were no dragons hiding in the corners, despite how some of the dowagers might imagine themselves. A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth at the thought.
She pushed the smile farther. It was hard to be frightened when smiling.
And why was she scared of a husband anyway? John had been wonderful and caring and … Perhaps she was afraid that no other man could measure up, that no other man could—
“It is lovely to see you, Louisa.” Lady Hamilton, her hostess, held out a gloved hand. “It has been far too long since you have moved among us. I had begun to fear you would never leave the—”
Louisa leaned in to give Lady Hamilton a light kiss upon the cheek, their skin never actually touching. Long ago, before her marriage to John, the two women had come close to being true friends, only circumstance and time holding them apart. “It is good to be here,” she answered simply, holding back the explanations that rose to her lips. They would only have added complication to a situation that did not need any more of them. It was enough that she was here.
“I am so pleased that you have put aside your grays and purples. I know that Brookingston was a dear husband, but a woman should not mourn for too long. It is unbecoming.” Lady Hamilton leaned closer and added in a whisper, “And you don’t want to miss your chances. Men do like youth, and I am afraid we are close to losing our bloom. As it is, it is a good thing that you are not wanting of funds. A man can overlook a lot for some ready capital.”
Louisa blinked. When had Lady Hamilton changed from a youthful friend to an interfering matron? It was true they had been close, but never to the extent that invited such shared confidences. She forced her smile slightly higher and nodded. There were definitely moments when no answer was the best answer.
She gave a nod of greeting to Lord Hamilton and, avoiding further conversation, she drifted into the ballroom.
Why was he here? Swanston let his gaze wander over the milling crowd. Soirees were the common place to choose a bride, but he’d never understood why. What could one determine in such a crush besides what a woman looked like in an evening gown—he’d never thought that was an important factor in deciding suitability anyway, and with the fuller skirts drifting into fashion it mattered even less. True, he wouldn’t want a woman who looked like a rum-soaked prune—Lady Willis, standing there in the corner dressed in a dreadful brown satin—or one who looked like a pineapple—Miss Strong, whose mother clearly needed to teach her some restraint in the matter of bows. In fact, he supposed a man didn’t really want his wife to look like any type of fruit unless there was some nudity involved that evoked images of peaches and cream, or perhaps strawberries.
And that consideration was not vital in choosing a wife either.
For a wife a man wanted grace and calm, qualities that weren’t easy to determine in the midst of a crowd.
And that’s what this ball was: a crowd.
Still, he was here and he would fulfill his commitments to his hosts—and to his estates.
This might not be a good way to find a bride, but he’d never heard of a better one.
Letting his shoulders relax and allowing his face a pleasant demeanor, he strode forth. If nothing else, he could determine which of the young chits bored him within the length of a dance.
While it might not be necessary to find his wife entertaining, neither did he wish to find her tedious. A lifetime of breakfasts and dinners awaited and he had no wish to spend them wishing he were someplace else.
He let his eyes wander over the crowd again. Perhaps a pineapple wouldn’t be so bad. The girl was not unpleasant looking, and surely a husband could command his wife’s dress sense. And those were handsome diamonds about her neck—and not old family pieces, if he was any judge. There was new money there, as well as old.
She might just suit his needs. She was quite young, but young meant malleable.
It was him. Louisa’s breath caught in her throat and she stopped dead in her tracks, almost stumbling over another lady’s hems.
It was him.
Tall. Wide shoulders. Dark, curling hair.
It was him.
And then he moved—and it was not.
Or at least, she didn’t think so.
How many times over the past month had she had the same thought, the same loss of breath, the same light-headedness? Once a day? Twice?
And it was never him. Or at least she didn’t think so.
It was time to admit that she could probably stand next him and not know.
&nbs
p; No matter how familiar a man might seem, there would never be a way to be sure. And it certainly wasn’t something she could ask.
And besides, she trusted Madame. Madame would not have put her with a man she would meet in her path through society, would she?
No.
It was only some tiny hopeful spark that made her imagine every man she met was him, was her Charles. And she knew she must douse that spark with a downpour of common sense. She did not want to meet him again. She did not. Her life was much better without him. She had refused to meet him again, and it had been the right thing, the only thing.
So why was she standing here in the midst of her husband hunt dreaming?
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
She took a step forward, entering the fray surrounding the dance floor. She moved slowly, pretending that there was no place she wanted to be more than here. If she pretended long enough, she might even begin to believe it was true. That had been yet another of her mother’s lessons.
“Lady Brookingston, it is so good to see you. Are you in Town for the season?” A tall gentleman stepped out of the crowd and blocked her way.
Lord Temple, that was his name. “Why yes, I am. I have decided that it is time to move on with my life.”
“And the country grows so dull so quickly, don’t you agree?”
No, she had never thought that. She loved the country and the quiet life it provided. “I must admit that London is much more … active.”
“I am so glad that you agree. Would you care for a dance? I do believe they are starting a waltz. I am sure you haven’t had much chance to waltz among the cows and corn.” He held out his hand, assuming her agreement.
She took it with only the slightest hesitation. This was what she was here for. She might not wish a husband who disliked the country, but she would keep her mind open and refrain from mentioning that her not having waltzed much lately had far more to do with mourning her husband than with the number of cows about.
The dance seemed almost endless as Lord Temple’s fingers did their best to discover whether she wore a full corset beneath her gown. It felt rather like having a snake wrapped about one’s waist, all wiggle and twist. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she could clearly feel the man pricing her jewels. He actually mentioned that he’d heard that very little of Brookingston’s estate had been entailed. She’d smiled and nodded—she was doing a lot of nodding—and waited for the dance to end.
But then there was another partner and more of the same. No, that was not fair to Lord Peter. His hands had stayed planted just where they were supposed to, and he’d made only the most decorous inquiries as to whether she’d taken a house in Town or was still staying in the Brookingston house. It was not his fault that his long nose made her feel that she was being looked down upon. A man could not be held responsible for his facial features.
Three more partners, one of whom had actually inquired whether she would be desirous of a ride home in his carriage; the word “desirous” had been emphasized in such a way as to make his wants clear. Widows were open game. He hadn’t seemed particularly distraught by her refusal, and she was left wondering if it had been some type of test.
In fact, this whole evening felt like a test. She’d come here wondering if she could find a man good enough to be her husband, the father of her children, and instead it was becoming very clear that she was the one being examined. Evidently, at twenty-six she had obstacles to overcome before being considered matrimonial material—although it seemed that her ready funds might compensate for her extreme age.
Did she want a husband whose primary interest was her purse?
With that discouraging thought she sought the ladies’ retiring room, seeking a moment of peace as much as anything else.
Luckily, the room was unoccupied save for a maid, and after a splash of water and a few pinches to redden her cheeks, she felt ready to return.
As she was leaving the chamber, she had a strange encounter. An extremely tall, dark-haired woman—Louisa reached little higher than her shoulder—dressed in a crimson so dark as to be almost black, stopped just as she was about to pass Louisa and enter the retiring room herself. Running her gaze over Louisa, taking in the vibrant blue of her dress, the generous curves rising above the bodice, and the tight mass of braids Louisa’s maid had worked so hard on, she smiled and reached out to run a finger down Louisa’s cheek, causing a deep shudder.
“Aren’t you sweet,” the woman said in a slightly accented voice. “I could eat you up. I do wish I’d seen you in other circumstances. You have the look about you and I daresay you don’t even know it. Perhaps we will have the chance to talk later.” She patted Louisa’s cheek again, the nail of her index finger almost scratching. “I shall just have to wait until we are properly introduced.”
Without another word the woman swept past, the smell of jasmine and musk trailing behind her.
Louisa could only lift her hand to her cheek, hoping there was not a mark, and wonder.
Shaking off a lingering unrest and avoiding the dance floor, she sought out refreshment. A cool, or almost cool, drink would do much to restore her spirits.
It was as she was waiting for a new bowl of punch to be brought out that she heard him. Charles.
There could be no mistaking that voice—the deep timbre … the shudders it sent through her.
She might mistake his appearance; she had never truly seen him. But that voice. That she would know anywhere.
Her feet felt frozen.
Should she turn? Should she finally see the man who had disturbed her sleep this last month? The man who filled her thoughts until her thighs clenched and grew damp?
And what if he recognized her?
Could she risk it?
Could she not?
He knew her.
Geoffrey stared across the room at the petite woman in the gown of clearest blue. She was so familiar: the curve of her shoulder, the slender waist, the posture so straight and yet so natural. Even the tight net of braids that held her hair constrained reminded him of someone, some time. He could picture them in candlelight, her head tilted forward in supplication.
His groin tightened.
It was a pity that skirts had grown fuller over the last year. Between the balloon-like sleeves and belled skirt he could not determine the true outline of her figure.
But still, he knew her.
He just could not remember when or how.
He waited for her to turn, waited to see her lovely face, for he was sure it was lovely.
Had he fucked her?
Normally he didn’t forget his adventures, but how could a man be sure that he remembered them all?
His body was certainly responding as if it knew her well—and she was across the room, across an ocean of chattering faces.
Shifting uncomfortably, he held his breath and waited.
Was it him? How could it not be?
She knew it was.
She might not be able to understand what was being said—there was too much noise for that—but she knew that timbre, those tones of command. Her breasts grew heavy just hearing him, her nipples straining against her corset.
When the footman held out the punch she almost dropped the crystal cup. Her fingers were shaking, and not with fear. Desire filled her.
She closed her eyes for the briefest second, bringing the cold liquid to her mouth, feeling the chill against her lips, the hard glass against her growing softness. Could anybody see the change in her, know the thoughts that filled her head?
If it was him, if it was Charles—and she knew that it was—then it was meant to be. Her willpower could hold out no longer. If he invited her to ride in his carriage, then ride she would, whenever and wherever he wished her to go.
It was hard to swallow the sweet drink. Her throat did not wish to work, her tongue to do anything but lick her lips in invitation.
And still she did not turn.
What if he did not know her? What
if he looked at her and saw only a stranger?
Could she tell him who she was? Did she dare?
Could she approach him as herself? She knew his desires—could she play upon them? Could she seduce him? Perhaps she could …
What if he was married?
He’d said he wasn’t, but …
Oh heavens, she’d never seriously considered that.
Or what if he didn’t want her, what if he’d wanted only the game, the mystery? He’d certainly never invited anything else—not that she’d given him the chance.
Her body cooled more with each additional thought.
It was far better not to know. She’d been right in her actions. She should keep that one night locked in its secret room, guard it as carefully as treasure, allow nothing to tarnish it.
No matter what happened in the years to come she would have that, have that moment.
She gulped another mouthful of punch, placed the half-full cup back on the table.
Leaving was the only option. If she left she could pretend this had never happened, pretend that nothing was different than it had been this morning, even earlier this evening. Tomorrow would be soon enough to proceed with her plan.
Only.
Only, she was not a coward and that was a coward’s way.
As if by heavenly design she heard the voice again, low, rumbling, deep—and laughing? She’d never heard him laugh. It seemed so unlike the dark man she remembered. And yet …
If she was ever going to face him, it should be now.
She didn’t know what would come next, but she would take it as it came.
If a price was demanded, then she would pay.
Keeping her face stiff, trying to stem anticipation, she turned back toward the dance floor, toward that deep beckoning voice.
She was turning. His breath caught, waiting, anticipating. Surely if he saw her face he would know her, remember her. And there must be something to remember, else why was his body stiffly at attention, forcing him to let his coat fall forward—disguising the physical mark of his interest.
