by Isobel Carr
Livy took a seat on one of the red velvet benches while Devere pulled a cold bottle of champagne from the large wine cooler hidden in the corner and set about opening it. By the time he’d poured them each a glass and topped it with a bit of the lemon shrub, footmen had arrived with trays of savory buns, finely sliced ham, a cold roast chicken, a salad of peas and mint and cucumber, and a plate of assorted kickshaws.
Livy took a macaroon from the plate of kickshaws and ate it while Devere carved the chicken. She licked crumbs from her fingers and reached for a second biscuit.
“Starting with dessert?” Devere said as he made up a plate for her.
Livy shrugged. “I’m famished. Eating dessert first doesn’t seem to be the crime today that my nurse made it out to be.”
“Plenty of worse crimes to commit,” a female voice announced from just outside the box.
Livy turned to find her father assisting the comtesse up the low steps. “Exactly,” Devere said as his sister took a seat beside him and snagged his wineglass. “Like stealing a man’s drink.”
The comtesse merely grinned and took a sip. Livy nearly choked as her mind flashed back to her own recent commandeering of his glass and just what he’d—they’d—been doing at the time. Devere’s sister cocked one eyebrow as though she knew exactly what Livy and her brother had been up to on their journey.
A powerful wave of jealousy swept through Livy and she set down her glass, afraid she’d snap the stem. If she were a widow like the comtesse, she could allow herself to succumb to Devere’s advances and the world would hardly bat an eyelash.
Her husband wasn’t here for the ton to scorn and slight, and society didn’t like being cheated of their entertainment any more than the ancient Romans had liked gladiators who refused to fight. Without Souttar to satisfy their bloodlust, the ton would happily make do with her.
“Did you enjoy your first trip in a shallop?” the comtesse said, a knowing smile still lingering about her eyes.
When there was nothing left of their meal but bones and crumbs, Philip waved Livy and Mr. Devere off into the oncoming dusk to watch the lanterns being lit. Madame de Corbeville smiled up at him conspiratorially and held out her empty glass.
Philip paused, stunned in that instant by just how appealing that smile was. Sweet and sinful at the same time. After a moment, he shook off the feeling of being a fly trapped in amber and grinned back at her.
Though she was ostensibly dressed in mourning, the subtle pattern of the black silk of her gown was picked out with sequins, giving the center of each tiny flower a magical glint. The whole thing shimmered in the candlelight, making the comtesse appear like a dark jewel in a red velvet box.
The great fire at the center of the rotunda was being stoked, and the tables cleared away from what would shortly become the dance floor. The boxes around them were overflowing with merrymakers. The din of their conversations created a low burble, not unlike that of the rushing Thames a short distance away.
Madame de Corbeville worried her lower lip between her teeth, watching him with an assessing look he was hard-pressed to interpret. She’d been eyeing him all day as though she were on the verge of taking a step of which she was unsure. Such reticence didn’t seem natural to her at all.
The comtesse had beaten him at a game of chess, and it had been clear—at least to him—that she was well on her way to winning the second game that was interrupted by their arrival at Ranelagh. No, beaten wasn’t the right word. She’d routed him fully, almost effortlessly.
He honestly couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given him a good game, let alone beaten him. Nor could he remember enjoying the sensation of losing before. But there was something about the almost embarrassed little smile that lit her face as she checkmated him that was disarmingly charming.
And charming wasn’t a word that normally sprang to mind when he thought of Madame de Corbeville. Vivid, alluring, beautiful; she was a siren. But that smile wasn’t the smile of a siren; it was the smile of a flesh and blood woman. One who wasn’t entirely certain of herself. That flash of vulnerability was a glimpse behind the mask she wore, and that sight was possibly the most riveting thing he’d witnessed yet.
That smile made her real.
Philip twirled her empty glass between his fingers. “Lemon or strawberry shrub? Or perhaps claret?”
“Lemon shrub,” she said, ceasing to chew on her lip and smiling back at him instead. “If Rolly didn’t consume all of it, that is. I think my brother drank the better part of two bottles of champagne.”
Philip fished an unopened bottle of shrub from the wine cooler along with another bottle of champagne and made short work of removing the cork. “I rather imagine managing Livy is enough to drive most men to drink.”
The comtesse’s mouth sagged open for a moment, and she blinked at him as though she were at a loss for words. After a moment, she gave a girlish twitter of laugher and reached for her newly filled glass.
“The challenge will do Rolly good,” she said as she swirled the glass about, mixing the lemon-infused brandy with the champagne. “He’s far too used to having women fall into his lap like ripe fruit.”
Philip felt a moment of uneasiness. He’d been joking, but he could see that Devere’s sister wasn’t. Livy had never given him a moment’s worry. At least not until the day she’d fled her bigamous husband’s house and put herself under her grandmother’s protection. He’d never imagined a day when he wasn’t the one she turned to, and it still smarted when he let himself dwell upon it. He’d wanted the best for her, wanted her to be sure of the facts, of the law, but he could see now that she’d taken his advice to stand her ground as a betrayal.
He wanted to believe the story of flouted love his daughter and Devere had regaled him with, but his gut knew better. The ever-present doubt flared into something close to anger, and he damped it down.
He knew his daughter. If she’d been in love, she’d have never agreed to marry someone else. No, there was some other game afoot. He’d lost Livy’s trust, and so she’d chosen her own champion. All he could do was trust in her judgment.
How she had got Devere under her thumb was the real question. The other one, of course, was how did she plan on keeping him there?
CHAPTER 15
The last pink edge of dusk disappeared behind the first volley of fireworks. The air filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder. Margo pulled Arlington up the exterior stairs of the rotunda for a better vantage point. She leaned against the railing that encircled the walkway leading to the first-floor boxes and stood silently watching the rockets burst from the barges on the Thames and explode overhead.
Each burst of color was followed by cheers and shrieks and laughter, as if the audience filling the garden were made up of nothing but children. Arlington’s face was bathed in colored light from the lanterns, making the shadows and hollows appear purple and blue while the planes of his face were red like a devil.
The earl turned to look at her, and Margo’s chest nearly seized. She wrapped both hands around one of his wrists and slowly drew him along the walkway.
Arlington followed along unresisting, a quizzical expression causing his brows to rise. The doorways leading to the numerous small boxes that were accessed from the walkway were filled with people. At several points, they had to work their way through the standing crowd that was eagerly gathered to watch the display.
“Don’t want to watch the show?” he said as they circled and the rotunda began to block their view. The walkway beyond, offering no view of the fireworks, was completely deserted.
Margo shrugged and sped up. “I’m betting that everyone unlucky enough to have been assigned a box on this side will have gone out by now.”
Arlington’s expression changed from mild confusion to sudden comprehension. The hungry look from the carriage returned as Margo laughed and pulled him through a door that had been left ajar on a darkened box.
This one was perfect. No one would blow out the
lanterns if they intended to return anytime soon. Light filtered in from the chandeliers hung all about the dome of the rotunda, providing just enough illumination for her to make out the small table and chairs pushed up to the edge of the balcony overlooking the rotunda floor. The soft sounds of the musicians testing their instruments drifted in between the steady boom of the fireworks.
Arlington kicked the door shut behind them and grabbed one of the ornate chairs. “What are you—oh,” Margo said as he wedged it under the knob and turned back to face her, mischief plain on his face even in the dim light.
“This is foolishness,” he said, taking a step toward her, hands poised as if he were almost afraid to touch her.
“No, foolishness was wasting our trip playing chess,” Margo replied. She took a step toward him, splayed her hands on his chest, and thrust him down into one of the small chairs.
Low, throbbing heat flooded through her, making her limbs heavy. Her heartbeat plummeted from her chest to lodge between her thighs. She hadn’t been touched by a man in more than six months. In all the years of her marriage, Margo didn’t think she’d ever gone six days without a man in her bed. Not always her husband, true, but then Etienne had been busy elsewhere as well…
Arlington pulled her to him by her skirts, nearly yanking her off her feet. He pushed her petticoats aside, dragging her into his lap. Margo straddled him, shivering as the metallic trim on his coat scraped coldly across the skin of her inner thighs.
The earl gripped her hips as she settled in his lap, thumbs circling on her hip bones. His mouth traced the line where neck and shoulder met, hot and predatory. Any doubts she’d had vanished. He wasn’t the least bit disgusted, and he wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.
Margo fought her way down past the froth of petticoats between them, fingers tracing the lean line of Arlington’s chest and stomach until she found the buttons that secured his breeches. The earl’s breath hissed out of him as she freed his cock, wrapped her hand about it, and gave it one long, hard stroke.
“Jesus,” Arlington mumbled against her neck, his hands sliding around her hips, tugging her toward him.
His breath shuddered in and out, warm on her damp skin. His cock hardened in her hand, swelling until her fingers could no longer encircle it. Margo held him fast as she mounted, greedily taking as much of him as she could on the first down stroke. The sharp, hollow ache that had been building all day burst into the first hint of climax as he guided her up and brought her back down.
Arlington’s hands slid out from under her skirts, moved up her back, and hooked over her shoulders. He drew her down as he thrust into her, his cock riding hard against the mouth of her womb with every stroke.
Margo clutched his coat, set her forehead against his, and stared directly into his eyes. He gazed steadily back, unblinking. She felt more than saw him smile and his cheek brushed hers, ever so slightly rough with the promise of beard. Margo shut her eyes and gave herself over to the purely physical joy of racing toward her release.
The earl came with a growl and buried his head in her breasts. He flexed up, arching against her, as the first tingling wave of climax hit, and then, with a sudden splintering crescendo that echoed off the walls, the chair beneath them broke.
They landed in a heap atop the ruins of faux-gilt wood, and Margo burst into peals of laughter. Arlington stared up her, shock turning slowly to amusement as he too began to laugh.
The earl set her gently to one side and wiped his streaming eyes. He scrambled up, the skirts of his coat entangled in the remnants of the chair. Margo sat on the floor, trying to get control of her breathing and rein in her frustration. She’d been so close, so damn close.
Arlington dusted off his coat, freeing it from the shards of wood, buttoned up the placket of his breeches, and shot his cuffs. A quick tug settled his coat smoothly across his shoulders, and he was once again the consummate gentleman. No one would ever know that moments before he’d been fornicating like a satyr.
He reached down and helped her up, lifting her to her feet with one powerful motion. He was stronger than he appeared. Whipcord-hard under a deceptive layer of silk.
Margo smiled with covetous wonder as she shook out her skirts. She’d expected elegance and civility, a courtly lover, not a display of raw physical prowess. He was magnificent.
She tugged the bodice of her gown into place, running her hands over it to make sure it wasn’t gaping open and that she hadn’t lost any pins. Arlington kicked the broken chair aside, sending it flying across the box, and crossed the small space to remove the blockade from the door.
He smiled guiltily as they slipped out onto the walkway, his fingers intertwined with hers. A deafening boom washed over them as what appeared to be the finale of the fireworks display erupted overhead, raining down showering, glowing sparks.
Margo leaned back against the wall of the rotunda, still trying to catch her breath, heart hammering with excitement and exertion. “Do you realize you still haven’t kissed me?”
Philip chuckled at the absurdity of the comtesse’s comment. Her face lit up as he stepped closer, pinning her to the wall, chest to chest, hip to hip. He captured her mouth with his own, kissing her hard, with all the frustrated urgency still rushing through his veins.
Why the devil had they sent the carriage back when they’d arrived? If ever there was an evening not to share a conveyance home with his daughter, this was it. A long carriage ride home would be the perfect place to finish what that damn chair had so rudely interrupted.
The comtesse—Margo—softened in his arms, wilted almost, her hands trapped between them, lying quiescent against his chest. Philip broke off the kiss and turned them both about so they were staring out over the brightly lit garden, her back to his chest, his arms about her waist. He rested his cheek on top of her head and simply held her there, not quite ready to return to being Lord Arlington and Madame de Corbeville just yet.
Margo leaned back into him, clearly no more eager than he to reenter the fray. The sky darkened as the last motes of the fireworks winked out and the strains of a minuet seeped out into the night, calling the crowd back to the rotunda. The first wave of guests returning to their boxes broke them apart.
“Shall we go and watch the dancing?” Philip said as they reached the bottom of the stairs.
Margo wrapped her hands about his biceps with a sigh. “If this were a masquerade, I could have worn scarlet and danced until I wore through the soles of my shoes.”
“The Dorringtons are giving a masquerade in a few weeks’ time,” Philip said with a grin as they made their way back toward one of the entrances to the rotunda.
Margo shook her head ruefully, setting her dark curls bouncing. “I’m afraid I haven’t been invited.”
Philip’s grin widened as he tucked a stray curl back behind her ear. “Neither have I.”
The sight of Lord Arlington brushing Madame de Corbeville’s hair back from her face brought Henry Carlow up short. His heartbeat redoubled in his ears, a staccato panicked drumbeat. What the devil was going on?
He’d come to Ranelagh with a party of friends and had spent the better part of the evening grinding his teeth as he continually stumbled across Olivia and her damn swain. The idea that Livy intended to marry that useless oaf, to hand over her fortune and her person to a man with nothing to recommended him but the skills of a hedgebird—cards, horses, and pugilism—was enough to make him wish that Protestants had maintained the nunneries and the tradition of locking unruly females within their walls.
He kept waiting for Livy to come to her senses. Eventually she must realize that Devere was little better than a gazetted fortune hunter. The man would never be able to offer her what he could: a title, respectability, and consolidation of the Carlow lands and fortune.
Livy had always been quick-witted. It was one of the things he genuinely liked about her. Surely the obvious solution would occur to her. Or it would if only he could send Devere packing. But maybe th
ere were more dire machinations afoot.
Madame de Corbeville said something to the earl as they approached the Chinese Pavilion where his cronies were ensconced at cards, and Arlington’s answering bark of laughter set Henry’s pulse racing even harder. His hands curled into fists. He took a rage-induced step toward them before getting himself back under control.
He knew what an infatuated man looked like. Lord knew he spent enough time watching the ambassador make a fool of himself over every Italian woman who so much as glanced at him. The earl looked thoroughly besotted. He kept one hand on the comtesse at all times, as though unable to stop touching her.
Henry stalked back into the rotunda, his stomach churning with horrid possibilities. He sank into a seat in the box his friends had rented and reached for the open bottle of brandy. One of the demireps they’d brought with them slid into his lap, and the overwhelming scent of roses pushed into his nostrils until he could actually taste it. He gestured for her to pour and then slugged the full glass of brandy back in one go, letting the burn quiet his nerves.
The whore in his lap batted her eyelashes at him and refilled his glass, her free hand pushing down to splay over the fall of his breeches. Henry pushed her hand away and her expression hardened before she could force a smile. Henry knocked back the second glass and nodded toward the bottle.
“Again, Suzette.”
“Rachel,” she said with a pout. “Suzy is dancing with Lord Harry.”
“Rachel,” Henry said, trying to sound conciliatory. “Pour me another brandy, and then perhaps we’ll join Lord Harry and your friend in the next set.”
Rachel smiled and complied. Out on the floor, Olivia whirled by, hair and skirts flying as Devere swung her through the steps of the gallant. Henry grimaced, staring until they disappeared in the sea of dancers.
Losing Livy and her fortune would be disastrous, but if Lord Arlington were to remarry and produce an heir of his own? There would be no recovery.
