by Isobel Carr
Livy stirred restlessly under the coverlet. Devere had been a perfect gentleman all night. Not so much as a stolen kiss. It should have made the night perfect. Instead it had left her feeling as though she had an itch just below the surface of her skin.
She tugged her nightgown up and slid her hand between her thighs. She’d been thinking about Devere doing the same all night. Remembering not just his hand but his mouth, the slight scrape of his teeth, the slick dexterity of his tongue.
If she used her whole hand, pushed hard with her knuckles, slid her nails across her own flesh, she could almost pretend it was Devere. If she let herself, she could almost imagine that he’d somehow left his cousin Gerard snoring in his room and slipped unnoticed across the house to join her here.
Livy caught her lower lip between her teeth and arched into her fingers. A hand, especially her own hand, simply wasn’t the same. It might never be adequate again. Damn him.
CHAPTER 27
I hardly see how we could extend you such a sum, Mr. Carlow.”
Anger snapped through Henry as he goggled at the moneylender. Damn supercilious bastard. His friend, Lord Frederick, had assured him that Mr. Gideon was only too happy to extend credit to men of expectations who’d landed in the basket. Freddy was into him for more than five thousand pounds. The man’s terms might be usurious, but they were no different from those of the rest of his profession, and unlike them, Mr. Gideon was known for his discretion and, more importantly, his patience.
Henry had run through his entire income for the quarter—and then some—since coming home. It was amazing how quickly money disappeared in London. A couple jars of snuff, a few sticks of furniture, a bit of ready for the tables, and he was suddenly reduced to punting on the river tick. But credit wouldn’t cover everything, and it wouldn’t be extended forever. And if any of his creditors grew impatient, he would find himself clapped into some sponging house until the debt was satisfied.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gideon.” Henry sounded angrier than he intended, angrier than was wise when he was seeking this man’s help. He took a deep breath and started again. “Perhaps my situation isn’t known to you. I’m heir to Lord Arlington.”
The man raised a brow, looking for all the world like an Oxford don ready to give a student a dressing down. “Heir presumptive,” he said dismissively. “And here in Bevis Marks, we hear every whisper of gossip that flows through the ton. Our business depends upon it.”
Henry ground his teeth and swallowed the urge to put the man in his place. Gossip about Arlington and the comtesse was rife. Bets were being laid at White’s. He’d borne witness to one himself and been the victim of the bettors’ snide jibes. The earl setting up a flirt hadn’t worried him at first, but it was fast becoming a very serious concern. Coupled as it was with Olivia’s betrothal, the gossip hung over him like the sword of Damocles. Everything his life was based upon was at risk: his station, his fortune, his entire future.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I assure you—”
“You assure me that Lord Arlington will not remarry?” Mr. Gideon cut him off. “That even if he does, he’ll not sire a son and leave you and me both whistling for our money? No, sir”—he shook his head, his eyes sharp—“I assure you, I’ll make no loan upon the slender hope of a presumptive inheritance when the current titleholder is a hale man barely in his forties. And certainly not one of the magnitude you apparently require.”
Anger flared into panic, momentarily swamping him. Henry’s hands clenched until his knuckles ached. “I have an estate of my own,” he said, trying to keep the desperation from his voice. “In Gloucestershire.”
Mr. Gideon’s expression changed, and he reached for his ledger book, sliding the leather-bound volume across the desk with a sibilant hiss.
“Unentailed?” He flipped the ledger open and began to page through it.
Henry shook his head, feeling as though he were sinking in the Thames. He was going to be sick. He couldn’t even afford to return to Italy at this point, let alone to stay in London and pursue his increasingly terrifying prospects.
“Well then, Mr. Carlow.” The ledger snapped shut with a finality that rattled through Henry’s bones. “I think our conversation is at an end.”
CHAPTER 28
It was just after eleven as Philip made his way briskly down Hill Street. Almack’s had closed its doors for the night, and those among the ton who were not puffing off a daughter this Season were likely at the theatre, putting in an appearance at the Smythe-Henley musicale, or, like him, preparing to enjoy a more risqué evening at the Dorrington masquerade, which was taking place only across the square from his own home.
Philip strode quickly past the long line of waiting carriages and chairs carrying colorfully costumed ladies and gentlemen, rounded the corner, and arrived at the Moubrays’ town house only a few minutes after leaving his own door. As he approached, a cloaked figure emerged from the area. He quickened his step as the oily light of the streetlamp revealed it to be a lady clad in scarlet.
Margo grinned at him from behind a simple white mask. The small beak curled over her nose and dipped down toward her full upper lip. The hood of her domino covered what appeared to be heavily powdered hair. The enveloping, sleeved over-gown hid everything but the cheerful red-and-white-striped hem of her petticoat and her delicate kidskin shoes.
She looked like a Meissen chimney piece, every trace of mourning gone. All she needed was a crook and a dainty sheep with a bow about its neck to become an idyllic shepherdess.
Margo had a second domino draped over her arm and a black mask in her hand with a raptor’s heavy, jutting beak. She handed them both to Philip and he slid them on, disappearing into the dark folds of silk. He felt wicked. Like a schoolboy on a lark. And it felt good.
Philip’s lashes brushed the edges of the eyeholes as he blinked. He adjusted the fit of the mask and clapped his hat back onto his head before offering Margo his arm. Her answering smile cut right through him and set his heart beating as fast as the first time he noticed a maid’s bosom. That day had been awkward, exhilarating, tinted with awe and the slight fear of retribution should he be caught. Just as tonight was.
He’d never taken a lover. Never attempted to attend a party to which he’d not been invited. Never slunk around like a tom on the prowl. Margo had changed all of that. She’d changed him.
They rushed past the same line of idle carriages and empty chairs he’d passed on the way to meet her. Margo held firmly to his arm, her free hand raised to keep the hood of her domino in place. Her tinkle of laughter, bubbling forth as she ran beside him, had him feeling nearly omnipotent with joy and anticipation for the night ahead.
There was a long, raucous line of guests all attempting to enter the Dorringtons’ house at once. Many were dressed as he and Margo were, in simple masks and dominos. Others were in full fancy dress. Ahead of them, Neptune was attempting to disentangle his trident from the flowing locks of a man dressed as a pirate. The pirate’s wig lifted off his head, and both men began shouting. The crowd parted, and the footmen who’d been manning the door rushed down the steps and dove into the fray.
Margo tugged at his arm, pulling him past the enraptured circle of guests and into the house. “I suppose we shan’t need this after all,” she said, holding up a small card with neat copperplate crossing it. The “D” in the signature at the bottom was large and distinct.
“Where did you get that?”
The chaos outside died down all at once, and the stream of guests, no longer being entertained by the fisticuffs, pushed them along into the ballroom. Margo shrugged one shoulder in response to his question.
“From a distracted Good Queen Bess.”
“So you’re a pickpocket as well as a siren?”
Margo caught her lip between her teeth and simply stared up at him. “Nothing so skillful,” she said as they made their way deeper into the already crowded ballroom. “She had it in her hand but was completely distrac
ted by the brawl.”
“Intrepid of you.”
She inclined her head, taking his comment as the compliment it was. “One does like to be prepared.” She slid the invitation into his coat pocket, patted it as though assuring herself it was safe, and glanced about the room. “Who shall we be tonight?”
“The Eagle and the Lovebird?”
Margo slanted her eyes at him. The kohl she’d rimmed them with made them appear huge behind the mask. “I should have kept the hawk for myself and come as a harpy.”
Philip burst into laughter. “Would you like to swap now?”
She dimpled as she lowered the hood of her domino, revealing artfully curled and arranged hair, carefully dusted with what appeared to be pink hair powder, and generously bedecked with crimson poppies and ribbons.
“No,” she said with another smile. “You’d look ridiculous as a turtledove, my lord.”
“That I would,” Philip conceded, grinning back at her. “Come, the first set is forming, and I know you’ve been longing to dance.”
Margo’s smile widened as he led her to the center of the room and they took their places between another couple in dominos and one dressed as a unicorn and what appeared to be an attempt at Persephone, judging by the pomegranate she was awkwardly clutching in one hand and the lengths of wrinkled fabric she had draped about herself in an attempt to create Grecian robes.
As they worked their way up the line of dancers, Philip found himself watching closely for every alteration of expression on Margo’s partially hidden face. He’d never noticed quite how full her lips were, or how the single dimple in her right cheek flashed like the evening star just before she smiled.
She licked her lips, and his cock pulsed, ready to rise to attention. Philip looked away from that tempting mouth, thankful as the dance whisked her away and replaced her for the nonce with a veiled Mohammedan princess.
The princess batted her eyelashes above her veil. “Lord Gleeson?” she said, her voice rising with the question.
Philip shook his head.
“Well,” she circled, changing spots with him, “you can’t be Mr. Craig. You’re too tall. And you can’t be Lord Steele, as you’re too fair.”
Philip laughed but didn’t answer her.
“Not even a hint?” she said as she slid down the line and Margo returned to him, eyes brimming with mischief.
Margo flicked her glance over the little princess. “You’ll have to wait until midnight,” Margo said. “Just like everyone else.”
The other woman glared and turned back to her own partner with her chin raised high. Margo’s burst of laughter only seemed to further antagonize her.
“It’s as hot as Hades in here,” Margo said, lifting her hair from the back of her neck and fanning herself with one gloved hand. “I need a drink.”
Without a word, the earl swept Margo out of the set and shouldered a path out of the ballroom entirely. Margo savored the shiver of excitement his hand at her waist sent racing up her spine. Even without knowing who he was, people gave way. The brutal lines of his mask and the billowing puce-black silk of his domino gave him a menacing air he utterly lacked as the golden Earl of Arlington.
On the terrace, they found a footman circling with wine. Drinks in hand, they retired to perch on the balustrade, withdrawing from the ebb and flow of guests making their way in and out of the overheated ballroom. Margo’s damp skin tightened as it dried in the crisp night air. Her cheek itched beneath the layer of rice powder she’d dusted over it.
“So,” the earl said, leaning against the stone barrier at the edge of the terrace. “Are the masquerades at Versailles anything like this?”
Margo ran her eye over the crowd, taking in the wide variety of fancy dress the revelers had chosen to attire themselves in. It was a mad, beautiful jumble.
“No.” She took a sip of wine, immensely grateful to be outside. As much as she loved to dance, when there were a hundred people packed into a room meant to contain half the number, the heat became oppressive. “At Versailles, they tend to choose a specific theme, or color, for their grand masquerades. The last one I attended required everyone in attendance to dress as an animal.”
The earl grinned at her, his eyes almost glowing against the black of his mask. “And what were you?”
Margo found herself sighing as she remembered what she’d worn. “I was a giraffe. With a headpiece that was nearly four feet high.” She pantomimed its shape with her empty hand. “I nearly broke my neck attempting the gavotte that night.”
“Do you miss it? Life at Versailles?” His voice was soft, as though he were almost afraid to ask the question, or perhaps afraid of the answer.
Margo caught her lips between her teeth and drew a deep breath in through her nose. Arlington needn’t have had the slightest trepidation. “No.” She shook her head. “No, I don’t. There are things I miss about Paris. The bread alone.” She found her mouth watering at the thought. “But Versailles isn’t Paris, and my life there, well, it can be hard living up to one’s reputation.”
“Was yours really so very bad?”
Margo studied the earl. Did he really not know? Did he actually want to? “Wild is more the word I would use, though I’m sure my detractors would have said mauvaise with glee. La Folle Anglaise. When I married Etienne, I threw myself into my new life, into his life: court intrigues and jockeying for power. And at Versailles, the political and the romantic are all intertwined, inseparable even. You seduce a man because your husband needs his support, because his wife slighted you, because everyone is judging you by your ability to do so.”
His lips compressed. A sign of disapproval? Of distress? She couldn’t be sure with the mask hiding so much of his face.
“And it was hard for you.”
Not a question. A statement of sympathy. Margo felt almost guilty disabusing him of his conviction, of his vision of her, but she’d have felt guiltier still allowing him to go on believing her to be something, someone, she wasn’t. That wasn’t the kind of relationship they had, or the kind she wanted.
“No.” She shook her head, ignoring the flutter of warning in her stomach telling her to stop. “It was easy. That was the problem in the end. It was so very easy. And it would have been easy to stay…”
“But?”
Still hopeful. Still willing to believe the best of her. Sweet man. “But becoming a widow gave me just enough distance from the day-to-day combat to feel myself suddenly a stranger. I could have reclaimed my place. I could have married a duc had I wanted to and flung myself back into the fray with even more power at my back. But I found I had no desire to do so. And so”—she paused, hoping she been clear enough—“and so I came home.”
Arlington caught her hand and raised it to his lips. His lips were warm through the thin leather of her glove. “And so you came home.”
He said it as though it were some kind of portent, as though it meant something, as though he were willing it to mean something. A part of her even wished he were right.
CHAPTER 29
Henry watched from across the street as Devere used the head of his sword stick to knock on the door of a small house on Chapel Street. This was the only interesting thing Devere ever did. The only thing that fell outside the pattern of a young buck on the town. He had come to this house twice this week and three times the week before. Sometimes he stepped inside for only a minute or two; sometimes he stayed longer.
Henry had been convinced Olivia and Devere were using the house for assignations, hard as it was to imagine Olivia being persuaded to do anything so risky. But the blonde who had been watching from an upper window as they approached wasn’t Olivia. She was a delicate slip of a girl, with enormous eyes.
Though the knocker was off the door, Devere clearly expected to be admitted, and after a short wait, the door cracked open enough for him to slip inside. Henry didn’t wait for him to come back out. He didn’t need to. He knew everything he needed to know.
Devere had
a ladybird in keeping.
CHAPTER 30
Roland bit his tongue and damped down his temper as the Arlington butler told him for the third time that week that Olivia was not at home. Unlike when he’d been told the same by the Bence-Jones’s butler, Howley was telling the truth. Since the formal announcement of their engagement, Olivia was slowly finding her feet again in Society. It should have been cause for celebration, but he’d grown rather used to having her all to himself. Sharing her, even if it was only with a few of the less-judgmental peeresses, galled.
He checked his watch, giving the naughty painted lady inside the lid the full glare he’d held back from Howley. It was nearly three. He shut the chased gold case with a snap and shoved it back into his pocket. Running her to ground shouldn’t be too hard. There were only a couple of at-homes at which she’d likely be welcome, all of them Whiggish granddames.
Roland strode down the street, relishing the tattoo of his cane on the stone of the walk. The Duchess of Devonshire was also not at home, eliminating his first choice. The duchess’s mother, Lady Spencer, had a lively crowd, including his own mother and sister, filling her sitting room. But he quickly ascertained that Olivia was not hidden among the brightly garbed throng.
With a mental curse, Roland greeted Lady Spencer and forced himself to do the pretty for a socially correct quarter of an hour. When he took his leave, Margo claimed his escort and left with him.
“Mother and Lady Spencer are deep amid plans for some charity or other,” she said. “Something with a very long name that supports foundlings. I’m famished and well on my way to being drunk. Can you believe Lady Spencer served nothing but sherry today? Take me to Negri’s for a cup of tea and a biscuit or two.”
