Then all at once, half of the duke’s houseguests turned in her direction. Fans flicked open and people whispered in their neighbors’ ears while staring at her.
So much for the famously stiff reserve of the English.
Somebody must have seen her and Trent in the lake. If the duchess kicked her out of her house now, how would she talk to Sir Richard? And ... Trent.
Oh God oh God. What had she been thinking to break the rules like that? It couldn’t end this way. She’d never see him again because she’d acted like a stupid party girl, like her mother, ignoring the consequences to herself and anybody else, when she’d never been anything other than the nerdy girl who sat in the corner reading while the party raged around her. She should’ve known she wouldn’t get away with it. She should’ve used the damn brain she’d been depending on for twenty-seven years.
She didn’t see him anywhere in the clusters of guests. Maybe he was hiding from everybody’s censure? But, no. Not a viscount. He could do anything he wanted. Women in this society suffered for breaking rules, not men. He was probably just trying to avoid her because that’s what guys did after one-night stands followed by uncomfortable conversations in which they were badgered about their life choices.
What kind of an idiot was she?
Failure stared her in the face, in addition to at least thirty of the duchess’s guests, and the sharp ache of inevitable heartbreak. He hadn’t tried to find her since their argument, or even before it. He’d bumped into her by accident near the library. He could’ve found her at any time before or since then.
But she’d only said what she felt. She’d been honest with him. If he didn’t like it, then he wasn’t the man she hoped he was anyway.
She sucked in a fortifying breath and looked for Sir Richard in the crowd. She wouldn’t let herself fail. She’d take the hits when they came, and before this was all over, she’d discover why she’d been thrust into the past.
A firm little hand wrapped around hers.
“Angela!” Charlotte whispered in her ear. “You are finally here! I’ve been dying to speak with you all day.”
She dragged her to a corner. Necks craned to follow their progress as the orchestra launched into a jaunty tune. Charlotte halted abruptly behind a group of older men.
“Where have you been?” she demanded in a whisper loud enough to be heard in Times Square at midnight on a Saturday. An elderly man turned and his bushy brows bent in disapproval.
“I was asleep most of the day,” Angela answered quietly.
“Then you haven’t heard?” Charlotte didn’t look like she was about to chew her out for skinny-dipping with her brother.
“Heard what?” Images of mewling kittens hidden in the girls’ underwear drawers came to her. “Oh no. Did Henry do something awful?”
“No! It is my elder brother who has done something grand.” Charlotte gripped Angela’s hand. “Late last night Trenton challenged Sir Richard Howell to a duel!”
Angela’s stomach fell. What horrible thing was he hiding from her that he’d fight a duel over it?
“A duel?” she said weakly.
“Yes! Apparently they were nearly at swords drawn when Trenton’s friends insisted he mustn’t, so they had a carriage race instead. Trenton beat that mushroom, of course. But, Angela, a carriage race!”
Angela shook her head. She felt ill and gigantically relieved at once. No duel. No danger. No Trent bleeding to death while she cried. “I thought gentlemen had carriage races all the time.”
“Some do. But my brother was nearly crippled after an accident he incurred in a carriage race. He hasn’t driven in nine years.”
“Oh.” Oh. “Charlotte, why did he challenge Sir Richard?”
“That is the wonderful part.” Charlotte’s eyes were bright. “He did it in defense of a lady’s honor.”
The hits just kept coming. She couldn’t breathe. It had to be Miss Howell. Why else would he challenge Sir Richard, of all people? “What lady’s honor?”
“Yours, of course!” She beamed.
Angela’s cheeks went piping hot. They did know about the lake. Oh, no. No. Please God, no. But Trent had defended her. “What did Sir Richard say about me?”
Charlotte stared blankly at her. “That you are American.” She may as well have added, “Duh.”
Angela abruptly felt weak all over. “Nothing else?”
“Not that Bridget Cavendish who told Alexandra Cavendish who told Kate Lacy who told me said.”
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered.
“You should. It really doesn’t require a lot for gentlemen to do foolish things like race carriages.” Charlotte shrugged. “At least gentlemen like Sir Richard. But not my brother! Isn’t it wonderful? I can see that you like him, and now it is clear that he likes you too. Oh, I will be so happy to have you as a sister.”
“Charlotte, I’m afraid you’re getting ahead of yourself.” Way ahead. There had to be another explanation.
Charlotte’s pretty young face fell. “Don’t you like him?”
More than she could stand it. She liked the way he spoke and the things he said and how he looked at her and his incredible drawings and the way he tasted and kissed and the way she felt all wobbly and sexy and smart and adventuresome and strong when he was around.
He’d challenged a man to a duel for her?
“It’s more complicated than that,” she could barely say.
Charlotte frowned. “I don’t see why it must be. In fact, I’m certain it is not. Why, just look at him now over there. He’s been watching you since the moment you walked in the room.”
Angela’s heart did a tsunami across her chest.
Trent stood at the opposite side of the candlelit ballroom nearly in shadow, gorgeous in formal wear, and he was, in fact, watching her. He offered her the slightest bow, and the corner of his mouth tilted up. It wasn’t an “I’m trying to blow you off but, damn, you just caught me” smile. It was an “I’m glad to see you” smile, simple and pleased.
“Go over there,” Charlotte whispered.
“I ...” She couldn’t speak with him now. Not yet. Not unprepared. Not so confused. Not so in love.
She was totally in love with him. A man from another century that she’d met five days ago.
No. She couldn’t be in love. Love didn’t happen that quickly. It was just star-struck infatuation. Infatuation for a man who had defended her honor in a carriage race despite his mortal fear of carriages, and despite their argument.
“You must,” Charlotte urged. “You have not yet thanked him.” She pressed the small of Angela’s back. Whoever said Regency-era ladies were physically reserved didn’t know Charlotte Ascot.
She went, wending her way through the little groups of guests while others started to line up, gentlemen on one side, ladies on the other, for the first set. Trent watched her come, scanning her body only once then fixing on her face until she stood right in front of him.
She couldn’t make small talk. Not now. “I heard what you did today.”
“Did you?”
“Congratulations.”
He nodded.
“What did Sir Richard say about me?”
He looked steadily into her eyes. “Nothing he could not have said about any other lady at this party.”
“Is that true?”
“Mostly. You are the only American present.” His smile was gorgeous.
“But ...” She twisted her fingers together. “Why?”
An woman nearby lifted her lorgnette and peered curiously at them.
Trent grasped Angela’s elbow and led her into an adjoining room where guests were enjoying refreshments that were laid out on a table, then into yet another room. Much smaller than the others, it was lit only with firelight and a few candles on a far table, and empty. He drew her away from the doorway, then released her. But he stood close.
“Why?” he repeated her question quietly.
Angela shook her head. “You de
fended my honor. Mine.”
His gaze slipped down to her lips. “Of course.”
“Despite our argument yesterday? And ... and the other night?”
He moved a half-step closer and stroked a fingertip along her cheek. “Rather, because of yesterday and the other night,” he said in that melting chocolate voice that made her joints liquid.
She fought against the delirium of unwise happiness. She loved his touch. She loved his honor and decency. And she loved it that he still wanted to touch her. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Possibly not.” His strong hand cupped her jaw. “But there it is. Nothing about you makes sense, Miss Angela Cowdrey.”
“Thank you, Trent.”
His hooded gaze traced her features. “I think I like it better when you call me ‘my lord.’”
“Why? Because it puts me in my place?”
“Because there is not a hint of deference in your tone when you use my title.” His smile was slow now.
“You like a woman who isn’t afraid to speak to you as an equal?”
“I like you.” His mouth hovered above hers. “So I suppose that explanation suits.”
“Charlotte told me you haven’t driven a carriage in nine years, not since the accident.”
“Charlotte speaks when she should not.”
“Apparently it’s common gossip.”
“Hmm.” Both of his hands curved around her face and turned it up. “That won’t do, will it?”
“I, uh ...” Less than forty-eight hours earlier, she’d been naked in a lake doing things with this man that she couldn’t say aloud, yet now she felt like a sixteen-year-old in a dark corner at the prom, never been kissed and dying for the star quarterback to be her first. “Um, no?”
His gaze was on her mouth. “Let’s offer them something more interesting to gossip about, shall we?”
“Here? But—”
He didn’t give her time to protest. With the door open and a hundred people right beyond it, he covered her mouth with his.
The floor opened up beneath her. He kissed her like he wanted to kiss her forever, like he was perfectly happy just kissing her and then like he intended to do a lot more than kiss. Her entire body wanted him. When he nibbled her lower lip she moaned, and he caught the sound in his mouth.
“Hush,” he murmured against her lips. “You will make the violinist jealous.” He traced the tender inner edge of her lip with the tip of his tongue.
She’d never felt anything as bone-meltingly hot as Trenton Ascot’s mouth on hers. “The violinist?” she sighed.
“He’s Italian. I heard him earlier saying that he intended to relocate to America,” he whispered, dipping to her neck and feathering kisses over her skin that made her shiver with wanting him. “Thinks American girls are much more suited to the temperament of an artist like him than Englishwomen.”
She slipped her hands into his coat to feel the body she’d felt with her breasts and belly in the lake. “You’re making that up.”
“Not at all.” He lingered on the hollow beneath her ear and she caught her breath. “And I rather agree with him.”
“Did you invent what Sir Richard said about me being American?”
He pulled back to look into her eyes. His were hazy with desire. For her. He wanted her. In the ballroom, the violin vaulted into a vibrant solo.
“He said little, though enough,” Trent said soberly now. “But I had an additional reason for wishing him ill.”
Her hands dropped from his chest, her heart thumping hard. “What reason?”
“Sir Richard is attempting to blackmail my father.”
“Blackmail? What about?”
“During the war, my father made unwise investments controlled by Sir Richard, who then committed treason and fraud and now wishes my father to pay for the crimes.”
“But ...” Her mind was spinning. Treason and fraud? It couldn’t be coincidence. The cello joined the violin, their counterpoint harmony dancing in a bright ascent. “How? Why now? The war is still raging in Europe.”
“Sir Richard wishes my father to mine iron ore on his lands, from which he will take a large share of the profits. If my father does not comply, he will accuse him of his own crimes. My father is innocent, of course. But Howell has documents to prove otherwise.”
“Trent—” She swallowed over the excitement gathering in her.
“So you see I enjoyed giving that scoundrel a thrashing—”
“Trent.”
“—even if it was only to eat the dust churned up by my carriage wheels. Somewhat puerile, but that’s most men for you.”
“Trent!” She grabbed his lapels. “I know why I’m here.”
Chapter Nine
The violin spun into a glorious romp. The cello joined it, their voices merging in a delirious tangle of joy.
Trent’s brow creased. In the golden candlelight, he really did look like Adonis. Albeit a confused, wary Adonis. “Do you?”
“It’s my research! I know how to prove your father’s innocence,” she whispered.
“What are you telling me?”
“That I can help. I just need to do one thing to prove Sir Richard is lying about your father. But I can’t tell you more. I can’t risk altering history.” But she would. Except that actually she wouldn’t. In sole possession of Arnaud Chappelle’s memoir, only she could know now, at this moment, finally, who had convinced Arnaud to turn informer on Sir Richard.
“Angela—” Trent was obviously struggling. “You mustn’t—”
“No. I can help. You’ve got to believe me.” She put her hands on his chest again and slid them beneath his coat, the sizzling zing threatening to burst out of her. “But more urgently, right now you’ve got to kiss me.”
His hands came around her shoulders. “You truly wish to help my family?”
“I don’t just wish to. I’m going to.”
He was looking at her so oddly, his eyes glittering. “I have told you what no one else knows. My family would be ruined if this became public.”
“You can trust me. You already trust me. I think you know that.”
“I think you may be a madwoman. I don’t know why I trust you.”
“You do know why.” I love you. “Trent, I—”
He cut off her words with his mouth.
First he kissed her deeply, deliciously. Then his hands found her waist and he pulled her against him till she could feel through the flimsy stuff of her gown and his coat every hard contour of his athlete’s body. Then his palms slid to her butt and pulled her against his erection.
She nearly climbed up him. He helped her, his hand beneath her thigh and mouth on her neck as she struggled against her narrow skirts to get closer—much closer, feeling him, aching for more contact—oh, sweet heaven—closer ...
He dragged her off him to arm’s length.
“Good God,” he whispered on hard breaths. “There are over a hundred people within yards.”
“Not having nearly as good a time as we are, I’m guessing,” she panted.
He released her and backed away a step. “Miss Cowdrey.” His chest rose and fell jerkily. “I regret that I must at this time bid you good night.”
“Good night? Hasn’t the ball just started?”
He raked a hand through his hair. “Angela, I must go.”
“Where?”
“A cold lake might do the trick. But I’m not even certain of that,” he added on a mumble, “given my new appreciation of lakes.”
“Trent.”
“Angela—”
“You don’t need to do this. I’m not a lady. We don’t have them in twenty-first-century America. You don’t need to protect my virtue or reputation. I’m just an ordinary woman.”
“And I am just a gentleman. Or I usually am when an intoxicating American isn’t tempting me to be a rogue.”
“So this is my fault?”
“No. Never.” He stepped forward, grasped her arms, and kissed her ha
rd on the mouth very swiftly. “Allow me to treat you with the respect you deserve, I beg of you.”
How could she fight that? She’d been longing for honor and decency, and now she was getting it at the most inconvenient moment possible.
“Won’t you even stay for one dance?” she tried again.
“I’m afraid I am in no condition for dancing at present.”
She didn’t bother looking down; she’d already felt what he meant.
She nodded. He released her and with a single great breath turned and exited through the opposite door.
Angela couldn’t go back to the ball. Her hair was a mess from his hands in it, and her lips were tender. Everybody had probably seen them go anyway. While they were kissing, twenty people could’ve been taking turns peeking in the door for all she knew. But it wouldn’t matter if her reputation was ruined. Tomorrow she’d head to Southampton, where at this moment Arnaud Chappelle was living in miserable semi-squalor in a rented flat near the docks. After that ...
She couldn’t think about it. If finally solving this historical riddle and saving Trent’s family meant returning home, that had to be. Just because she was infatuated with a man here didn’t mean she wasn’t going back.
Climbing the stairs to Lady Sophronia’s suite, she repeated that thought in her head over and over again.
She crept in the back door to her borrowed bedchamber. Lying down on the bed, she closed her eyes and imagined waltzing with Trent. Then she imagined him taking a cold shower. She imagined that shower turning hot and steamy, and her walking into the room dressed only in a towel. Then she imagined dropping her towel and stepping into the shower with him, and his hands circling her waist ... and the shower walls got so steamy she couldn’t see anything else.
She bolted upright in bed.
It took almost fifteen minutes stealthily creeping through the dark corridors of the giant house, pausing to hide when servants passed by, to reach the bachelors’ wing. Hands shaking, she knocked on Trent’s door.
Nothing happened. Oh, no. What if a valet opened the door? Worse, what if Trent was in there with some other woman?
At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology) Page 38
