She pivoted in a slow rotation, seemingly taking in the ambiance, not wishing to draw attention to her perspicuity while her mind deftly catalogued every fact she knew of Mr Goodworth. He lived in Charing Cross. No, wait. Did he? He visited Miss Devonshire and kissed her on the cheek but the woman could be a relative or friend. Perhaps his paramour. He was brave and kind. He chased a thief on her behalf. But there the list ended, though she felt like she knew more, or should know more. It was all a bit confusing and nonsensical. Could someone have spiked the ratafia? She should gather her reticule and take a breath of fresh air.
Mr Goodworth, no matter his redeemable character, would be ostracised at this event. She skimmed her eyes over the silks and satins, jewels and affectations, of the guests who decorated the room. Such a pity. All this wealth and power and yet these same people displayed their status through accumulation of belongings and titles rather than the values of heart. If they all contributed a little, how very different the state of London.
The derivative conclusion, that Cole would be equally excluded, nipped on the heels of her introspection concerning Mr Goodworth. Cole possessed great wealth and was the proprietor of an influential gaming hell, one which most males in attendance likely frequented, and yet while his accomplishment raised him in the ton’s esteem, it wouldn’t open the polished satinwood doors of this event.
It all seemed incredibly unfair.
Deep down where she locked away her most precious secrets, she knew she could love Cole. She almost laughed. She was a little in love with him already. The admittance prompted a smile. Her body craved his touch, the sound of his voice, the memory of his kiss still hot on her lips. But what could ever become of this affection? All of society, her birthright, heritage and expectant future stood firmly in the way. With a resigned exhale, she accepted a glass of champagne from a passing servant and stood quietly with her troubling thoughts.
Cole tamped down the urge to break the cur’s fingers, the gentleman who danced with Gemma that is. Fists curled, he itched to exercise the irrational jealousy that caused his temper to spike. He’d kept his self-made promise and remained out of sight, for the most part anyway. At first he’d viewed her long shimmering hair and joyful smile through the vast French doors at the east side of the ballroom. Gemma was easy to locate. His eyes found her without effort. She and a lady friend appeared to enjoy themselves among the glittering world of the chosen.
Did she think of him? Even for a moment? Or was the memory of their time together discarded as quickly as her dance card filled? These questions threatened a maddening path. He prided himself on a cool, collected demeanour, established through years of confronting difficult, sometimes violent, situations. It was one reason he’d practised gunmanship until he honed his skill to excellence. But one couldn’t draw a weapon and shoot a swell for sport, though Cole watched each as if he aimed through the sight.
When the second dandified gent escorted her to the dance floor, his hand on the small of her back, Cole’s control slipped a notch. He may have chipped a tooth for how hard he clenched his teeth, so he entered the ballroom, careful to keep his shoulders to the wall and his eyes on the prize. And then she’d laughed and he needed to hear the sound, so he edged closer to the dance floor. It was a fleeting proposition, one which went against his better judgement, but he allayed these objections with the knowledge it would be a scant minute before he withdrew.
Except then he hadn’t, transfixed by her glorious beauty, the elegant sweep of her gown twirling on the dance floor; he waited and noticed the prime leaned close to whisper something in Gemma’s ear. Cole took a step forward before he stopped, wanting to storm onto the floor and interrupt. He could feel the heavy presence of the pistol in his boot, but with a sardonic chuckle dismissed the irrational thought. Pistols were noisy. Hands were silent.
The music neared its end, as did the dance, and with regret he forced himself to the outer edge of the ballroom, concealed by a large brass urn filled with abundant greenery. He wanted nothing more than to capture her in his arms and kiss her senseless, the memory of her satiny lips against his enough to cause a growing problem in his trousers, but Gemma would be appalled were he to approach. Mr Goodworth had no right to her kisses. Goodworth meant nothing to her. Did Cole Hewitt leave an impression? What a complicated knot it all seemed.
He’d never dared use his disguise for other than work at Second Chances. Never. This current act of foolishness was beyond comprehension. What drove him to this measure? The answer came as naturally as his next breath.
Gemma.
Still nothing, no one, was worth the risk of exposure. He couldn’t have an irate gambler seek retribution on the lodging house through his carelessness. Nor would he have everything he’d worked to build crash down because of his randy desire for a lady, an unattainable lady at that.
He’d told himself he only needed a glimpse. A new image of perfection to add to the collection stored in his brain, in his…
He thumped a fist to his chest as if to dislodge the sentiment, yet it held firm.
He needed to leave. He forced his feet to obey.
Outside, the cool night air did much to clear his thinking; still, the pressing insistence that he wait for her, see her again, prevailed. He would find her somehow. Dammit all to hell, he needed to kiss her again.
Soon.
Chapter Sixteen
‘You did what?’ Maggie Devonshire pulled a chair from the table and sat down, her expression beyond casual concern. ‘You know better.’
‘I know.’ Cole paused, unsure how much to reveal, though, in truth, aside from Max and Luke, he had no sounding board, no confidants, and a man’s opinion wasn’t what he needed right now. ‘I had to see her and becoming Goodworth was the only way I could manage it.’
‘So it’s out of your system now, this impulsive urge?’
‘I won’t be taking any more foolish chances with my identity, if that’s what you’re asking.’ He hoped she wouldn’t notice he ignored the intent of her question. He removed his glasses, set them aside and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Do you think I enjoy blackening my hair? I use more soap than is natural for a man while washing it clean. And my skin, it’s a wonder people don’t believe me on the brink of death. I scrub my face near raw every time I assume Goodworth’s identity. I don’t take it lightly but there seems no other way. From my appearance, the quickest assumption places me one foot in the grave or at the bottom of a bottle.’
She studied him, sometimes able to read his emotion better than he.
‘You’re a smart man. Cleverer and more insightful than any man I know, so this woman must mean an awful lot to you.’ Maggie’s expression softened, her eyes kind. ‘Be careful with your heart, Cole. I know you to be fiercely loyal. Make sure she is deserving of all you have to offer.’
He wouldn’t correct her or elaborate Gemma offered more to him than he’d ever return. That fact settled like a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach, more painful than any hunger pains of the past. ‘It’s a difficult situation. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here taking up your precious time with my woes.’
‘I don’t mind. We’ve shared too many experiences over the years and, if she means that much to you, a decision must be made. Remaining indecisive is the path of torture. Pursue the woman or forget she exists.’
‘That seems a bit drastic.’ He managed a laugh to offset her dire advice, though he knew it to be true.
‘Not at all. The roadways are filled with flat squirrels.’ She looked directly at him as she spoke. ‘Make a decision and stick to it. Don’t look back.’
He stood, set on collecting Charlatan at the stable and going for a hard ride after he went home and changed. ‘Thank you, Maggie-girl. You know how to listen.’ He leaned in and pecked the top of her head. ‘I’ll be on my way.’
As the carriage pulled to the given address in Charing Cross, Gemma couldn’t have been more at odds with her maid. Nan had lectu
red her on propriety the entire ride and, frustrated, Gemma flipped the curtain to the side and confirmed they’d arrived at Miss Devonshire’s house, completely undeterred.
For hours after she’d returned from the Fairbanks’ social she’d stared at the floral embroidered canopy over her bed and examined every detail of her confusion. Allowing her eyes to fall closed, she pinpointed the moment in the dance when she’d recognised Mr Goodworth on the edge of the floor. Candlelight caught the black gloss of his hair and that surprising growth of facial hair, unheard of in proper society, caused him to stand out against the sea of monotonous grey kerseymere. Surely it was Goodworth. But how could that be? All logic rebelled and she opened her eyes, as frustrated as before she’d attempted the exercise. At some point she must have fallen asleep, though the riddle of the situation rattled around her brain until morning.
Now poised to question Miss Devonshire about her association with Mr Goodworth in hope it would it enlighten the matter, Gemma would not allow Nan to obstruct her plan.
‘It isn’t proper, milady,’ Nan repeated but again.
‘Proper is highly overrated lately.’ She gathered her reticule from the carriage bench and gathered her skirts.
‘Think of what your brother would say.’
This gave her pause. ‘I’d rather not. His ambition to be influential in fashionable politics has eroded our relationship. I don’t believe he cares about people in general, instead bettering the life for some and not all. He certainly doesn’t take my interest into consideration, not in respect to social opinions or otherwise.’ She raised her fist to rap on the roof.
‘Then what about Rosalind?’ Nan’s voice rose an octave. ‘What will become of her if you fall to harm and your brother is, as you say, consumed with his rising position in Parliament? Hasn’t she suffered enough?’
It was the one thing Nan could mention to waylay her plan, especially as Gemma felt encouraged of late with Rosalind’s attitude. Her sister continued to join daily activities and could now be found reading a book in the parlour or collecting flowers in the garden behind the house. Gemma was more confident than ever words were forthcoming.
‘I would never do anything to harm Rosalind and you know that well.’
‘I do.’ Nan muttered. ‘And I apologise for my deplorable tactics but this area of the city is questionable and we are unescorted save the driver. No one even knows we are here. It’s not the smartest decision.’ She nodded her head with a woeful frown.
It was difficult to argue with Nan when she employed a mothering tone and donned an expression of sincere concern. Good heavens, how would her maid react if she discovered Gemma had ventured here alone last month? Perhaps her desire to seek answers obstructed her better sense.
‘Might you send this woman a message?’ Nan continued to prod. ‘It may prove a more appropriate approach.’ She turned hopeful eyes towards Gemma.
‘Very well.’ The niggling reminder that Kent questioned Nan, and that her maid would be forced to answer with honesty, a quality of her moral fibre, provided the definitive reason to deter the visit. ‘What should we do with our day? We have the carriage and fine weather. Why don’t we take a turn in Hyde Park? When last I visited, the delphiniums were in gorgeous display.’
As was Cole atop a magnificent chestnut stallion.
She rapped on the roof and instructed the driver, the carriage taking to wheel, the curtain falling across the glass in time to obstruct the view of Mr Goodworth exiting Miss Devonshire’s door.
Hyde Park proved too crowded for a pleasant ride. Every conveyance in London clogged the promenade hoping to draw notice. Cabriolets, barouches and shiny gigs lined the gravel roadway, most occupants in coach-to-coach conversation, all in no particular hurry. Opening the small, square window, Gemma smiled to those she knew but, with progress difficult, soon decided to walk instead and instructed the driver, who averted their carriage to secure a prime parking spot along the bank of the Serpentine adjacent to the Ladies’ Mile. Rotten Row proved nearly as crowded as the promenade but, with a keen eye out of the window, she located Cole faster than the hitch in her pulse.
‘I must stretch my legs a bit. All that travel across London has left me cramped and uncomfortable.’ This was said completely for pretence. Nan had found sleep halfway across town and now slit her eyes and nodded, her head falling back to the bolster, her eyes shut tight.
‘I shan’t be long.’ This, too, acted a part, though a bothersome twinge of guilt accompanied the direction. Gemma exited and strode towards Rotten Row, a slight smile returned to her lips.
Cole was easy to discern, a head above the others, the breadth of his shoulders unmistakable by comparison. She slowed her steps as a trio of riders thundered past creating a cloud of clingy dust that Nan would complain about later, but Gemma hadn’t a care. Several more riders whipped by on their mounts, while several awaited their turn. Cole stood alone, his horse a majestic breed the colour of rich sable, almost the exact shade of his eyes.
Heat warmed her cheeks and she swallowed past the tightness in her throat, the anticipation almost more than she could bear. Beside her a cluster of women surveyed the riders with great interest. A few removed their bonnets and hair ribbons in a charming display of chivalrous salute. They waved each time a handsome rider thundered past, the solid echo of horse hooves a rousing applause for their benignity.
Gemma hesitated only a moment, Nan’s speech of propriety long forgotten as she untied the bow beneath her chin and allowed her bonnet to fall free, at the ready to show favour. At last it was Cole’s turn, his muscular physique bent low over the stallion’s neck, his thighs braced tight. He rode faster than the wind, smooth, skilled, and with a reckless power one couldn’t help but admire. She watched with breath held, her heartbeat falling into cadence with the steady thrum of his horse’s pounding hooves.
He galloped past in a whip of wind and she stood too far away to draw his notice; he was unaware of her delicate favour, her waved bonnet, her broad smile. How grand and enthralling it was; she couldn’t contain her smile. Engrossed in Cole’s superior horsemanship, she didn’t notice Winton’s approach until his elongated shadow darkened the ground before her, a harbinger of doom.
‘Good day, Lady Amberson. I had no idea you enjoyed the common races. One day I shall escort you to Ascot where you will view the finest horsemen in London.’ He stopped beside her and his elbow pressed against her upper arm. She instantly moved away.
‘That will never come to pass. I have no desire to share your company.’ She didn’t look at him, refusing to allow him to read emotion in her expression.
‘Tut, tut. Are you displeased with me?’ His mocking tone irritated.
‘You’ve betrayed my trust by speaking to Kent.’ She angled away from his person. If this were a social function, she would give him the cut direct and allow the ton to witness her rejection of him.
‘You sound a petulant child who’s angered with just punishment. Someone needs to take you in hand. Your brother has been lax.’ His eyes roved over her from top to bottom. ‘Speaking to Kent was a courtesy on your behalf. I did what needed to be done to protect you. His Grace appreciated my assistance.’
She refused to engage Winton in conversation; still, his words echoed Nan’s from earlier in the afternoon. Perhaps her foolish wishing and idyllic reinvention of society needed to end. She looked across the track where riders, all of them strangers, raced in idle amusement. Cole had long since left the green. They seemed from different worlds and, while her world appeared increasingly less appealing by its prejudices, she had few choices as the sister of an influential duke.
‘Would you so easily taint centuries of tradition and disparage the pristine title of your family with scandal of the basest form?’ Winton slanted her a look that revealed more of his lascivious character than his words. ‘Kent would lose credibility in the House of Lords. Poor Rosalind would never make a suitable match. You need to push aside se
lfish desire and consider the greater picture.’
His words, hypocritical and insulting, proved overwhelming on the heels of Nan’s admonishing lecture. ‘What do you want, Winton?’ She forced the question out through clenched teeth.
‘Well, there is the matter of your debt from our little bargain.’
She would not respond. She owed him nothing, least of all a kiss.
He chuckled, amused with the game he played. ‘Until then, Lady Amberson, good day.’
She didn’t return to the carriage after he left. Allowing her nerves to calm, she watched several riders pass, the rhythmic cadence of the hooves the ideal accompaniment for her tears. What could she do? She’d developed strong feelings for Cole. Dare she label them love? Perhaps it was their differences which ignited this sudden interest. But her heart rejected the logical suggestions she desperately supplied. She did love him. She knew that now more than ever. Not for his delectable kisses or reverent touch. Not the way he made her soul sing by merely smiling. No, she loved him for the qualities she saw in his eyes, and perhaps for his kisses too.
Still, every bitter word from Winton’s mouth rang true. Every chiding administered by Nan warned that she walked a dangerous path. She wiped her tears, resigned to return and nurse her aching heart; she would avoid conversation with her maid on the ride home, afraid her composure would shatter. She followed the walkway, her eyes on the crushed gravel when a young boy intersected her path, his face flushed from his dash across the field.
‘For you, milady.’ He extended his arm, a folded note between his fingers.
She accepted the paper, regretful she had no coins for the child’s effort, but he took to leg before she finished her apology.
Walk to the corner of Henry Street at midnight. – C.
Her pulse sparked with excitement. Somehow Cole had seen her. The man continually surprised. With Kent away until tomorrow evening this provided her one chance and it would not go wasted. She’d speak to Cole, explain why she believed they were destined for disaster, and then, no matter the thought pained her, say goodbye. At least she’d have the privacy to speak her mind and reveal how she’d treasure his attention always. Yes, this was a good plan. One which served to sever their alliance yet offered the privacy to explain she was forced to make this choice.
Into the Hall of Vice Page 17
