He could not imagine Ariadne Lambert saying those words. Nor could he imagine offering her carte blanche. He watched her from his alcove, noting the shrewd gaze masqueraded by her vague smile.
His painfully honest mistress had been beautiful, lush and voluptuous, with glossy chestnut hair and milky skin, pouty lips and green eyes. And the morals of an alley cat, though to be ruthlessly honest, that hadn’t bothered him while he was bedding her.
What would bedding a morally upright woman be like? Would it be stiff and awkward? Refreshingly different? Boringly clumsy?
Could that imaginary morally upright woman—a lady like, say, Miss Ariadne Lambert—be passionate in the bedroom?
He shifted, uncomfortable with his wandering thoughts. Miss Lambert was not now, nor would she ever be, anyone’s mistress. The very thought was ludicrous. She deserved much more than a slip on the shoulder. What would she gain, after all? She was in funds, with no need of male support of any kind, financial or otherwise.
Nor—if one were inclined that way, which he was not—would she be anyone’s idea of a conformable, demure wife. She had argued with him about the form of the plan they were about to enact, every idea of hers coming down on the side of boldness over caution.
Despite it all, she was interesting. And her laugh was delightful. And when she smiled, it changed her face completely.
As he studied her, her expression altered subtly.
Ingram glanced around the room and saw Dorsey. The fair-faced young man was paying court to a heavyset girl who glowed with happiness at his attention. Ingram exchanged a glance with Ariadne and pushed away from his lounging position by the wall to thread his way through the chattering crowd. Without a word he had let his confederate know he would find out who the young woman was and whether she was rich enough to be in danger from Dorsey.
* * *
The terrace was dark. Ingram watched the glow of the tip of his cigar and waited, senses alert, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. When she hesitantly stepped out onto the terrace, he absurdly wished their assignation was for another purpose than just the exchange of information.
“Ingram?”
Her husky voice was softer than usual, and a chill raced down his back. “Here,” he said, stepping out of the shadows.
She moved toward him, joining him in the darkness near the potted shrubberies that lined the terrace. “What have you learned?”
“She could be in danger from our quarry. Her name is Miss Smith, and she is a coal merchant’s daughter who has recently inherited an estate. The money and property is vast, and will all come to her husband should she marry. She is foolish enough to believe whatever Dorsey says to her, from all reports, and her chaperone is a fool.”
“If she is so naïve, she will not believe a word against him once he has his hooks into her.” She frowned into the dark. “Do you think he will go so far as to marry her to gain her fortune?”
“Why not? He has done it before.”
“What? He is married?”
“I have been doing some research on our friend since we parted yesterday. He has no siblings.”
“So, his sister is not his sister but his mistress. How do they get away with it?”
“They are discreet. Very discreet. And though it seems like Dorsey has been in society forever, he has only been in London a year. Before that it was Brighton. And before that Bath.”
“And he is married?”
“Was. She died.”
Ariadne drew in a long hissing breath. “Was he culpable?”
“No, I do not think anything so gothic as that occurred.” He chuckled in the darkness and reached out to touch her shoulder. “You read too many romances, my dear. He is a villain, but not, I think, a murderer. But he went through his wife’s rather modest fortune, it is said, and is looking for a considerably larger one now. He will not marry until he finds the right fortune on the right terms.”
“Terms?”
“A fatuous young woman who will place all of her trust, and all of her money, in his hands.”
“Why does he need so much money?” Ariadne felt Ingram’s hand on her shoulder. He caressed her shoulder blade with absentminded strength and she felt a desire to move closer to him. So she did.
Sliding his hand over her shoulders and putting his arm around her, Ingram said, “He likes to gamble and he likes to live well. He has no money of his own and he is not a good nor a lucky gambler. Ergo, he needs funds to spend and has no desire to earn them. He needs, in short, a rich wife.”
“Why did he not marry Olivia’s friend, I wonder?” Her voice was a little breathless, she found, but steady.
“Her fortune was probably not large enough to tempt him.” Ingram had dropped and extinguished his cigar and with his free hand caressed her hair.
Ariadne felt oddly detached from their conversation. It was quite odd, really, for two different things were going on. They were speaking of Dorsey and his machinations, but at the same time Ingram was, by degrees, taking her in his arms. Why?
“So we must find a way to tempt him away from Miss Smith before he entices her to do something rash.”
“Yes. Something rash.”
Ariadne felt the last of her reserve dissipate as Ingram’s arms surrounded her. The moon peeked out from behind the plane tree in the garden, and she gazed up into the viscount’s black eyes. He searched hers for a moment, and then lowered his mouth to cover hers.
She watched until the last possible moment, and then closed her eyes and waited.
Descriptions flashed through her brain, all the words of romance fiction. Dark swirling tunnels. Breathless moments.
But his kiss left her oddly unmoved.
Unmoved? She had dreamt of this moment, so why was she not melting into a puddle of feminine emotion? She opened her eyes. He smiled that quirky grin.
“Stop thinking, Ariadne, and relax. Close your eyes. I shall likely get coshed for asking this impertinent question, but was that your first kiss?”
Numbly, she nodded.
“And it did not meet your expectations. That is because you are thinking your way through it. Do not do that. This is one of those moments when you need to shut off that formidable intellect and just feel. Close your eyes.”
She obeyed.
“Part your lips slightly.”
Like an obedient infantry soldier, she did exactly as ordered.
“Now, more.”
And as she moved her mouth, his closed over hers and his arms encircled her, pulling her close, holding her tight. Her heart, pounding, beat against his chest like the wings of an imprisoned bird, but she lost all sense of the thrum of her pulse as the moist velvet of his lips clung to her, and his tongue touched hers.
She was trembling, she knew, her whole body quaking with sensation now as she arched against him. Involuntarily, her hands moved up his broad back . . . and then she lost all memory.
A second or an hour or a lifetime later, she opened her eyes as he let go of her. “That was—”
“Stop, Ari,” he said, his voice deep, his breathing raspy. “Do not try to categorize it, understand it, digest it. Just let it be.”
She nodded and took in a deep shaky breath.
“Now,” he said. “We must go back inside and try to part that despicable whelp from the impressionable young lady he will beggar in a month, if we give him the opportunity.”
Chapter Nine
“Where were you?” Olivia hissed, grabbing at Ariadne’s arm.
“Talking to Lord Ingram. Why?”
“You were gone for half an hour! What on earth were you talking about that could possibly take half an hour? And why are you flushed? Are you quite well, Ari? Where is Ingram? Why is he not here, too, if you two were talking together?”
“He said it wouldn’t do for us to reappear together, so he was just going to stay on the terrace and think for a few moments longer. He wanted to have a cigar, he said.” She paused and frowned. “I don’t think h
e was feeling quite well. Perhaps he’s coming down with something.”
Olivia gazed at her steadily, her expert glance flicking over Ariadne’s flushed cheeks and glittering eyes, and the loosened tendrils of hair that floated down over her shoulders. “What were you two doing out on that terrace? Ari, do not be taken in by a man who is an even bigger scoundrel than Dorsey! Remember what I overheard between him and Duncannon.” She frowned, her eyes narrow. “He was not making love to you, was he?”
“Do not be ridiculous,” Ariadne said, briskly, pushing her friend’s hand away. She would not talk to Olivia about Ingram anymore. When Ariadne told her that morning that the viscount was going to help them, Olivia had expressed herself at length about the “gentleman” in question’s suitability as a confederate, calling him a baseborn scoundrel so many times, Ariadne had been forced to put an end to the conversation. She would listen to no more abuse of Ingram.
Ignoring the other woman’s disapproval, Ariadne told her everything that Ingram had found out about Miss Smith. Olivia promised to discover more. She sailed across the dance floor to meet Miss Smith and introduce her to more suitable young men than Dorsey. The girl was presentable enough, if plump and shy, and given exposure to other gentlemen she might find that Dorsey’s oily charm faded.
Dorsey, expertly finessed by Olivia Beckwith, moodily surveyed the room, and Ariadne abruptly glanced away. If he approached her, she did not quite know how to help him over the awkwardness of their last parting. She didn’t want to, really. He deserved to be embarrassed for deserting a lady in his care when faced with what they both thought was an assailant.
But she needed him to come; it was vital to their plan that he be lured back in with the bait of Ariadne’s money, and so she reluctantly turned her gaze back toward him and gave him a startled smile. She even beckoned to him. Very unladylike.
His look was even more surprised, but he advanced across the floor willingly enough, threading between the couples, evading a line of dancers. He bowed before her finally and said, hesitantly, “I do not deserve such magnanimous notice, Miss Lambert, after that unfortunate incident at Vauxhall. I must explain; you see, I ran to get help—our assailants were clearly so much larger than even I—but when I . . . when I returned, it was to find you gone. I searched, and even confronted the master of ceremonies, but he swore he saw no villains of any description, nor any lady of yours.”
Ariadne was silent for a moment, admiring the brazen nature of his apology, if that is what it could be called. But then, what did he have to lose? His social cache was, ironically enough, higher than hers; if she accused him in public he would just deny it and perhaps cast into question her own character, for having “lured” him down the Lovers’ Walk.
However, she still must not appear too eager. There was a new plan brewing. “I must admit, Mr. Dorsey, I was surprised when you did not come back immediately. I was lucky, in that the villain—there was only one, sir—was frightened off the next minute by a group of people coming down the walk in answer to my cries.”
“You should have stayed there longer, Miss Lambert,” he said, in tones of gentle reproof. He sat down beside her and took her gloved hand in his own. “I was so very worried when I came back and you were gone; I searched for you long and eagerly. I have worried myself to death!”
Ariadne drooped and sagged against him. “Oh, Mr. Dorsey, were you really so overwrought? That touches me deeply. I am so sorry for your worry!”
“There, there, Miss Lambert,” he said, nervously glancing around the room. “Would you like to walk outside? The air will benefit you.”
“I would like that,” she said, giving him a simpering smile. The hook was reset, but the plan was slightly different. When Ingram had first told her of his idea, she had demurred. It had an element she could not be comfortable with, even now. It seemed to her that they were sinking to Dorsey’s level. But Ingram was persuasive, and she willing to be persuaded. Her own plan was more vigorous, but Ingram’s was devious. At length, she agreed to try his way.
Once out on the terrace, she maneuvered close to Dorsey, leaning against his chest, and said, “Oh, Mr. Dorsey, that awful experience at Vauxhall has made me even more aware of how much I really do need a gentleman to take care of me!”
It sounded ludicrous. Even if true, why would he think that she could possibly mean him when he had abandoned her with such alacrity?
“Do you really? Of course you do,” he said.
He sounded distracted.
She put her hand on his chest and laid her head against him, noting that she felt none of the heart-pounding sensations Ingram engendered. “Sir, you make me feel so very safe. I am in unfamiliar waters, you see, for with all of this money that my poor auntie left me—a fortune such as I never expected to be mistress of—and not knowing what to do with it . . . oh, I wish someone would just help me!”
“You mean, give you advice?” His voice was alert now, his attention unwavering.
“No, I do not want advice. I do not want to take care of it at all.”
“I could take over the handling of it for you,” he suggested.
Ariadne demurred. “My poor, dead papa always said that the chore of taking care of a lady was to be handed over to a husband only. Her money was safe only then. Very adamant about that, was my poor papa. I honor his memory.”
Was it going too fast? She raised her face in the dark and felt his breath on her mouth. “Mr. Dorsey . . . Edward . . . what shall I do?”
He kissed her then. His lips were soft enough, but with no firmness, and the kiss became . . . squishy. It compared very unfavorably with Ingram’s magical kiss. Dorsey’s hand wandered, too, down her back to her bottom and he squeezed. She jumped and gasped.
“Edward!”
“Ariadne!” He covered her mouth in another formless, wet kiss. “Marry me, my darling!”
She stifled her revulsion. “Yes, oh, yes, Edward!”
Chapter Ten
“Let me be the first to congratulate you, Mr. Dorsey!”
Dorsey started and pulled away from Ariadne. He stared uneasily at Ingram, who stood in the pool of light shed by the open French doors with Olivia Beckwith on his arm. Poor Olivia, Ariadne thought, biting her lip to keep from giggling. She looked like she would rather be anywhere than on the arm of a man she despised.
She played her part to perfection, though. A necessary part of the scheme, it was Olivia who had the social standing to enforce Dorsey’s rash moonlight promise. She stepped forward.
“Mr. Dorsey, you have attained a rare and perfect gem in Ariadne Lambert. Let me be the first to congratulate you, my dear.” She stepped forward, a little too happily dropping Ingram’s arm, and gave her friend a kiss on the cheek. “Now we must see about bride clothes. I know the best seamstress, and she does not cost the earth. We will let the gentlemen alone to speak of other things.”
Ingram watched the two women walk away and admired the perfect, lingering, regretful glance Ariadne threw back as she said, over her shoulder, “We will talk tomorrow, Edward, dear. One o’clock. My house.”
Dorsey, looking stunned, nodded.
Ingram handed him a cigar. “Well, Dorsey, you have done well for yourself.”
The other man preened. “Not too bad.”
“She’s a fascinating woman, is Miss Lambert.”
“And rich,” Dorsey said, winking, as he lit his cigar from Ingram’s.
“How much?”
Dorsey shrugged. “Enough. She owns a house in Chelsea.”
“Really. Did you check out the figures?”
“Her figure?”
Ingram restrained the urge to roll his eyes. Dorsey, though clever, was not intelligent. There was a subtle distinction. “No, the money. Do you have a sum? Did you ask around.”
Dorsey drew himself up. “A gentleman would never do such a thing.” It was clear he had not even thought to do so. “Besides, ladies do not lie about things like that.”
Ingram raised
his eyebrows. “In my estimation,” he said, with a silent apology to the very intelligent Miss Lambert, “women don’t have any idea what money means or how much it takes to live. An enormous sum in her mind might be five hundred pounds. Better get it in writing.”
Dorsey, for the first time looking unsure of himself, said, “I will do no such thing, Ingram. Only a base fortune hunter would do that.”
“Mmm, yes. Wouldn’t want to look like a swindler, eh?” Ingram paced around Dorsey, thinking that perhaps he had overestimated this particular rogue. Dorsey had, possibly, just been lucky in his victims before now. He tossed his dice. “I know a gentleman of whom you might ask a few questions,” he murmured.
The other man frowned. “I have no need. Miss Lambert is perfectly well set. You are just jealous. I saw you buzzing about her—you are out of funds yourself, no doubt—but you should have known ladies prefer a fair face over . . . well, over almost anything else, even a title.”
Ingram nodded. “Perhaps you are right, Dorsey. I wish you much luck of Miss Lambert and her . . . well-shrouded fortune.”
He tossed his cigar down and crushed it under his heel. He moved toward the French doors, but paused and said, “But unless you are truly in love with Miss Lambert and would have her on any terms, I would make sure her nest is as well-feathered as you think before committing yourself to eternity in her bed. She appears to be a very healthy woman and will likely live to be ninety, money or no money.”
* * *
“What did he say to you?” It was the next morning, and Ariadne had walked with Ingram along the Embankment. Together they gazed out over the Thames, watching a shouting match between two boatsmen who had scraped bows. The morning, from a damp start, had turned out to be unseasonably warm.
A Rogue's Rescue Page 6
