by Anne Mallory
“He doesn’t wish to speak to the likes of you.”
“Oh, my apologies.” She put a hand to her chest. The freed ribbon swung wildly, detached from any semblance of good sense. “I didn’t realize that Lord Rainewood required someone else to speak for him. Why, I had forgotten that as an heir he need not fight his own wars just to get noticed.”
Rainewood’s fingers gripped his glass more tightly. She smiled sweetly with just the slightest batting of her eyes. Fighting dirty worked all the better when you had a childhood arsenal at your behest—and frequently people seemed to forget that Rainewood had once been the forgotten middle son.
No, now that Rainewood was at the top of the social heap, he was nearly untouchable. Which meant that she was doubly stupid to say a negative word to him in front of others.
Her mother was going to kill her, although Mrs. Browning was going to draw and quarter her first.
The third man who had joined them laughed softly. “Such cheek in such a petite package,” Aidan Campbell said, giving her a long, considering look. She caught Rainewood’s dark glance in his friend’s direction, but Campbell seemed oblivious. “I am enchanted by your daring, Miss Smart.”
She said nothing, staring at Campbell, waiting for another taunt or some form of disapproval. Neither appeared.
“Perhaps a lesson in manners is required.” Rainewood’s voice curled around the space and darted toward her.
“I am sure one of the matrons would be happy to help you. Two weeks and they say that they can turn any lowly peasant into a prince.” She tossed sense firmly to the wind and looked him over in a gesture that she hoped managed to convey how lacking she found him to be.
“You seem familiar with the drill. Perhaps further lessons are required?”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Rainewood…so hard on the lass. She seems quite spirited. I wonder why I haven’t noticed it before.” Campbell studied her.
Templing snorted and Gregory verbally attacked. The three quickly fell into heated argument.
Abigail turned to Rainewood. “Did you have a reason for joining us? I’ll start to think you fancy me, Lord Rainewood, if you keep following me in such a manner.” She kept her voice low so that the others wouldn’t be able to make out the words, but her action in talking to him at all made the interaction public.
A suffocating tunnel formed, connecting Rainewood’s dark eyes to hers. He leaned in and gave her a slow perusal from the wisps of escaped hair on her forehead to the hem of her dress. Hot eyes that promised pleasure and pain.
Lowering his voice above a mere whisper, he murmured, “Fancy a crazed woman with a mother who is nearly a leper—one social finger falling off at a time? Do you think yourself enough of a catch? Your beauty, charms, and spirit so great, that I would even deign to breathe in the same space as you?”
The low, seductive, mocking voice wrapped across the tunnel, squeezing it. The emphasis on that damned word crushing tightly. Just by his status he could ruin her in the higher levels of society with a few choice words—that had always been true. But he could do so much worse, should he finally decide to play his trump.
It was hard to breathe, to swallow, when everything inside turned to rock. Neither air nor spit could erode the diamond walls, the dark cavern.
Anger burst again, sharp and as hard as the diamonds lining the walls pierced her. “Is that so, your lordship? And yet here you are breathing my air.” She leaned into him. “Coming closer to inhale more.” She tipped her head to the side and lowered her voice to a mere wisp of sound. “And as for my mother, she is what she is and twice the person you will ever be. I recall a boy desperate not to be anything like his brother, yet so close have you fallen to that tree.”
Hot rage licked from his eyes and everyone else in the room disappeared in the searing heat that flowed from him toward her. “Funny that you should mention my brother. A special topic for you, isn’t it? What was it you once said?”
He was going to do it. She could see it in his brittle whiskey eyes. He was about to announce her secrets to the world. Tell everyone that she was raving mad. That she claimed to see ghosts. They would call the wardens. She’d be carted to Bedlam. Or worse. Her mother might intervene. She might call…
Her mind rejected the thought. She felt lightheaded, separated from her body as she watched the darkness and anger in his eyes.
Suddenly he jerked away from her. “I think we are done here.” He stopped one movement short of giving her the cut direct. The resulting action, somewhere between hot heat and freezing cold, held the room in silence for a long moment.
It was at that moment that she realized the others had stopped arguing to observe them—and that they weren’t the only ones.
Gregory opened his mouth to say something, but Abigail put her hand on his sleeve, nearly shaking. Her simmering anger completely overwhelmed by the notion that Rainewood could have simply raised his voice to normal tones. Could have announced anything he pleased in his silky drawl and everyone would have heard and listened. Accepted his word as gospel, especially with the gossip concerning the list. Even if he didn’t have it, that people thought he did was what counted.
Her social status was important, but had never mattered to her even half as much as her freedom.
She could have sworn he was looking away, but Rainewood’s eyes tightened imperceptibly and his gaze switched back and narrowed on Gregory. “As for you, save your social gasps for things you might actually be able to grasp.”
He looked at Abigail’s hand resting on Gregory’s sleeve, raised a scathing brow, and then walked away.
Her mother hurried over, a flurry of harried brown silk as the noise of the crowd reached new heights with the latest on-dit—she could already hear voices loudly whispering about what Lord Rainewood had found interesting and infuriating about Miss Smart, a woman barely on the social gossip wagon. Mrs. Browning walked just as quickly as her mother, but with a much more militant manner.
She was as good as a mouse crushed beneath a carriage wheel.
Gregory’s eyes followed the group of men, deadly in intent, then he excused himself and walked away.
Valerian emerged from the second hell that night. The ball had only made him antsy to do something else. Something that would distract him. Damn woman. Damn her. With her honey brown hair, blue eyes, strong features, and sharp tongue.
He had snapped at a minimum of ten people who had tried to ask what the interaction with Miss Smart had been about.
“Can’t believe we are down three hundred. Campbell would be in dire straits.”
Valerian looked at Templing stumbling out next to him. They were down three hundred because Templing could barely stand up on his own. The man was a gambling twit when he was drunk.
“Campbell needs to clean up his finances,” Valerian said dismissively. The state of their friend’s pocketbook was a boring one. Aidan Campbell bet too much and won too little. He was going to be in to Valerian for ten thousand pounds soon. He had bet against the list.
Damn list. Damn woman. Damn friends.
Valerian had no notion of calling in the bet, but he wasn’t going to let Campbell know it. The future viscount needed to learn sooner rather than later that he could only extend himself so far before there were dire consequences. Better that it be a lesson from which he could return, than from a shark lender on the east side.
And Campbell needed to stop looking at Abigail Smart in the way that he had taken to doing. Valerian didn’t like the looks at all. They produced a bone-deep urge within him to pummel something. He would have to make it clear that Abigail Smart was off limits in every way.
He had a lot of practice in doing so.
“No way Campbell is going to manage it unless he hooks himself to an heiress,” Templing slurred. “In too deep. Heard he was seen with men from the east side.”
The admission surprised Valerian, but his attention was focused on a man standing alongside the walk. Everythin
g about the man screamed not to disturb him, which was fine with Valerian. The younger pups just out of school liked to play at walking on the wilder side of town—Valerian had done so not so long ago. But even though most of the more deadly elements refrained from attacking a member of the upper class—knowing the higher priced punishments such actions would bring—one always had to be on guard.
That Campbell was indebted to someone from the east side was very bad. There were many who claimed dubious reputations and endless resources. Dangerous. Men who would collect on their money regardless of the means.
His mind temporarily wandered as he thought of the multitude of reasons Campbell would be interested in Abigail. “Idiot.”
Templing huffed to keep up, stumbling behind as he did. “Now, Raine, not everyone has—”
The sound of a body hitting the ground behind him caused Valerian to sigh. The night was obviously over for Templing. Idiot. Valerian turned to help Templing and call for a hack. He felt like corralling a bottle of fine whiskey at home and brooding on blue eyes anyway.
A swift movement, a flash of green. Pain exploded in Valerian’s head and all went dark.
Chapter 3
Men’s trousers appeared much easier to unfasten these days than in the past.
“Isn’t it simply delightful of what society is capable?”
Abigail absently nodded to the flesh-and-blood man standing in front of her and watched the more interesting ghostly spectacle in the corner.
An upstairs maid by the look of her thirty-years-old outdated clothing had wrapped herself quite indecently around a footman—pressing together so closely that the air between them nearly whooshed out in an audible breeze. The man hitched the maid higher on his leg and pushed her against the wall. His fingers worked to undo his old fashioned trousers in frenzied motions.
Two matrons walked by, chatting behind their fans and pointing long fingers to different attendees at the Grayton House ball, identifying anything noteworthy. If the servants’ clothing hadn’t given it away, the complete inattention by two of society’s dragons to the moans, groans, and squirming of the two copulating in the corner reaffirmed to Abigail that she alone was seeing the spectacle.
Her talent.
With Rainewood absent from all activities for the past two days, the tension that had always gripped her in society had gradually diminished. And the timing between his heated interaction with her and his disappearance had her name on many lips, which ironically was helping her social stock. Sending more than one sneaking glance her way.
She should be securing a quality husband—quickly. So why was she concentrating on things she usually tried to ignore? The very things that had destroyed a cherished friendship and turned her life upside down.
It was almost like she was the spirit languishing in nostalgia—attached to the physical plane, doomed to repeat the same movements over and over.
And unfortunately not memories as entertaining as the scenario being played out in the corner.
She stared more inquiringly at the physical mechanics required to attain the position that the footman was rocking the maid into. She wondered if it was a true memory she was seeing, and if so had the gilded wall sconce dug into the woman’s bared shoulder? Had her head knocked into the fresco of satyrs at play? Or was this an unfulfilled act that their spirits could only indulge in after death? Whichever it was Abigail felt her face heat.
“Miss Smart?”
Abigail focused on the slight man standing across from her. He was looking at her worriedly while Mrs. Browning glared. “My apologies, Mr. Southertonmonsmith…” She let the last part trail into a mumble as she couldn’t quite remember what the man’s name was. Her senses had dulled as soon as the donkey had gone missing.
“Mr. Sourting was inquiring as to whether you would like to take a ride in the park tomorrow. I think it a lovely idea.” Her mother smiled widely at Mr. Sourting, who smiled tentatively back.
Sourting. Right. He had popped up in what seemed a bid to court her weeks ago, then abruptly dropped the suit. She was used to the quick changes—the lure of the Smart fortune bringing the men forward, then something about her changing their minds. Her oddness or ambivalence, she didn’t know. Easier to deal with the hit to her pride by forcing herself to forget the mercurial suitors entirely.
Mr. Sourting looked to her and Abigail worked up a smile. “Of course. How lovely that would be.”
“Excellent. I shall see you on the morrow.” He looked rather relieved, then quickly excused himself. She absently wondered at the man’s change of heart.
“Abigail! What have you to say for yourself? What were you doing?”
She could be honest and say that she had been watching a couple of spirits copulating in the corner, but she didn’t think that would please her mother, nor Mrs. Browning.
Mrs. Browning sniffed. “Yes, do bring her in line Mrs. Smart. I will speak with a few other gentlemen and return for a hopefully more respectable performance.”
“Well, Abigail?” her mother asked as Mrs. Browning strode off.
“Just thinking, Mother, my apologies.”
“Thinking? No man wants a future wife who thinks instead of listens! You know better than that.”
A lady in a one hundred-year-old flat-bosomed dress drunkenly swayed through the crowd singing a bawdy ditty. With a downward swipe of her hand one breast spilled over her bodice, and she caterwauled at the top of her ghostly lungs about meaty paws and suckling maws.
Abigail tore her eyes away as the woman stepped through her mother, who shivered and waved her fan.
Abigail swallowed. “Of course that is true. I will do better, Mother.”
Her mother’s brows furrowed as she glanced around furtively, letting go of the rigid persona she tried to play and reverting to the more natural flighty, paranoid bird that she was. “You don’t have need of Dr. Myers, do you?”
Ice crackled down Abigail’s spine. “No, no, definitely not, Mother. I am completely purged. Fine. Wonderful even.” She smiled brightly, the ice cracking even at the corners of her mouth. “I have just been speculating on the whereabouts of Earl Rainewood and Mr. Templing.”
“Well, I don’t believe those two are where you should concentrate your marriage efforts, dear.” Her mother’s face took on a dreamy cast. “Of course, the heir to a dukedom would be magnificent. And if you had worked your wiles on him properly long ago before he was heir…or if you had secured him afterward instead of letting him slip away…but Lord Rainewood is all but betrothed to the Malcolm girl.”
“Yes, of course.” The very idea that she would concentrate “marriage” efforts on Rainewood was so laughable that it wasn’t even remotely funny.
“Let us speak with Mr. Farnswourth while Mrs. Browning is off on her mission—lovely catch for us to secure her,” her mother gushed. Abigail thought it more a case of their deep pockets nicely lining their dragon companion’s own. “I have seen Mr. Farnswourth send more than one speculative look in your direction. A steady stream of invites there, and seventh in line to an earldom. Seventh in line is nothing to scoff at. You never know, dear, you never know!”
For a second her mother held out a hand as if she would take Abigail’s arm, but her mother seemed to recollect herself in time and her face changed from eager excitement to a more rigid, controlled expression. She woodenly waved Abigail forward. “I expect you to make an afternoon appointment with Mr. Farnswourth as well, if you can. The end of the season will be upon us soon, and we do want to have a number of good options.”
“Yes, Mother.” With her head held high and a cheerful smile plastered on her face, Abigail pushed aside the insidious thoughts about when her mother had become so reserved in her physical affection and instead followed her through the crowd. She had survived for years without any purposeful physical contact from her mother—she’d survive another few hours, days, or years as well.
A half orchestra played enthusiastically as couples in full ball attir
e danced merrily around the Grayton House ballroom. Valerian allowed himself a rare moment of shock. What the devil had just happened? One minute he’d been walking from a gaming hell with Templing, thinking of home and her, and the next he was standing in his father’s house in the midst of an immense party. Grayton House should have been devoid of guests. Servants should be scurrying around making last minute preparations for the party in two day’s time. A party didn’t simply just happen.
Which meant he must have spent the last two days in some sort of alcohol induced stupor. Damn. He thought he’d left those days behind. He looked down at his evening clothing—yes, this shirt, jacket, and cravat were exactly what he had been wearing to the Malcolm’s fete and to the hells afterward. Dear God. He would never live this down. Abigail Smart would rub it in his face for all eternity.
He couldn’t allow her the upper hand. Not after what she’d done to him so many years ago. He needed to change quickly, hide in one of the anterooms, or practice his verbal barbs.
An underbutler skirted the edge of the crowd, staying watchful but apart from the proceedings.
Valerian detached himself from the column rooting him and approached just close enough to be seen and heard by the servant. “Fetch me Samuels, and hur—” Astonished for a second time, he watched as the servant sauntered right past him without a lick of acknowledgment. Cheeky bastard. No one ignored him, especially in his father’s home.
He reached out to grab the underbutler’s shirt, but his hand cut cleanly through the man. He stared for a moment before his hand dropped like a cleaver to the block. What devilry was this?
He reached for the next person who passed him, a pretty little debutante with upswept hair and a virginal white gown, and that too was like grasping a dream, fair and fleeting, his hand passing right through like a waterfall that kept flowing. He backed away. He was in a madhouse. Or a dream. He concentrated on waking up, but the scene continued to unfold. He drew back into the alcove, his feet taking him back as far as he could go.
