by Jo Beverley
She would love to be able to sparkle, and perhaps she had as a rompish sixteen. The years had taught her control and discretion, however, and they reigned even in the dance.
In the bed—well, that was a private matter.
Then as she turned in the dance pattern, she saw him.
She missed a step, and with a hasty apology she concentrated on the dance. When she glanced back across the room, Vandeimen was gone.
He was here, though. She couldn’t have mistaken that tail lean grace and primrose hair, made more brilliant by dark evening clothes.
He was here.
Alive.
Ready to fulfill his bargain.
With a sudden beat of the heart she knew it had begun.
Chapter Three
When the set was over, Maria felt flushed, an unusual occurrence for her. She plied her fan as her wasps gathered, all seeking the next chance at the jam pot. Maria playfully put off choosing.
Where was Vandeimen?
Had she imagined him?
Then she saw him, in company with Gravenham. Beside the marquess’s mousy solidity, Vandeimen seemed a wild spirit, despite his perfect, tidy appearance. His primrose hair shone in the candlelight, and his scar, doubtless honorably gained, suggested wickedness, especially with the lingering marks of dissipation.
“Mrs. Celestin,” Gravenham said, “you have enraptured another of us poor males. Here’s Vandeimen begging me for an introduction. Now mind,” he added, “I wouldn’t agree if you were a sweet young innocent, but I judge you well able to deal with rascals such as he.”
Maria appreciated Gravenham’s subtle warning. It showed that Vandeimen was in danger of losing his place in accepted circles.
“A rascal, my lord,” she said to Vandeimen, offering her hand. “How intriguing.”
She managed a cool manner, but was alarmed that she hadn’t thought of this essential detail. Of course he couldn’t just walk up to her. He had to find someone respectable to introduce him.
He bowed gracefully over her hand, perfectly judging the distance. A slight inclination would be cool. To actually touch his lips to her gloves would be scandalously bold. Just over halfway was within bounds, but hinted at interesting ardor.
She kept her light smile fixed and prayed not to shiver. This perfectly turned-out young man with deft social skills was not what she had expected.
“Then perhaps I might persuade you into the dance, Mrs. Celestin?” he said straightening but still holding her hand. “Some opportunity there to be rascally.”
“Really? I was not aware of that.”
“How dull your partners must have been.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Come, let me brighten your life.”
He stole her from under the noses of her wasps, and she wasn’t sure whether to be outraged or wildly amused.
“My partners have not been particularly dull,” she said, as they joined a set.
“Good. Then you won’t be shocked.”
She wasn’t sure about that. What did he plan?
She did know about rascally dancing. If she let her mind slide back to her folly with Maurice, she could remember times when he’d used the dance to full advantage. After all, where else could a slightly disreputable man get close enough to a lady to tempt her to folly?
The music started and they began the steps. For the moment it was just a dance, giving her room to think.
She hadn’t anticipated him planning to kill himself.
She hadn’t anticipated him being dangerous.
She hadn’t anticipated the need for introduction.
She hadn’t anticipated his perfect management of the situation, or how he matched the steps of society as skillfully as he matched the steps of the dance.
She should have expected all of it. Heavens, social duties were part of an officer’s life. And yet, she had failed to anticipate his social skills.
What else had she neglected?
That he would be wary.
As she met his eyes in the dance, she recognized that. Of course her quixotic actions must appear suspicious. As they joined hands and passed, she wondered what he feared. What did he think she wanted for her twenty thousand pounds?
And what—even more fascinating—would he be willing to do for it?
She danced back toward him, wicked thoughts stirring despite every attempt to bury them deep in her mind. They linked arms in an allemande, and turned, eye to eye, bodies moving in harmony.
A sudden awareness rippled through her of exactly what she could demand from him in service—for six long weeks. She knew her rare color was building, and spun off to the next gentleman with relief.
She’d never thought of such a thing when she’d planned this. Never! She must immediately put it out of her mind. It would be both foolish and wicked. She was supposed to be rescuing him, not exploiting him, and he was eight years her junior.
She fiercely concentrated on the present, on the weaving steps of the dance. She couldn’t help but watch, however, as he danced with other women in the set. She was not alone in her reaction. Each one, young or old, responded with a brightening of the eyes, a widening of the smile.
He was a flirt. A handsome, instinctive flirt whom women could not resist responding to. She’d not anticipated that, either. She’d known the world would assume she was buying youth, but not that she had been charmed out of her wits and money.
The idea was so repulsive that she wanted to cry halt now. He could have the money and go to hell or heaven—
Then he was back to partner her. As they stepped together, first one way then the other, he said softly, “Am I supposed to fall madly in love with you, or is this a more considered affair?”
Mouth dry, eyes locked with his, she said, “Madly in love. Why not?” If she was going to be thought a fool, she’d rather be thought a mad one.
His eyes held hers, and then, as the dance moved him on, they lingered for a speaking moment. Fascinated, she realized she was doing the same thing, and hastily looked at her new partner, Sir Watkins Dore, to see an understanding smile.
“A handsome rascal,” the middle-aged man remarked, “but penniless and with a taste for the bottle and the tables, dear lady. A word to the wise.”
From there on, Maria passed through the dance unable to block the mortifying awareness that everyone thought they were witnessing a powerful attraction between an older woman and a charming young rascal.
She couldn’t blame Vandeimen. He was following her instructions to the letter. Though smiling and polite, he had somehow muted his effect on the other ladies, and turned it all on her. Often her eyes collided with his intent ones. It was hard for her not to believe that she had suddenly become the center of his universe.
When the dance ended and she curtsied as he bowed, she knew all eyes were on them. It was excruciatingly hard not to say something cutting, or behave in a chilly manner to show that she was not a gullible fool. As it was, she let him place her hand in the crook of his arm, and strolled with him.
“Everyone’s watching,” she said, though she knew she shouldn’t. She was in control of this adventure, wasn’t she?
“I’m sure you are watched anyway, the Golden Lily.”
“I’m used to that, but not to this.” How absurd to feel that she could talk honestly to him like this. Of course, apart from Harriette, he was the only one aware of their purpose. “I’m probably not looking as dazzled as I should.”
“I’ll be dazzled for both of us.” When she glanced sideways at him, she saw how his smiling eyes were intent on her. “Some wariness on your part is doubtless realistic,” he added. “You are too wise to actually marry me, after all.”
She smiled at the joke, but it pressed on an old wound. Her feelings were too like the lunatic infatuations she’d succumbed to when young, culminating in Maurice. She had a weakness for dashing, handsome, dangerous men, but she was no longer young and silly. Had she learned nothing?
Cool air startled
her back to the immediate, and she realized he had led her out onto a small balcony. They were still in view, but it gave some protection from being overheard. It also must cause more talk.
What point in balking, though? She was about to be society’s favorite topic of amusement for six long weeks. It was a price she would pay to right a wrong.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, wafting her fan and gazing out over the lamplit garden below.
“You thought I wouldn’t pay my debt?”
A sudden chill in his voice made her- turn to him. “I didn’t mean it that way. You were . . . The need to—”
“Madam, you have bought me—body, mind, and most of my soul—for six weeks. I will go where you command, speak as you wish, act as you instruct, so long as it does not offend the part of my soul I have retained.”
Oh dear. Pain and wounded pride. She must remember that though war had aged him in many ways, he could still be tender in others.
“Excellent,” she said coolly, returning to the safe contemplation of the garden. “You are playing your part well, my lord, so please continue to act as if you were intent on winning me.” She glanced back with a carefully calculated smile. “I doubt that will hazard your immortal soul.”
They confronted each other for a moment in silence, and she nervously broke into chatter. “The lamps in the garden are pretty, are they not? I wonder if there is a way to explore there.”
Her gloved right hand rested on the iron railing, and he covered it with his left. A hand brown from years of sun and weather, strong with sinews and veins, long-fingered, marked by many minor scars. A hand that looked older than he was. A fine hand perhaps meant by nature for softer ways, for music, for art, for gentle love . . .
“I would know that I had little hope,” he said, curling his fingers around hers and lifting her hand from the railing, turning her toward him. “A penniless man with dilapidated estates, and eight years younger than you.”
“True . . .”
He brought her hand between them, chest high, and in the process angled his body so that he shielded her from the crowded room. “The only reason you would consider my suit is for my looks and charm. Poor Mrs. Celestin,” he added with a glint of edged humor, “you are going to have to succumb to looks and charm.”
“I would hardly be the first widow to do so. I’m sure I can play the part.” She returned exactly the same sort of edged look. “It’s not as if I am actually going to place my person and my fortune in your hands, after all.”
“Just the additional nine thousand pounds.”
“If you behave yourself.” She looked him up and down. “You do, at least, have both looks and charm, and conduct yourself well in society. It would be even more galling to make a fool of myself over an unappealing wastrel.”
He stilled, his scar seeming to slash more darkly across his right cheek. She instantly recalled the man she had first met, the one who had disarmed her, and surely come close to hurting her.
He dropped her hand. “I can become unappealing anytime you want, Mrs. Celestin. I would advise you not to push me too far. A man ready to die is equally ready to consign nine thousand pounds to the devil.”
The small balcony was suddenly confining, and he blocked the way out. She desperately wanted to look away, or to try to push out of this confined space. As with an animal, however, to show fear was to lose control. She met his angry eyes. “What of the eleven thousand, my lord? You owe me service for that.”
His nostrils flared, and she suddenly saw in him a stallion. A young, magnificent, abused stallion on the edge of going bad. Dear heavens, who did she think she was, to try to keep together something so riven through with cracks?
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I spoke thoughtlessly. I chose you for this because you are a gentleman.”
“But why did you choose anyone, Mrs. Celestin? What is the purpose of this extravagant charade?”
She’d hoped to put this off until she’d thought of a better rationale, but clearly she had to say something now. With great effort, she spoke lightly. “One person’s extravagance is another’s whim, Lord Vandeimen. I have a mind to enjoy this season, and I am pestered by fortune hunters. You are my guard against them, that is all.”
She must have presented it correctly, for she saw his tension ease in scarcely perceptible, but significant, ways. “You must be very, very rich.”
“I am.”
“Then of course, I am completely at your service. Command me, dear lady.”
Shockingly, the requests that came to mind were all indecent. She sank back on what she had said before. “Do as you would if you were intent on sweeping me out of sanity and into your martial bed.”
He looked at her for a moment, then raised his left hand and rested it on her naked shoulder. Warm. Roughened from the practice of war.
No, not practice. Real, deadly war. How many deaths had those intent blue eyes seen? How many had his elegant hands delivered? How much suffering, during battle and after? She had lost no one of importance to her except a baby brother, half remembered, and Maurice, who had died miles away on a hunting field, and by then not truly grieved.
They called this man Demon. A terrible label for a noble soldier and hero, but she could only think of how very familiar he must be with death. No wonder he’d seemed indifferent as to whether she shot him or not. He probably cared for nothing at all, and was wounded too deeply for that to change.
Was he going to kiss her, here in full view of everyone? She should prevent that, but for the moment, she was paralyzed.
With scarcely a pause, however, he brushed his hand across her bare shoulder, sending shivers down her spine, until his lingers moved into the loose curls at the edge of her hair. He could be tidying a curl or brushing away an insect. He played there for a moment, eyes holding hers, then lowered his hand to his side.
Fear still held her, but underneath surged something even worse. Lust.
Triumph glinted in his sudden smile.
Ah.
She sucked in a deep breath. He was going to do what she had paid for, but for pride’s sake he was going to try to seduce her at the same time. Not surprising, though yet again, something she had not anticipated.
She certainly had never anticipated that it might be so terribly possible.
Already a part of her was crying, Why not? Why not? You could lie together with him tonight! Deep muscles clenched at the thought.
She often lay in the quiet night remembering a man’s body on hers, in hers. She didn’t wish Maurice back, but memory of hot intimacy always left her feeling aching and hollow.
She was staring at him. Carefully, slowly, she turned her head to look past, unfurling her fan. She couldn’t afford to give him a weapon like that, and it would be wrong to use him. She must remember her purpose— to heal him and set him free with the money Maurice had stolen.
“The next dance is starting,” he said. “Shall we be partners again? It will create just the storm you want.”
Storm. An apt name for the tumult inside her, but she agreed. She had set her course and would pursue it, even through a storm of embarrassment, scandal, and yes— frustration.
She was no blushing ingénue. She could control herself and her demon. She went calmly with him to form an eight.
She completed the dance almost hectic with emotion. Beneath dissipation, dark memories, and that nasty scar, was a young man, a devastatingly attractive young man, who was doing his best to bewitch her.
And his best was very good.
She’d struggled to pin her mind to higher thoughts— to his experiences in the war and his need of gentle nurturing at home. Beneath that logical and noble mind, however, quivered a body that wanted to tear his clothes off, press to his heat, inhale and taste him, and bring him nurture and release of another kind entirely. His very youth, his pain, his sensitivity, his leashed resistance to her rule, were all exciting her more than she could have believed possible.
&
nbsp; Before he even suggested an outrageous third dance, she accepted an invitation from another man. It didn’t matter who, but it was Mr. Fanshawe, a pleasant gentleman who doubtless would like to marry her money, but who didn’t make a nuisance of himself about it.
As they strolled, waiting for the next set to start, she made herself seriously consider Mr. Fanshawe as husband. She did want to marry again, and he was comfortable, undemanding, and her own age. He was the sort of man she had expected to choose, but now the prospect made her want to yawn.
She knew why, but that was only a temporary insanity.
The music started and she let the dance sweep her up, enjoying as always the neatness of fluid movements up and down the line. When she extended her hand to dance round and past the next gentleman, she almost faltered.
Vandeimen!
She recovered, smiled, and danced on. Idiot! Nothing to stop him joining the same line. If he was playing the part of ardent suitor, of course he would. Her hand still tingled from his touch, however.
It must not be.
She wove back down the line, approached him again, joined hands, stepped around, and onward.
That was how it would be. Swirled together by fate, six weeks of linked hands, and then onward and apart. He would have a new chance at life, and she would have a clear conscience.
She did wish it had been possible to do it impersonally, but while she’d been coming up with elaborate schemes, he’d plunged suddenly into darkness and she’d known she had to act. She’d been right, too. Frighteningly right. She still shuddered at the thought of being moments too late.
When it was his turn to dance down the middle of the long line with his partner she saw that he was partnering a flushed and dazzled young thing burdened by a pudding face and frizzy mousy hair. He’d either chosen or been dragooned into partnering a wallflower, but his smile for her was bright and warm, and he was creating a brief heaven for her.
