“I want to know what you were doing in here, if you weren’t meeting Ravensdale.”
She ignored him and shoved her hand into a reticule he hadn’t noticed. She searched inside, then shifted to the bed, scanning the surface.
“Did you lose something?”
“No, I...I—” She stopped. “I am feeling a little overwhelmed. Would you mind terribly giving me a few moments to compose myself? I fear I might be pushed into talking about this incident.” The threat was wrapped in a polite, feminine tone, but it remained a threat nonetheless.
“Perhaps I can help you find what you lost?” He didn’t buy her missish act for a moment.
She opened her mouth, then shut it. A wave of annoyance crossed her sun-kissed features. “Really, I only need one moment of privacy.”
“Please, allow me to help—ah.” He retrieved a key from the coverlet. He held it up by the ornate circular design at the top and watched her full lips part in a curse. “Such language.”
Resentment flashed and she stalked around the bed until she stood toe-to-toe with him. “Give me that.”
She reached out, and he snatched his hand back, closing his fingers over the cool metal. “This is yours? Or did you find it in here?”
“It was on my person, was it not? Therefore it must belong to me,” she replied. “I want it back. And I want out of this room.”
“What is it?” He studied it.
“A necklace.”
“That you are not wearing.” Suddenly it occurred to him that if she was Ravensdale’s mistress, she probably wouldn’t say so. “Who are you?” She could walk out of here, and he’d never see her again.
A small twinge of anxiety pinched his stomach. He needed to know her name. “I shall ask Lady Ashton if I must—”
“Why are you so concerned with Lady Ashton? It is a bit unseemly. She is betrothed.”
“Forgive my lack of manners. Lord Merewood, at your service. Lady Ashton’s brother.”
Her movements stilled. “The Earl of Merewood.”
“Yes.”
“Miss Ariadne Whitney.” She said the word slowly, the end of her name clipped with a question, as if she expected him to answer.
“A relation of Gideon Whitney?”
“He is my father.”
“A fascinating man.” He studied her curiously. “Is he here tonight? I should like to speak with him.”
“Regarding?” Her body stilled like a frightened deer.
“Nothing you need to be concerned with.”
“I am concerned with everything when it comes to my father.”
At the fervent reply, he studied her inscrutable expression. Something was amiss. “Is he here?”
“No. If you’ll excuse me, I’m in need of some air.” She twirled about, the folds of her dark blue skirt barely brushing his leg, and headed toward the door.
“Miss Whitney.”
She turned her head.
“Don’t you want this?” He held the key aloft.
She shifted toward him, sharply focused, her body tense with the uncertainty of a wary alley cat. She extended her hand slowly.
And an unwelcome longing roared through him.
“The key, Lord Merewood?”
He placed it in her hand, and their gazes fused for a moment so brief he could have imagined it.
Without a by-your-leave or a thank you, she turned. Once at the door, Miss Whitney cracked it open a smidge, peeked outside, and then hurried into the corridor. Adam moved to follow suit, certain he could smell the scent of jasmine in her wake.
He could not help being intrigued. That was all this...unsettledness meant. She was exotic and different from the English roses he had known his entire life-—with their milk-water skin, demurely lowered heads and giggles behind fans.
This woman met you with her head held high. Eyes of a deep, dark chocolate sparkled with annoyance. Her skin had been generously kissed by the sun, and the jet-black hair kinked into curls and waves was barely contained in the style fashionable these days.
Did those curls feel soft?
Leave it alone, man. You have responsibilities.
He grimaced, waited a moment, then followed her. He couldn’t allow distractions, and she provided quite the distraction.
Not that it mattered.
Miss Whitney could hold the key to everlasting life, and Adam would stay far away.
But first, he would find out what she wanted with his sister’s fiancé.
* * *
After a few hours watching Miss Whitney, he was irritated enough to corner his sister.
He had told himself repeatedly that he didn’t give a whit if she danced with the entire room. He simply wanted answers.
“What do you know about her?”
Blythe blinked. “About whom precisely?”
“Miss Whitney.” Adam inclined his head in her direction, where she stood talking with Lord Melrose.
“I heard you’ve been watching her tonight.”
“How would you hear that?”
“I hear everything pertaining to my unmarried, attractive and titled brother. Your every move is noted.”
“How unappealing.”
Blythe laughed. “You are a prized catch, more so since I snatched a duke off the market. And the thought that you have your eye on someone who isn’t of ‘proper breeding’ is catastrophic to most of the girls here. And their mothers.” She did a quick scan of the room, studied the girl in question. “Are you interested? In Miss Whitney?”
“No.”
“If you wished me to believe that, you might have tried thinking about it first.” Blythe smirked. “What do you wish to know?”
He casually adjusted his stance until he could see the girl, who had moved to the dance floor with what had to be her fifteenth partner of the evening. “What do you know of her?”
“Very little, in fact. This evening is the first I’ve met her.”
“Where?” he asked.
“She was in Michael’s study resting. A headache, I believe.”
“Alone?”
“She was alone when we arrived. Why do you ask?”
“Who was with you? Ravensdale?”
“Yes, he was with me. Adam, why do I feel like I’m being interrogated?”
Adam realized his fists were clenched, and he spread his fingers out wide. “I am trying to understand how you met her, that’s all.”
Blythe let out an irritated sigh. “Michael and I went to the study for some privacy, if you want the full details. We were—”
“Stop.” He held a hand up. “I understand. And it’s not something I wish to think of. Ever.”
Her shoulders shook with mirth. “You do realize I’m getting married, Adam. Married couples do—”
“You say these things to torture me. You’re my sister. Have mercy, please. Does Ravensdale know her?”
“Not until this evening, I believe. Why?”
He could tell Blythe where he’d found Miss Whitney, what he suspected, but if he was wrong...well, he didn’t want to hurt his sister unnecessarily. If the man was a cad and Miss Whitney was involved with him, Adam would find out. In the meantime... “No reason. Just making conversation.”
She sighed. “Somehow, this is about you not trusting Michael, isn’t it?”
“I don’t have to like the man.”
“No, but you could do a better job of pretending.”
He doubted he’d ever get past his dislike for Ravensdale. Blythe had forgiven her betrothed’s past transgressions, but Adam wasn’t required to extend the same courtesy.
Not after all she’d been through—so much of which could be laid on Adam’s shoulders. His list of regrets was long and he wasn�
�t about to compound it.
Especially when someone like Miss Whitney stirred his...well, no need to focus on what she had stirred earlier. Better to focus on what she wanted instead.
“Now, about Miss Whitney,” Blythe said with a grin.
The woman in question whirled on the dance floor a few feet away with—another man? The woman was cutting quite a swath through London’s finest.
“Why would you invite someone to your party you know nothing about?” Adam asked.
Miss Whitney was forceful on the dance floor, her steps surefooted and confident, even when she stumbled more than once. The poor fop she danced with likely wasn’t sure who was leading whom.
“Michael is acquainted with her father,” Blythe replied. “Until recently Miss Whitney has never attended an event. But now that she’s here, she’ll be beset by impoverished lords and gentry alike, I imagine.”
“Why?” Look somewhere else, man. He was here to gather information, not ogle like a commoner.
“Her father is richer than most of the men here combined. With no title in the family, she is not above reach for anyone.”
“That is why she’s here? Husband hunting?” The idea alternately alarmed and disappointed him.
“So say the rumors, but whether it’s true or not?” She arched her brows and cocked her head, a clear sign he was about to be blatantly manipulated. “Perhaps you should dance with her and find out.”
“I am not interested in a wife right now.”
“Adam, truly.” She shook her head in disgust. “You must get past this silly notion that you cannot marry until—”
“Your first husband almost killed you, Blythe.” Adam kept his voice low, but the memory lived like a permanent scar on his heart. The gunshot. The blood. Blythe falling to the floor.
The secret his family had been protecting since that day. They’d had enough scandal in their lives.
Blythe opened her mouth to object, but he held his palm up to still her words.
“We should not be discussing this now. And I won’t make the same mistake with our other sisters.” Or with Blythe’s second choice for a husband, love match be damned. He searched out their other sister, the only one old enough to attend, and found her talking amongst a group of people her age. “Cordelia will have my full attention. So will Lily in her debut next year.”
“And Georgiana? Will you put your life on hold until she is married, as well?”
He didn’t see the point in answering.
“Good heavens, she is twelve years old.”
At her exasperated tone, the same one that had started many sibling arguments, Adam steeled his jaw. “Nonetheless, that is the way it shall be.”
“You are impossible.” She raised her hands up in a surrender he wasn’t fooled would be anything but temporary. She turned to leave, then stopped. “I hope I am there on the day you realize life won’t abide by your dictates or plans.” She clucked in irritation and walked away.
He should follow suit and leave for the night. Instead he scanned the room.
She proved easy to spot. Her dark blue gown stood out in a sea of pale chiffon, but it was more how she held herself apart that drew his attention. The shuttered blankness on her beautiful face might fool plenty, but Adam was well acquainted with the storm that brewed behind a face like that.
Desperation. Anger.
Secrets.
So what was she hiding?
Perhaps Blythe was correct and Miss Whitney was hunting for a title. Trapping Ravensdale into marriage would make her a duchess.
While he might rejoice at the thought of Ravensdale not joining his family, he would not let anyone else, including Miss Whitney, hurt them again.
Chapter Three
Aria dropped her reticule and wrap on the table in the entryway of her home with an exhausted sigh. The sun had been flirting with the horizon when she’d walked in the front door, so she shouldn’t be surprised how much her feet ached.
Her head pounded with exhaustion and her back was as tight as a saddle cinch from being pulled and prodded in wrong directions by dance partners with a decided lack of finesse. Why would anyone willingly choose to do this not once a year, but every night? “You’ve returned.”
“Safe and sound.” Aria braced herself before facing her stepmother, ready for the inevitable argument.
The pretty English Rose, as Aria’s father called his wife, was seven years older than Aria’s twenty and burgeoning with child. And not a day had gone by since Aria had been dumped in London that she and her stepmother had found even a small slice of common ground.
“Lady Beasley fell asleep in the carriage,” Aria added, “so I had the driver leave straight away to deposit her home.”
Emily’s hand rubbed gently over her belly. “Did you fare well tonight?”
“I did not douse anyone with my punch or say something I shouldn’t or ruin my reputation.” Not a complete lie.
“After every misstep, I receive calls the next day highlighting your escapades. I simply wish to be prepared for tomorrow’s litany.” Her stepmother’s soft tone was underscored by a thread of irritation. “You are bound to—”
“Bound to make a disaster of things? Yes, so you’ve said.”
“If your reputation is ruined, those invitations allowing you access to society events will cease.”
“And what do I care?” Aria knew what was at stake, but she had grown weary of the refrain that she was but one wrongly uttered word from ruin.
“Without the ton’s by-your-leave, you won’t be allowed in the same room with a person on that list.” She waved a hand in the direction of Aria’s reticule. “And you will have ruined my future, as well as your future brother or sister’s future in the process. You must take heed, and I need to know what damage to fix.”
“And Lady Beasley was not here to give you the bald truth. She proved a fine chaperone, nonetheless.” In that she left Aria to her own devices. It had suited her perfectly.
“I am tired and...for heaven’s sake, must we snipe at each other?” Emily ran a hand over her temple.
Aria waited for the headache to be billed as her fault as well.
“You do not understand this world. These are unforgiving people. One slight, one wrong step—”
“And they will tie me in chains and throw me into the river. You’ve made it abundantly clear.”
“Your father would not approve of your actions.”
Anger flared in Aria’s gut. “My father would not want me to sit idly by, wasting my time on embroidery.” The words flew out like desperate birds, and Aria clamped her lips shut to keep any more from escaping. Emily was pregnant. Fragile. She liked embroidery. She loved her world.
Emily’s hand flattened against her back, and she let out a sigh. “Did you meet any of them?”
“Ravensdale. And the Lord of Merewood.” Aria’s stomach flipped in an altogether annoying way at the thought of him.
“The Earl of Merewood, or Lord Merewood. Not the Lord of Merewood.”
Aria stifled a curse she knew would bring back the long-suffering gleam in Emily’s eyes.
Aria’s lack of patience regarding the usage of titles—did it have to be so blasted confusing?—had been a thorn in Emily’s side since she’d started tutoring Aria, an admittedly reluctant pupil, on how to behave like a proper society debutante.
“Fine.” Aria shook her head. Over a year of sharing the same house, attempting to get along, had worn them both down. They had stopped trying months ago.
And being locked in a room full of debutantes had addled her wits.
She had been in close contact with two of the men on her list, and what had she done?
Nothing. The onslaught of emotions when Lord Merewood had mentioned her father had sent her runn
ing from the room before she did something truly ghastly.
Like cry on his shoulder.
True, she’d had to return the key, but it was a costly mistake. She hadn’t discovered a blessed thing about Merewood other than he had a healthy distrust of his future brother-in-law. That was gossip fodder, but hardly helpful.
“What about the others on the list?”
“I never saw them.” A sense of helplessness washed over her. “I hate this. I am going to parties when I should be doing something! People think I am bloody title hunting, for God’s sake.”
“Then stop. Your father left you with me to ensure you had—”
“Proper training on how to be a lady. I know. And so we’re clear, when my father returns, I plan to leave with him.”
“You’ve made that abundantly clear. And what of Mr. Wade?”
“How does this concern him?” He was a friend, a companion, and yes he would be upset by her actions, which was why she hadn’t told him anything. His feelings didn’t take priority over finding her father.
“The man has the patience of a saint to court you,” Emily muttered. “He has waited, without a sign of frustration, for Gideon to return. You know he intends to ask for your hand, even though you act as if you don’t, and you plan to leave posthaste.”
“He has not professed any intentions regarding marriage.” At least not overt ones. “In any case, that doesn’t matter right now.”
“It matters if you ruin yourself. I hate it, but we have to prepare for the possibility that Gideon may not return and—”
“He will.”
“And if he doesn’t? What then? You need to think about this. If you ruin yourself beyond repair, Mr. Wade’s affection for you won’t matter. And has it occurred to you—” Emily’s hand fell to her extended belly, “—that if you ruin yourself, you also damage this family?”
Her father would return, so Emily’s concerns were well-intentioned but pointless. She glanced toward the corridor, placing her hand over her mouth to cover a yawn. “How is Uncle John?”
Emily paused, then let out a sigh. “He woke for a few moments.”
“And you didn’t tell me the moment I walked in?” Aria tried not to snap, but the ridiculousness of her evening had worn her patience. “Was he lucid this time?”
Cloaked in Danger Page 3
