Xavier’s redoubtable majordomo—a sober individual who kept his opinions of his master’s habits strictly to himself—greeted Beckenham with an almost imperceptible softening of his black eyes.
“Would you care for refreshment, my lord?”
“Perhaps later, Martin.” Beckenham stripped off his gloves and dropped them into his hat before handing the collection to the majordomo. “I want to see my cousin before he becomes otherwise occupied.”
Even though Xavier had guests, he might be in one of his retiring moods, eschewing the party for the solitude of his library. One never knew. Xavier could be at his most intellectual and ascetic when hosting an orgy.
The majordomo bowed. “You will find Lord Steyne in the drawing room, my lord.”
Not in a retiring mood, then. Beckenham reconsidered. “On second thoughts, would you tell his lordship I’m waiting for him in the library and send some bread and cheese there and a bottle of wine?”
Beckenham preferred not to join the festivities, particularly in Xavier’s company. If Xavier was in one of his difficult tempers—and when was he not?—he would be sure to go out of his way to embarrass his sober cousin. He’d invite Beckenham to eat a grape from a naked lady’s navel or foist on him some elegant whore whom he’d feel obliged to entertain for the evening so as not to hurt her feelings.
Xavier could be quite diabolically irritating in that way.
It wasn’t that Beckenham had no interest in the fair sex. He was a man of strong sexual appetites—and rare skill, if his mistresses were to be believed. Quite how he’d gained the reputation of being an extraordinarily accomplished lover, he didn’t know. Perhaps his lovers had been indiscreet. He preferred, however, to bed women of his own choosing, and to do so in private.
With an understanding gleam in his eye, the majordomo bowed again. “Very good, my lord. I shall inquire.”
* * *
Georgiana Black wondered, not for the first time, how she came to be saddled with such an arrant fool for a stepmother. Papa must have been thinking with the contents of his trousers when he’d wed the woman.
Lady Black was very pretty once, but a life of indolence and spite had thickened the widow’s figure and pinched her milkmaid looks. She’d never produced the longed-for male heir, but she had given Sir Donald one more daughter, Violet, who was now seventeen.
Papa had died a little over a year ago, leaving his vast fortune divided equally between his two daughters. Giving in to his wife’s urgings, tantrums, and vapors, he’d altered his will, bequeathing his unentailed property in Gloucestershire to Violet alone. A fitting punishment for Georgie, who’d possessed the unmitigated temerity to jilt the Earl of Beckenham and refused every eligible marriage offer since.
The loss of Cloverleigh Manor had been a knife to Georgie’s heart on top of the grief attending her father’s death. But at least she wouldn’t be obliged to live virtually next door to her erstwhile fiancé. She must be grateful for that.
Papa hadn’t disinherited her. Indeed, he’d been scrupulously fair in the division of his fortune. A large sum invested in the funds would be Georgie’s on her twenty-fifth birthday. Or upon her marriage, whichever came sooner.
While she itched to leave the cloying, vulgar ways of her stepmother behind her, she was inordinately fond of her half sister. She was determined Violet should not suffer through Lady Black’s folly. Georgie’s twenty-fifth birthday was mere months away, but she meant to delay setting up her own household long enough to see her sister settled and happy.
“Violet is but eighteen, ma’am,” said Georgie now, with careful restraint. “You cannot have consented to her jaunting about Brighton with those dreadful Makepeaces. Please tell me you did not.”
Lady Black stiffened, her hand splayed on the chaise longue as if she’d spring up from her supine position. “Those dreadful Makepeaces, as you call them, happen to be dear friends of mine, miss! Yes, and if it weren’t for my poor nerves which have held me prostrate on this couch for weeks, I should have gone with them myself. I could do with a bit of gaiety.”
Georgie did not doubt her stepmother would have gone if she’d felt equal to the outing. Brighton was England’s most fashionable summer resort. The tone of the seaside town was looser, more egalitarian, and certainly more raffish than the rarefied atmosphere of Mayfair. It was the perfect milieu for a wealthy widow who was none too particular about the company she kept.
One thing was certain: Brighton was not a place for a young lady with no one more sensible to guide her than Mrs. Makepeace and her rackety young brother-in-law. Particularly when that young lady was an heiress.
Georgie couldn’t believe her stepmother would show such little sense. “Please, ma’am, you must fetch Violet back again. Do you have any idea what trouble the silly girl will find for herself here in Brighton?”
Lady Black’s face pinked. “Violet is my daughter, and I’ll thank you to remember it! She’s had no amusement at all since her dear papa died, poor pet.”
“Mourning does tend to hamper one’s social life,” muttered Georgie. She tried again. “Violet is not even out yet.”
“All the more reason for her to attend a couple of parties before she makes her debut.”
Georgie paced the floor, gripping her hands together. “If it were a case of a few private parties in Bath under appropriate chaperonage, I’d agree with you. But Brighton, ma’am! She’ll be ruined before she ever gets to London.”
Why couldn’t her stepmother see this? Or was it simply because Georgie was the one to point it out that she remained steadfastly blind?
“Violet has a shrewd head on her shoulders,” said Lady Black. “She won’t do anything she oughtn’t.”
With careful tact, Georgie said, “Of course not, ma’am. I am more concerned that she will fall prey to someone unscrupulous. She is an heiress, after all.”
Her stepmother’s eyes narrowed. “Well! If I may be so bold, you are scarcely one to cast stones, my dear girl!”
Georgie stiffened.
“Don’t think just because you’ve turned into Miss Prunes and Prisms now that anyone forgets what happened when you were that age. Threw over an earl, for Heaven’s sake. And look at you now. Four-and-twenty and still a spinster.”
“At least I still have my reputation, ma’am,” Georgie said quietly.
“By the skin of your teeth!”
“If it becomes known that Violet went to Lord Steyne’s masquerade tonight, you may be sure she’ll need more than the skin of her teeth to save her,” snapped Georgie.
Her stepmother’s accusations stung a wound that was still raw. But whatever mistakes Georgie had made in her ignorant, impulsive youth, she’d paid the price. The Earl of Beckenham would never be hers.
She couldn’t dwell on that now. She had Violet to think of. Meanwhile, Lady Black fingered her lace handkerchief in a manner that threatened hysterics or palpitations or both.
Trying to head off the anticipated tantrum at the pass, Georgie knelt next to the lady. She hesitated, then made herself press her stepmother’s hand. “Please, ma’am. No good can come of this.”
For a scant instant, she thought Lady Black might relent. Then her entire body shuddered, racked by an enormous sob. She buried her face in the scrap of lace she held.
“I told you, my nerves won’t stand it,” she wailed. “You are heartless indeed, expecting me to drag myself from my sickbed to go on a fool’s errand.”
Georgie rose to her feet. “If you do not intend to go, I will.”
Her stepmother threw up her hands. “Go, then! I’m sure I’m not stopping you.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Georgie, dropping a curtsy. “I’ll do my best to bring her home safely.”
As she turned to leave, her stepmother called after her, “Just make sure it’s only Violet that needs rescuing, my girl. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”
Georgie raised one eyebrow. “And you would be the angel in that aphorism, I
suppose?”
Before her stepmother could fully grasp the irony, Georgie murmured, “Excuse me, ma’am. I must dress.”
* * *
Georgie could only be glad that her mask hid her scarlet face. She had run with a fast set of young people during the season that her betrothal to the Earl of Beckenham had ended so spectacularly. But even in those reckless days she’d never attended a party like this.
She knew all about the Westruthers, thanks to her long association with Beckenham. The host of this evening’s affair, Xavier Westruther, Marquis of Steyne, was a notorious member of that family. By reputation, he was a shocking libertine, steeped in dissipation. What she knew of him personally, she did not like.
Her opinion of the marquis was not improved when she slipped into his house uninvited that night.
She’d been forced to mock up a costume from the limited wardrobe she’d brought to Brighton. Absent a mask, she’d managed to fashion one by cutting eyeholes into a black lace scarf. The beauty of the scarf was that it covered her entire face, completely obscuring her features.
Her thick, flame red hair was more difficult to disguise, but by dressing it in the style of a generation earlier and dredging it with powder, she’d managed to conceal its exuberance.
She wore her new jade green evening gown because no one would have seen her in it before. With a pang, she realized she could never wear it again after tonight.
Drat that girl! But of course, what did clothes matter when it came to saving Violet’s reputation? Violet was clever and good-natured, but her mama’s example had given her a somewhat skewed perspective on proper behavior. Heaven only knew what she’d get up to at the Makepeaces’ instigation.
Once inside Lord Steyne’s villa, Georgie realized how utterly daunting a task she’d undertaken. This was no ordinary ball, where the guests were largely confined to a ballroom and refreshment parlor, perhaps a card room, too.
It seemed as if the entire population of Brighton had overtaken every room in the house and the grounds besides. How would she ever find Violet here?
As she moved upstairs to the second floor in search of her half sister, Georgie suffered several lewd propositions from men who lounged against the wall, accosting passersby. Masculine hands strayed over her person in shocking familiarity.
Georgie was wholly unaccustomed to such treatment. Her frigid stares and icy disdain did not succeed as well as they might in a London ballroom. Stripped of her identity, to these men she was just one more tasty morsel in a banquet of loose-moraled loveliness.
As the rowdy voices grew more boisterous and the attempts to halt her progress more determined, she picked up her skirts and fled down the corridor. Her tormentors, scenting sport, pelted after her with a shout that more properly belonged on the hunting field.
Panic gripped her. What would they do to her when they caught her? Oh, dear Heaven, what madness had brought her here? Where was Violet in all of this? At least Violet had the dubious protection of Mrs. Makepeace and her horrible brother-in-law. Georgie, hoping to get in and out of this party with Violet’s and her own reputation intact, had brought no one.
Throwing a glance over her shoulder at the gaining pursuers, Georgie cannoned into a man who had just entered the corridor from a doorway. Aware of a tall figure with a very hard chest, she pressed her palms against him to push away.
It was her host, the Marquis of Steyne.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she murmured between pants.
Unlike his guests, the marquis had not donned a costume for this affair, eschewing flamboyant finery for plain evening dress in black and blinding white. A sapphire pin nestling in his cravat glittered as he moved, but the gem was no more intense than his blue, blue eyes. His black hair hung a little long over his brow, but that was the only soft thing about him. The slashing eyebrows, the angular bones of his face, and the strong jaw, not to mention the hard glitter of those pitiless eyes, signaled that he was not a man to cross.
The marquis regarded the men who followed her. One infinitesimal lift of his slashing black eyebrows was enough to bring them skidding to a halt. The merest inclination of his dark head sent them backtracking hurriedly with stuttered apologies.
Recollecting herself, Georgie realized she might well have jumped from the frying pan into the fire. Steyne might have saved her from physical harm, but if anyone at this party was likely to discover her identity, it was he.
With a deep curtsy, she murmured thanks to her savior and made as if to return downstairs.
But his hand on her wrist stayed her. Effortlessly, he drew her back to face him, used finger and thumb to capture her chin and tilt her face to the light.
“Good God, what have we here?” the marquis murmured, lips curling in that cynical, unpleasant smile of his. “A diamond amongst the rough.”
Without a by-your-leave, he drew her arm through his in one languid move and began to lead her farther down the corridor. She tried to pull away from him, but his seemingly negligent grip beneath her elbow was too firm.
He turned his head sharply to her, as if scenting a secret on the wind. “I know you, don’t I?”
Georgie tensed beneath the guiding pressure of his hand. “I don’t think so, my lord.”
Of all the bad luck! Xavier, Marquis of Steyne, was not only the one person clever enough to penetrate her disguise but the one person ruthless enough to make use of it in some devilishly unpleasant manner.
Before she could decide how to get away from him without making herself more intriguing, the marquis had drawn her out of the corridor, into an empty bedchamber.
Georgie cast an apprehensive glance at the opulent bed with its canopy festooned in crimson swags of silk brocade. Were it anyone else but Lord Steyne, she’d kick him in the shin and run. She’d worn sturdy shoes for that very purpose.
But his words suggested he might already have guessed who she was. If she ran now and Steyne spoke of her presence here to anyone … That didn’t bear thinking about. She needed to throw him off the scent.
Adopting her stepmother’s mode of speech with a slightly higher pitch than her usual tone, she said, “Oh, la! Fancy your lordship saying as he knows the likes of me.”
“Faces often elude me,” he mused as if she hadn’t spoken, “but when a woman with a figure like yours crosses my path, I don’t forget.”
His gaze bored into her, as if he might penetrate her mask by the sheer force of his will. Such was the power of his personality, she almost believed he’d succeed.
She thought he might try to remove her disguise by more prosaic methods, but he stepped back the better to scrutinize her body, in the way that one might view a life-sized painting at an art gallery. He did it with a kind of focused attention that made her flush hotly. She could not help suspecting he stripped her naked in his mind.
Georgie dearly wished she could box his ears. Instead, she must play the part of a female who liked being surveyed in such an insolent manner. Why else would a woman come to this place if not to be ogled and groped? Ugh!
With his raven-black hair and vivid blue eyes, Steyne was ridiculously handsome, but she’d always found his style of male beauty cold and unappealing.
Unfortunately, he appeared to like what he saw in her, for he smiled. “I can’t place you, it’s true.” He tapped one finger to his lips. “I don’t think I’ve had you before.”
Casually, he moved to the door. Looking back at her, he added, “Which will make this all the more interesting, won’t it? And here I’d thought to be thoroughly bored tonight.”
He turned the key in the lock, drew the key out, and pocketed it.
Alarm rang through Georgie’s body. She did her best to tamp it down but her voice shook. “I’m not here for the, er, entertainment. I’m looking for someone.”
Again the flashing smile that did not reach his eyes. He bowed. “Well, my lovely, you’ve just found him.”
As Steyne reached out to her, she backed away. There was a steely g
lint in his eye that told her he would not give up on this seduction easily. Lord, why didn’t she run away when she’d had the chance? She’d always felt safe around Steyne because she’d known Marcus would protect her.
Now, she could not claim such shelter. She realized Steyne’s pursuit had maneuvered her toward the bed when she nearly stumbled over the dais on which the bed stood.
Scrambling to get her footing, she fetched up against the mattress. Before she could regain her balance, he put out his hands on either side of her, trapping her between him and the bed.
Her heart raced as she stared into his face. Even through her panic, she saw that his expression did not convey passion or even desire, but merely cool intent.
Did he mean to rape her? Good God, surely not. That was a line no gentleman would cross. She’d scream her head off if it came to that, reputation or no. But for now, if she could just turn him away without fuss, that would be the better solution.
Steyne reached into her coiffure to finger her powdered curls. “What color is your hair, my glorious girl?”
If he discovered that, the game would be up.
Desperate, she said the one thing that might halt this rake’s progress. “No, you must not, my lord. I … it was Lord Beckenham I sought in your rooms tonight. I’m—” She swallowed hard. “I’m under his protection, you see.”
She knew Beckenham wouldn’t be here, but she could still say she looked for him, couldn’t she? That she’d thought he might attend a party given by his cousin. Never mind that he loathed Brighton and never set foot in the place.
That stopped the marquis in his tracks. His black eyebrows drew together. “Under Beckenham’s protection, you say?” He cocked his head. “How extraordinary.”
He stared at her hard, then pushed away from the bed, watching her through narrowed eyes as he retreated.
She’d taken a huge risk implying she was Beckenham’s mistress, but if it made Steyne let her go, it would be worth it.
Suddenly, his mouth curled into the first genuine smile he’d given her. “Well, well. The sly dog,” he said, laughing softly.
With a courtly bow, Steyne said, “My compliments and my apologies, Miss, er … It seems I have been importunate.”
The Greatest Lover Ever Page 2
