Angel Rogue: Book 4 in the Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  "Nonsense. You have manners, education, and looks. With that and a dash of arrogance, you'll be acceptable at the royal court itself. The trick is never to apologize for what you are."

  Maxie smiled. "It sounds like something you learned the hard way. But surely you had no trouble taking your place in society."

  "You'd be surprised," the duchess said darkly. "When I married Rafe, my situation was not unlike yours. You and I are both the daughters of younger sons from noble families—respectable birth, but not absolutely top drawer. You have what you call your mongrel ancestry, while I have a distinctly shady past. There was plenty of fodder for gossips, and I was not at all what the Whitbournes wanted for the head of the family."

  Maxie frowned. "Everyone knows about you and Robin?"

  "That is one of the bits that few people know, and all of them are discreet. But it was impossible to conceal my spying career—too many people met me when I was playing the role of a scandalous Hungarian countess."

  Fascinated, Maxie said, "Yet society accepted you."

  The duchess smiled wickedly. "Luckily Rafe numbers Medusa among his ancestors. When someone displeases him, he can turn them to stone with a glance. From the beginning, he made it clear that anyone who was rude to me was doomed."

  Maxie laughed. "Did he petrify the Whitbourne relation who gave you the statuette of the Laocoon?"

  "Not quite, but their paths crossed at a ball soon after, and the female in question has been amazingly polite ever since."

  "You make a life here seem possible," Maxie said soberly.

  "If you want it, it is within your grasp." The duchess regarded her shrewdly. "Are you ready to try your social wings? I'm having a small dinner party tonight. It won't be one of Rafe's political entertainments, merely a few couples who are close friends and genuinely nice people. You don't have to attend, but if you're willing to try, I can also invite your aunt and Robin's brother so there will be a few familiar faces."

  So soon? Quelling her first reaction of panic, Maxie said, "Tonight is as good a time as any."

  "Well done! Truly, I think you'll enjoy yourself."

  Perhaps she would, but even that would not be enough to dispel the black fog that still clouded her future. The mere thought was enough to dim Maxie's enjoyment of the afternoon.

  Refusing to give in to anxiety, she gestured toward the fur ball on the adjacent chair. "Is that a cat or a muff?"

  "A cat, Rex by name."

  Maxie scrutinized the featureless black fur. "Is he ill? He hasn't moved since I got here an hour and a half ago."

  "Don't worry, he isn't dead, just tired." Margot chuckled. "Very, very tired."

  Knowing he was the center of attention, Rex stretched luxuriously, revealing a portly feline body. Then he rolled onto his back, four tufted feet aloft as he returned to his nap.

  Any lingering tension in the room dissolved as the two women laughed together. Maxie decided that no matter what the future held, she was very glad to have made Margot's acquaintance.

  * * *

  Maxima's departure left Desdemona in a happy state of mental and verbal satisfaction. It had been duty that originally sent her after an unknown niece. Now it was a pleasure to discover the real Maxie, who was far more interesting than the insipid imaginary maiden whom Desdemona had thought needed rescuing.

  As they had talked, Desdemona had come to recognize that her brother had found contentment in the eccentric life he had chosen. The knowledge pleased her. Perhaps it was being in London that had made him seem distracted when he had visited.

  Desdemona had also discovered a resemblance, both mental and physical, between Max and his daughter. It was in her niece's face when she laughed, and in her eclectic education and lively mind. There were those who would think that Maximus Collins had wasted his life, but the daughter he had raised was not a bad memorial to his mortal span.

  Lord Robert had also been a pleasant surprise. He was obviously more than willing to do the gentlemanly thing by Maxima, and the girl herself was not indifferent to him.

  It would be an excellent match. Desdemona lay back on the sofa and beamed at the ceiling, chastising herself for having such an unprogressive thought. She was a modern, independent woman and had been fully prepared to support her niece if the girl didn't want to marry the man who had compromised her.

  But obviously such support would be unnecessary, and not only because Maxima was quite capable of managing her own affairs. In the last few days, Desdemona had begun to think that marriage was not necessarily a bad thing, at least not when it was founded on mutual respect and affection.

  Her smile broadened as she had another unworthy thought. Lord Robert was wealthy, intelligent, handsome, his character was—unconventional but honorable—and he was from the very highest rank of society. Althea would be absolutely apoplectic if her despised half-breed niece married such a supremely eligible man. It was a delightful prospect.

  Desdemona allowed herself a few more minutes of beatific contemplation before going to her study and applying herself to the correspondence that had accumulated in her absence. As she worked her way through the pile, she noted how much of it was related to her work. When had she stopped having time for her friends? She must enlarge the boundaries of her life.

  Toward the end of the afternoon, the parlor maid came with a note. "This has just been delivered, my lady. The footman is waiting. Will you be sending a response?"

  Desdemona scanned the note. It was from the Duchess of Candover, inviting her to a small dinner party that evening. Since Miss Collins might feel shy among so many strangers, the duchess hoped that Lady Ross would honor them with her presence. Almost as an afterthought, she mentioned that Lord Wolverton had also been invited.

  It was charmingly written. Though Desdemona knew the duke from her political work, she had not yet met his new wife. It was good of the duchess to be so considerate of her houseguest's situation. Desdemona scribbled out an acceptance and handed it to her maid to take to the waiting footman.

  Then panic set in. Merciful heaven, what would she wear? She rang for her personal maid.

  Recovered from the cold she had contracted in the Midlands, Sally Griffin responded with bright-eyed interest. After bobbing a curtsy, she said, "Is there a problem, my lady?"

  "Tonight I will be dining at Candover House, Sally. My niece is staying there, and the duchess was kind enough to invite me, so I could satisfy myself that Miss Collins is in good hands." Desdemona hesitated, then continued self-consciously, "We have only a few hours. Do you think any of my gowns could be altered to be more... more... fashionable?"

  Sally's eyes lit up. "Do you mean you're finally willing to flaunt what the good Lord gave you? I've always thought there's not a lady in London with a figure to match yours."

  As Desdemona blushed, the abigail continued, "With a bit of alteration, the Devonshire brown silk would be smashing. But there's no time to waste."

  Before her mistress could have second thoughts, the abigail seized her hand and tugged her to the stairs. "When I was turned off without a reference, I would have starved or had to go on the streets if you hadn't been willing to take me on. I've wanted a chance to do something special for you ever since. Tonight you'll be as fine as five pence, or my name isn't Sally Griffin."

  Half-protesting, Desdemona let herself be swept along. Giving Sally free rein might prove to be a disaster, but it was a good guess that the result would not be boring.

  And the one thing she did not want was for Giles to be bored.

  Chapter 30

  Lavalle, the French maid, had dressed and coiffed Maxie, then left to see to the duchess' toilette. The unfortunate result of having only one lady's maid for two ladies was that the lady who was done first was left with the time to work up a good set of nerves.

  Maxie knew it was foolish to worry so much about a dinner party. Whether or not she got through it without disgracing herself and Robin was a minor issue in the great scheme of things. Her fa
ther's death and the unresolved relationship between her and Robin were far more important. Nonetheless, she paced, occasionally muttering to herself the duchess' advice: Never apologize for what you are.

  It was a relief to hear a knock at the door. Thinking it was Lavalle returning to correct some oversight, she called, "Come in."

  In walked Robin, as nonchalant as if they were in a Midlands barn instead of a duke's mansion. Dressed in formal evening wear, he looked good enough to eat.

  He raised his brows in mock surprise. "Sorry, miss. I was looking for someone who had been dragged through a bush backward, but I appear to have come to the wrong room."

  Laughing, she crossed the room and hugged him. "It feels like days since I've seen you rather than hours."

  With true gentlemanly skill, he managed to return her hug without crushing her gown or her hair. "Excellent. My goal is for you to reach the point where you can't bear to let me out of your sight for more than ten minutes."

  The devil of it was, she already felt that way, though she didn't want to admit it. She stepped back and pivoted, the crimson silk swirling above her ankles. "I've never worn anything so fashionable in my life. Do I really look all right?"

  "You look ravishing." His slow gaze went over her, taking in every detail of her appearance from her upswept ebony hair to the graceful high-waisted gown that showed her figure to perfection. "Exotic. Ripe and lusciously sensual. Dangerously kissable." He took a deep breath. "I'd better stop before I rip that very fetching gown off. But I would be remiss not to mention that you also look intelligent, elegant, and confident."

  "That's a wonderful list." She made a face. "But if I seem confident, some of your duplicity must have rubbed off on me."

  "It would be my pleasure to rub anything I own on you," he said earnestly.

  She had to laugh again. Obviously Robin had come to jolly her out of any nervousness, and he was succeeding beautifully. As she picked up her long gloves, she asked, "Are there any beastly English social rituals I should know because failure would doom me to be an outcast forever?"

  He shook his head. "The good manners you learned from your father and at those Boston dinner parties will be fine."

  "Speaking of manners, since I'm nominally an innocent maiden, you really shouldn't be in my bedroom."

  "True." He gave her a wickedly intimate smile. "But we both know how nominal the innocent maiden label is."

  Trying without success to look severe, she took his arm and guided him toward the door. "Nonetheless, we should await the other guests in some sober place like the library."

  "Before we do, I have something for you." With a sleight-of-hand flourish, he produced a slim, velvet-covered jewelry box. "You said that I'm a magpie, and we're a breed known for collecting glittering objects to present to the objects of our adoration. Here's the proof."

  Dismayed, she said, "It's quite definite that nominally innocent females do not accept valuable gifts from gentlemen."

  "How fortunate that I am not a gentleman." His expression turned serious. "I don't know what the future will bring, Kanawiosta. I hope to God that we will find out together. But even if you choose to take a separate path, I'd like you to have something that came from me."

  She gave him a level look. "You also want to make sure that I will have something valuable as insurance against possible financial problems."

  One corner of his mouth turned up wryly. "I could have used you in my spying days. You have the most unsettling ability to read minds."

  "Not all minds." She opened the box, then caught her breath. Nestled in the white silk lining were a necklace and matching earrings. Magnificent rubies and tiny, starry diamonds were set in delicate gold filigreed medallions. "Oh, Robin, how exquisite. You don't do things by half, do you?"

  "Actually, I did in this case," he replied. "If I'd thought you would accept them, I would have bought a whole parure, everything from combs to diadem and belt."

  Her eyes widened. "You're not joking, are you?"

  "Not this time."

  Her gaze fell away from the intensity in his eyes. There was no question that he wanted her. She wished that she could be sure it was for the right reasons.

  "These will be perfect with this gown." She stepped over to the mirror and removed her plain gold studs. Then she slipped on the dangling ruby earrings.

  As she turned her head, light splintered brilliantly through the swinging gems. Robin fastened the necklace for her, then stood at her back, his magician's hands gliding over her upper arms before coming to rest on her waist. She marveled at how easily he could arouse her, with only the lightest of touches.

  After taking a slow breath, she studied herself in the mirror. She had never looked better in her life. The rubies were splendid with her dark coloring. She did not look like a hoydenish colonial book peddler; she looked like a lady. And if she felt like a fraud inside, it didn't show in her face.

  Her gaze went from her own image to Robin's. He was the quintessential English aristocrat, a creature of refined features, cool detachment, and exquisite tailoring. Yet his hands held her as if she were the most precious being on earth, and there was honesty in his eyes.

  Quietly he said, "You've spoken as if you think that the only possible future for us is in England, but that's not true. If you prefer, we could live in America."

  She looked up in surprise. "You would do that for me?"

  He kissed her below the ear, his lips warm and firm. "In an instant. The one great blessing of wealth is the freedom it brings. Together we can create the life we want. Even if you'd be willing to stay in England, I would want to visit America, meet your mother's people, see the land that shaped you."

  When she shivered a little, it was as much because his offer moved her as in reaction to his kiss. "But you would prefer to live here, wouldn't you?"

  He hesitated, then nodded. "It's strange. I've spent almost my entire adult life in foreign lands. I can speak a dozen languages with varying degrees of skill, and find a good meal or a cheap bed in any city on the Continent. Yet when I returned to England last winter, I felt more at home than when I actually lived here."

  She put a hand over his where it rested on her waist. "You left a boy and returned a man. Surely that made a difference."

  "You're right—I no longer have a youthful need to rebel against everything familiar." He kissed her again, this time on the exquisitely sensitive angle between throat and collarbone.

  Her breath quickened. She was acutely aware of his nearness and compelling masculinity. The mirror revealed that awareness in the brightness of her eyes and the sultry fullness of her lips.

  Robin saw it, too. His hands tightened. "A good thing most of the men coming tonight are happily married, or I'd worry about someone carrying you off. You are irresistible, Kanawiosta."

  At that instant, she made a promise to herself: No matter what happened in the future, she must make love with him at least one more time. If she didn't have that to look forward to, she would be unable to leave this room without ravishing him on the spot. Voice uneven, she said, "We'd better go down now."

  He exhaled. "Or we won't make it out of this room for the next two hours." He stepped back, then offered his arm formally. "Ready for the den of lions, my lady?"

  He might be willing to leave his country for her sake, but he would lose more by going than she would by staying. She must do her best to see if she could find a place for herself among these alarming aristocrats.

  Tucking her hand under his arm, she said, "The lions can't have sharper claws than the good ladies of Boston, Lord Robert."

  With Robin beside her, she could face anything.

  * * *

  Wolverton had sent a note suggesting that he escort Desdemona to the dinner party. She had agreed with alacrity, but now that it was too late for her to back out, Desdemona was staring at her reflection with blind panic. "Sally, I can't possibly go out looking like this! When you said you would alter the gown, I didn't know you in
tended to cut it to the navel."

  "Now, now, my lady, you're exaggerating," the abigail said soothingly. "The décolletage is stylish and not at all extreme."

  "The gown might not be extreme, but my figure certainly is!" She swung an accusing gaze on her maid. "You kept me away from the mirror until it was too late to change either the gown or the hair, didn't you?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Sally said, unrepentant. "Please trust me on this—you look fine and fashionable, and that handsome marquess will be groveling at your feet."

  Desdemona's face blazed with heat. "Have I no secrets?"

  "Of course you do," Sally said, soothing again. "But only a fool wouldn't see what's right in front of her nose."

  In other words, she had been gazing at Giles like a mooncalf, Desdemona thought gloomily. She might as well have hung a sign around her neck. Her very, very bare neck.

  Obviously reading her mind, Sally said, "You should wear your pearls instead of the cameo. They'll make you feel a mite less exposed."

  The triple strand of pearls did fill the vast expanse of bare skin better, though Desdemona still felt as if she were in one of those beastly nightmares where one is caught in public in one's shift. Again she studied herself with horrified fascination. A shift would not have been half so revealing. "I look like a harlot."

  "But the very most expensive kind, my lady," Sally said with a naughty smile.

  Desdemona began to laugh. "I'm being absurd, aren't I?" She turned to the mirror and tried to see herself objectively. Devonshire brown was a dark shade with reddish tones that did not suit many women, but Desdemona had to admit that it was perfect with her vivid titian hair and fair complexion.

  Sally had also scorned her mistress' usual severe hairstyle in favor of a tumble of waves and curls threaded with a thin gold chain. She had even talked her mistress into accepting a subtle application of cosmetics. Desdemona acknowledged to herself that if the image in the mirror belonged to a stranger, she would have thought the woman a dashing and not unattractive female. In an Amazonian sort of way.