by Anne Mallory
But there was something more to Andreas’s reaction—something new—someone had gotten under his skin. Someone besides Roman. Or Andreas’s long-disregarded and hated birth family. Roman rubbed his free fingers along his jaw. He had been spending too much time away not to know the answer immediately.
Andreas motioned at the paper. “And this other person spreading rumors?”
“Probably some frigid, jealous bird. There are plenty.”
“Why don’t you seek out one of them then,” Andreas said darkly.
Roman laughed without amusement and threw the dice onto the table. He saw one of the boys eye them from across the room where he was cleaning the hazard tables. But none of them would dare to breach the space near the brothers without explicit permission. “Because there is a fine web forming. And much profit to be made, besides. Bills in Parliament to thwart, bills to pass, lords to form, hands to gild . . .”
Trant to make into a fierce ally. So fierce that he wouldn’t pay the least attention to Roman taking his wife after dark.
“You will be recognized if you go tonight. And you won’t be able to keep your hands from her,” Andreas snarled.
Roman simply smiled. “Someday. Someday, my friend. My brother.”
“Never.”
Roman arched a brow at Andreas’s absolute certainty. Someday his brother would fall hard for a girl and wouldn’t have the first notion as to how to deal with his emotions.
He eyed the table. The paper. Slotting something into place as he eyed one of the headlines. Roman removed his feet from the table and picked up the discarded pages. “Mmmm . . . yes, the papers are full of interesting tidbits today, aren’t they? That show at the Claremont is sold out. But I know someone with tickets, if you wanted to see it . . . again,” he said nonchalantly.
Andreas stiffened abruptly while rising, then turned on his heel and strode furiously from the room.
Roman laughed softly. He’d have a good time with that later—seeing if he could get his stuffy brother to admit anything—but his laughter disappeared as he read the underlying print of his own situation. A tendril of suspicion about Charlotte Chatsworth’s purity.
Spiteful speculation fed to the ravenous horde. They couldn’t suspect the truth of the matter. There was no one who knew—about the “fake” night or the real nights since—who would tell. His eyes narrowed. Unless Chatsworth let it slip while in a drunken stupor. But, no, the bet was a secret the man would guard with his life.
Roman dealt with life and death far too often to let things upset him for too long or too deeply. Else he’d turn into Andreas and feel the need to brood endlessly.
Still, there was something about the current situation that he couldn’t laugh off. Any show of humor was simply a mask for the darker feelings he drowned, that he didn’t want to contemplate. Couldn’t.
Some thoughts unavoidably cropped up, though. Actions he undertook with Charlotte would be filled with peril forever. There were certain levels of ruination that neither Trant, or Downing—or the minister or the king or any of the men Roman could influence—would be able to clean up. There was something overwhelmingly enticing about thinking of Charlotte Chatsworth unmarried and completely available, free of society’s strictures.
But Charlotte needed society. Even though she might be stressed and anxious in its confines now, society was where she wanted to succeed, dominate, and be happy.
Besides, once she found her place, he could pull her into his lair at will while the rest of society was asleep. And keep her there until she was marked beneath all those layers, and any rings, as his.
Such thoughts were likely what made poor fools marry in the first place. He smiled darkly. Good thing he wasn’t the marrying kind.
He looked at the paper again, not wanting to examine the darkness shifting below his thoughts.
Someone was trying to play with his web, and he was going to find out who.
Charlotte swallowed and looked around the masquerade for what felt like the hundredth time. If he was going to find her tonight as promised, this event would prove irresistible.
It was the gala event of the night, of the week. Some even said of the season. Invitations were always arranged around the Hannings’ masked ball. It was an event where things happened. Some of the resulting scandals were reported immediately, and some never realized for years.
It was an event where some guests avidly watched and others enthusiastically performed.
She knew Roman meant to find her here. Commoners could secure invitations, especially powerful commoners. The Hannings liked to spice up the guest list in inconceivable ways. Some of their own servants had been known to attend in costume. The uncertainty made the whole atmosphere exciting. And for the ton, that made it intoxicating.
She felt the scorch of Bethany’s glare. The woman had been attached to her for the past few weeks. As if she could smell the heady scent of Charlotte’s doom and needed to discover the place from where it emanated.
And there was a strange feeling surrounding Charlotte. Since the veiled innuendos about her had begun to appear in print, she was on display in a much more dramatic, open way. More men sought her attention—in a far different manner than they had before. One of the more rakish men, John Clark, had been eyeing her from the sidelines, stalking her for the past hour. When Roman watched her, thrills coursed through her, whereas Clark’s seductive glances made her feel . . . strangely amused and uncomfortable. The more flattery and attention Clark gave, the more he looked like a boy trying on his father’s clothes.
Still, the fact that he was paying her attention made her nervous. Clark had more social power than the average charmer and could get away with faster behavior. Could catch her somewhere she didn’t wish to be caught.
She was sure that Bethany was behind the latest rumors about her fading looks and innocence. Rumors that carried a kernel of truth. Rumors that Bethany hadn’t been able to spread before because they lacked believability—the atmosphere all wrong for them. In the past, Bethany would have appeared as a jealous little pest.
But now . . . now it seemed as if Bethany was at the forefront of the gossip. Little things added up quickly in the gossip mill. Disappearances. Early departures. Late arrivals. Flushed cheeks. Lingering too long in the retiring room. Whereas in the past, Charlotte had been coldly poised, strictly observing the matron’s “rules,” now she was skirting them, cutting a corner here, an edge there.
Just enough to allow the tenterhooks of gossip to grab hold.
And she knew she was acting recklessly. But it didn’t seem to matter. Even as she thought about it logically, she didn’t care. All rationality had left her. All she wanted was to be with him. To have him inside her. To make him laugh. To experience the joy. Filling the cavity. Making her feel alive.
She felt her flesh heat just thinking about it. God, is this what being in love felt like? It must. Yet she couldn’t be in love. She simply needed him. As if he had cast a spell on her, chaining her to his dark table for eating a handful of mouthwatering pomegranate seeds. Staring at the remaining seeds and surreptitiously sliding them across the table and into her mouth as well.
Surreptitiously? No, she wouldn’t lie to herself. She had boldly and enthusiastically raked them across, then lay beneath, mouth open, to let them fall, juicy and ripe, onto her tongue.
Smeared them across her throat and breasts. There was so much juice from such small seeds.
“A dance, my dear?”
She jerked to see Mr. Trant standing before her. She tried to pull herself together as he bowed over her hand. “Mr. Trant.” But her voice was entirely too smoky.
She saw heightened awareness in his eyes. He examined her and smiled, but there was tightness to his expression. As if he were both pleased and displeased by the same observed attribute.
“Miss Chatsworth.” He inclined his head, and she lifted her chin, pulling the cool mantle to her, letting him lead her to the floor.
Trant was
a perfect partner. He danced well and maintained complete control. She remembered her first season, when he had claimed her for a dance. She had thought him charming and smooth, amusing and fun. And since he hadn’t been a contender for her hand, their exchanges had been easy and relaxed.
Circumstances on both sides had changed, though, and he had become increasingly political.
“Are you enjoying the night?” he asked, his body perfectly precise as he led them through the steps.
“The Hannings’ masquerade is always entertaining.”
“Yes. Though one must maintain awareness at such gatherings.”
She wondered what Trant thought of the whispered rumors surrounding her, for he still seemed set on his suit.
“One must always keep caution in mind.”
Especially when capable hands wanted to smear the crimson juices farther below. Marking her inside as well as out.
Stop thinking of him.
“I invite you to spend the evening near me. I will make sure you are in full view of the assembly.”
“That is a very generous offer, Mr. Trant.” Her sleeve brushed the sleeve of another woman, Trant turning her just when they might collide. But, of course, he wouldn’t make such a mistake. “I will give it serious consideration.”
She noticed John Clark watching from the edge of the floor, and again something uneasy slid through her. The rakes had sniffed an opening. They wanted to see if the whispers were true.
She should stay near Trant. Or near Mother.
She caught a flash of blond hair curling above a mask, making her breath catch. But the color was too strawlike. Not rich, spun gold.
Her pulse beat uncomfortably fast. Her stomach clenching the muscles below.
Don’t show.
She had been looking forward to seeing Roman, but suddenly, everything in her clenched in dread.
“I spoke with your father earlier,” Trant said.
His eyes examined her, as if he knew something, or suspected, but couldn’t yet be sure.
Don’t show.
“I hope you found him well.” She tilted her head as they twirled.
“He was more amenable in nature than I usually find him.”
She swallowed, keeping the cool smile about her lips. Reading into his statement easily.
Don’t show.
Roman could simply crawl through her window later . . . yes, please. For here, where two worlds were able to collide, just like at Vauxhall, he was at his most dangerous to her real life.
And with John Clark prowling the edges like a wolf sensing an unguarded chicken in the coop, she needed to secure the gate.
She stuck close to Trant, dealing with his marital insinuations and probing questions, not separating from him until an hour later—the need for breathing room finally overtaking firm caution.
Emotion always led her to trouble. Diabolical feelings had crept beneath her cold mask weeks ago, whispering, and now she seemed unable to rid herself of them.
Whispering of want. Trying to overcome the very real barriers she needed to maintain.
Her mother. She needed her mother—a natural repellant to anything remotely liberated. She walked a clear path to her destination, purpose in her movements, an attempt to dissuade any predators lurking at the edges.
“Merrick hardly cares,” a voice hissed, only audible because of a sudden musical pause.
Her feet slowed.
“How much do you owe?”
Three men stood, heads bowed together, a large double pillar behind them with a plant between.
Keep moving! Do not stop!
Her fingers disobeyed, and her fan slipped to the floor. She bent to retrieve it, ducking into the area on the other side of the pillars. Pressing against one, listening.
Foolish girl.
“Forty.”
One of the men whistled.
“A thousand at the races, a thousand at faro, a thousand to my tailor. All spread here and there. You have the same liabilities.” The man’s voice was harsh, pride stung.
“I don’t owe one man forty thousand pounds.”
“He consolidated my damn debts. Every single one.”
“Well, old boy, I have to say, you left yourself open for it.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Shouldn’t have dabbled there. I told you so that night.”
Smack.
She jerked as the wooden pillar she was standing behind—a pure decoration along with the dozen others in the room—shook at the smack of the man’s hand.
“She had it coming.”
“And now you do.”
“I need you to help me, not treat me like a child.”
“I don’t have twenty, no less forty, mate. Besides, bad business to get involved.”
“Do you know what they do to people who don’t pay?”
“Ask your brother to help.”
“He’d rather serve me up to them himself.”
“Beg then. Only way around it. He can put the matter before Parliament. Heard whispers from others. Wanting to do something about them. Wanting to see them ruined. Or . . . have something else happen to them.”
“Shut your trap,” the third voice hissed. “Do you have a death wish? You don’t know who might be listening.”
There was some grumbling, and some nervous stuttering, and the men moved away.
She swallowed. How she had avoided hearing all about the Merricks before, she didn’t know, as the least mention was a shout to her ears now.
She wondered what the men had meant about Parliament and ruin. About something else happening to the Merricks.
The air at her side stirred, drifting across her bare shoulder. She stiffened.
“Hear anything interesting lately?” A staccato-edged melody.
Thoughts of newly interested rakes or political gossip or something decidedly more deadly retreated under the onslaught of twining emotions. No one in the ton possessed such a voice. That street accent lurking in the syllables beneath.
With her back still pressed to the pillar, she turned her head to see Death—or surely the visage of such—leaning against the pillar next to hers, only a few feet away, separated only by the fans of a fern. His head tilted back, just enough so she could see perfect lips smirking beneath a full-hooded cloak.
“No.”
His mouth curved, though his eyes were lost to shadow. She had a feeling he had been standing there for far longer than she wanted to admit. She had become much more observant since he had entered her life, and she always seemed aware of him, but perhaps only when he wanted her to be.
“You look beautiful clothed in white, golden hair knotted and curling over your shoulder. Some kind of Greek goddess?”
“Some kind.” She looked him over, tension and dread slipping beneath the pleasure that always rose up to override everything else when he was near. Happiness that he had shown and was next to her. “So, Death? Aren’t you missing a few accessories?”
“They took my weapon at the door. Said they didn’t want any ‘accidents.’ ” He easily closed the gap between them. Touching the small knife at her waist. “How did you manage to keep yours? Dainty, yet strong enough that you could unman someone if you stuck it just so.” He made a motion to an unmistakable spot on a man. “No one thinks you a threat?”
“Their mistake.” She tossed her head and smiled. Easy banter that she had been unable to let loose with anyone other than her sister and Miranda, until this man had stormed into her life.
“And you? Come collecting?” she asked lightly, as he leaned down and into her. Their banter nearly as intoxicating to her as their physical actions. She loved flirting with this man.
“On a mission for souls.” His lips brushed her ear, his hood brushed her hair. “Don’t worry, Charlotte, I will take gentle care of yours.”
They were out of view of the traffic lanes. And for a long moment she wished everyone else beyond the pillars would disappear, cease to exist.
<
br /> “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, her voice so low as to be a whisper. Conflicting desires battled each other—fear that he had arrived, pure bliss that he stood in front of her.
“I have an invitation.” He languidly tapped his chest and stepped back, leaning against the pillar next to her, a proper distance in the event that anyone came upon them. “Do I need to check you for yours?” His mouth jerked wickedly beneath the hood. “Search you for it?”
She rubbed her bared arms, wary thoughts overriding the others for a moment. “Actually, the night has an ill feel to it.” Danger and unease. She watched him for a reaction but couldn’t see anything but his lips beneath the dark hood. “Perhaps, perhaps we can meet later. I . . . I’ll come to you?”
“Will you?” There was something strange about the way he said it. Something she couldn’t discern.
Her mouth opened without her consent. “I can’t see your eyes.” She reached up to push his hood back, and her thumbs brushed his cheeks. He stilled, and she froze as well. Sometimes she said and did the most absurd things when near him.
Especially because if anyone stepped around the closed-off space, they’d be able to see him. But she needed to see him, had to know what he was thinking.
She pushed the hood fully back.
A dark mask circled his temples. Black ovals rimming clear, light blue. Golden hair curling about his crown, falling to brush the mask. Straight nose and full lips beneath. Not a haughty, patrician face. Not the hawkish or mousy features of many of the men in her sphere. But straight, hard lines dipping into sensual curves, over and over again around his face and body.
“Better?” His voice sounded amused, but there was something shuttered in his eyes, as if he didn’t quite know how to respond—wasn’t sure what she wanted from him.
She pulled his hood up so that it covered his hair although she could still see his expression, his eyes.
A waltz started up, heavy and pulling.
He smiled flirtatiously, as if trying to dispel the haze. “Is this where I ask you to dance then?”
She blinked. “You can’t dance with me.”
“I assure you, I know the steps.” He looked amused, but again it was as if he was using the emotion to push at a barrier.
