by Eva Devon
To a young Patience, this all would have been terribly shocking.
After years researching her novels, now little surprised her.
Except Lord Charles, it seemed.
He had not fit the box she had already made for him. Rakes were not supposed to be any more than that. They were simply, well. . . Rakes.
She drank in every detail as she stood along the wall beside Mrs. Barton.
She wouldn’t be able to come back to this place for some time, not until Lady Patience had dimmed in Lord Charles’ memory.
Even masks could be precarious protection in such a setting.
She had no desire to be recognized, unmarried lady that she was. Even married, she shouldn’t wish it! Society could be painfully fickle and, as the years progressed, seemed to becoming even more so.
“Whatever is the subject of your new novel?” Mrs. Barton asked.
“A young lady’s ruin.”
Patience eyed the crowded room.
Just at that moment, a roar went up at the end of the room and a table crashed over. Ivory chips flew into the air as did the screams of several ladies.
A gentleman yelled, “Fight!”
And the next thing Patience knew, two big men had flung themselves into a mêlée.
Mrs. Barton snapped her fan shut and waggled her brows. “What marvelous luck!”
A feeling of dread pooled in Patience’s belly. “Luck?”
“My dear, you’re seeing Lord Charles in full glory!”
“I beg your pardon?” she demanded.
Mrs. Barton pointed her fan. “There he is!”
Patience swallowed then koshed the urge to flee to her carriage. Momentary panic that he might look up and recognize her vanished under an intense wave of curiosity.
As the two men grappled, Mrs. Barton cheered. Then she leaned in. “Your story?”
“Yes?” she asked, barely comprehending the question as she stared at the two Herculean men wrestling.
“Will it have a happy ending?”
Patience couldn’t tear her eyes away from Lord Charles as the other man pounded him.
Suddenly, Lord Charles ducked and slammed a fist into the other man’s jaw. Said other man’s eyes bulged and then he fell like a colossus of old. The floor shuddered as he made contact.
Lord Charles stood over him, face cold, broad chest lifting up and down slightly the only indication the fight had been of any physical effort. He sneered slightly then stepped over the other man.
“Lady Patience?” Mrs. Barton prompted. “A happy ending, yes?”
As Patience stared at the dangerous, yet captivating, Lord Charles who she was finding herself drawn to despite all reason, she replied, “I’ve absolutely no idea. . . But I’m beginning to have my doubts.”
Chapter 7
Not for the first time since hearing Lord Charles was present, Patience considered turning on her slippered heel and running. Just moments ago she’d been thinking of the dangers of discovery and Lord Charles could discover her.
It was unlikely, however.
Her mask was of a special variety. It covered her entire face except her eyes and lips and her hair was dressed elaborately. Her heels were so much higher than her day shoes and her gown was so fantastical that she was as far away from the image of Lady Patience as a woman could get.
Unless Lord Charles strode up to her and ripped her mask off, there was absolutely no chance he would recognize her.
In fact, she was fairly certain they could even speak and he wouldn’t know. She’d perfected a voice and accent that were entirely foreign to her own.
Still, there was something thrilling about taking the chance.
Perhaps it stemmed from the thrill of seeing him so raw in his element.
She’d understood from Mrs. Barton that he was no over-starched cravat. He was a devil in every shape of the word and now, she’d seen first-hand that he wasn’t to be taken lightly.
To her own amazement, with every moment, it was becoming clearer that she was irreversibly drawn to Lord Charles. He was her opposite in every way and for that reason if no other, she was being pulled to him like the wave to the shore.
Surely it was simply to sketch his character? For he would be the perfect inspiration for the villain of her story.
Rakes were villains. No matter their interesting points. Of that she was certain.
One could like a rake, but one should never trust one. Her book was going to illustrate that.
And so, instead of running as reason might suggest she do, her inner author compelled her to stay.
That was all it was. There was nothing personal which held her captivated. Truly.
The heat of her cheeks and the rapid pulse of her heart were indicative of the crowded room.
It mattered not that all about were in a titter. Lord Charles and his opponent had turned the already wild atmosphere into sheer carnival.
The bloodlust had spurred other lusts. Men and women were slipping off, hand in hand, into the corridors.
Mrs. Barton waved her fan before her face, sending her dark curls fluttering. “We should be off.”
“Should we?”
“My dear, the evening will only descend to darker delights. And for your first evening—”
“I’d like to stay a little.”
Mrs. Barton shrugged her bared shoulders. “If that is your wish.”
She nodded then started edging around the room, weaving through the varied persons.
A few men eyed her but she stared straight ahead and walked with purpose.
She’d learned some time ago that if she was to swim with sharks she couldn’t act like a minnow. A shrinking violet she’d never been. Still, it took some skill to walk so boldly, dressed so scandalously, amongst such people.
She looked about.
Lord Charles had slipped off into a corridor.
Alone, thank goodness.
While she did make a study of people, she was not a voyeur. The idea of watching him in a tryst sent such a streak of horror through her she was stunned.
In all actuality, the very thought of him intertwined with any woman seemed entirely repellent.
Surely, she didn’t wish to be intertwined with him?
Did she?
He was tempting. There was no doubt.
She slowed her step and headed into the barely lit corridor. The jeweled chandeliers bore one candle each and the mirrored hall gave the space the feel of a jewel box.
He was walking slowly towards the double doors which led out, no doubt, to a garden.
She followed apace. She had to study him. To see how he behaved when alone.
While she didn’t doubt she’d go unrecognized if they were to meet, she wasn’t sure she should press it.
So, she waited several moments to follow him after he strode out into the moonlit garden.
When she herself, slipped outside staying to the shadows, she immediately drank in the scent of lilac and hyacinth.
The summer air was perfumed by it.
A soft murmuring of water from a concealed fountain added to the lush atmosphere and as she descended the steps to the lawn and the hedged garden ahead, she spotted a bench tucked underneath a copse of willow trees.
To her surprise, a lantern hung from an iron pole just beside it.
She looked about the garden. There were several such illuminations which surprised her. Shouldn’t these sorts of people wish for darkness to carry out their scandalous deeds?
Then again, even scandalous people probably had no wish to break their necks on an uneven bit of ground while pursuing pleasure.
She considered how she might best observe him without being noticed herself.
Such a thing seemed difficult.
Hadn’t she left him at Barring House this morning with the sole purpose of evading detection?
Yes and she’d assumed he’d stay there.
Fate must have shoved him out of her door and onto her proverbial path. Af
ter all, what the devil could have caused him to return to London so quickly?
Once, she’d been rather cynical. Her life had been dark and pragmatic but once she’d found her writing and she’d met her publisher quite by chance, she’d become a believer in fate.
The Greeks, much esteemed and highly practical fellows, believed in fate. Well, clearly, Lord Charles was hers.
Oh, not the star-crossed lover kind of hers. But clearly the man was meant to be in her life for some unseen purpose.
That didn’t mean she planned to charge across the lawn and present herself. Oh no. She truly fancied the idea of observing him without his knowledge.
In their encounters, he’d been so aware of her and, well, she had a strong feeling that he acted a certain way with different sorts of women.
Watching him on his own was something she couldn’t pass up.
She snuck behind a group of shrubberies and began making her way from groomed, towering bush to bush in the darkness towards him.
At last, she approached the pyramid-shaped topiary behind the willow.
He was. . . Reading.
Lord Charles was leaning back against the stone bench, his coattails splayed and in his palm rested a leather volume.
She couldn’t see his face, just his luxurious dark hair caressing his emerald green collar.
He shifted, his massive body shockingly relaxed given he’d just been in a brawl.
After several moments, she began to feel a fool. What the devil was she doing out here? Her own curiosity was causing her to act like a madwoman. What had seemed so reasonable moments before was absurd now that she was so close in the shadows.
She turned, ready to go back in the house but as soon as she took a step she nearly tripped.
Her gown’s copious folds of diaphanous fabric had caught on a branch.
An inner groan shuddered through her.
Blazes.
She tugged.
To no avail.
Patience glanced back towards the establishment that looked very much like a private residence. Surely, Mrs. Barton was looking for her.
She bent, but could scarcely see in the moonlight. Lord Charles’ lantern didn’t penetrate the foliage and she couldn’t see where or how, exactly, she was caught.
She tugged again.
Once again, to no avail.
Patience bit back a curse. Well, devil take it. What was she to do?
Charles suddenly snapped the book shut, raised his arm along the back of the bench and stretched out a leg.
Oh no. Was he going to take a nap? It seemed an odd place. But if he did, she’d have to wait until he woke and went inside to shout for help.
Or dare she call to him?
How had she arrived at this predicament? Oh, yes. Her unflappable curiosity.
Being in disguise, she couldn’t be quite so bold with someone she knew as her characters on the page might have been. Not if she didn’t wish utter ruin.
Just as she was about to accept her fate and sit on the, no doubt, damp ground, and wait it out until Lord Charles had departed, he turned his head ever so slightly then drawled, “Come out Lady Patience.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“Lady Patience?” he queried.
If she remained silent would he think he was mistaken?
How did he know? How could he know?
Lady Patience was not the sort of person to attend such gatherings and then. . . Her gown! Her mask! Her hair! All for naught with him?
Surely, he wasn’t that clever?
Then again. . . When she thought of his wicked dark eyes and the cut of his jaw? Yes, he was that clever, indeed.
“Come out or I shall fetch you,” he said, his voice low and rough.
So low and deliciously rough she shivered.
If this had been one of her own novels, he’d have walked to her, taken her deeper into the bushes then had his way with her.
That, of course, would be quite villainous.
Virtuous heroines never wished to give in. But Patience wasn’t entirely virtuous. Her heart pounded. What would it be like to give in to such a man?
“I can’t come out,” she finally admitted, absolutely galled that she was forced to do so.
“I won’t bite,” he promised as amusement deepened his tone.
“I’m glad to hear it but that isn’t why.”
“You needn’t be afraid,” he assured.
“That’s not it either.”
He let out a soft laugh. “I didn’t think so. I can’t truly imagine you afraid, gorgon that you are, though you look far more like a siren in your frock.”
So, he had seen her in her disguise! How the devil had he discerned her identity?
He turned more fully towards her on the bench and placed his book down. “Why linger in the bushes?”
She was certain he couldn’t make her out in the darkness. He must have been slightly blinded by the lantern.
She cleared her throat. “I’m caught.”
“Caught?”
“On a shrub.”
He paused then a laugh thundered from his throat.
It was dark and enthralling, that laugh.
She’d never heard such wicked amusement in her life.
“Well, now that you know,” she huffed, “I’d appreciate it if you’d assist me.”
“Of course,” he replied jovially. “Ever the gentleman.”
“I highly doubt it.”
“Well, ever a rake with good manners then,” he admitted.
“That I believe.”
He stood, all six foot some odd inches of him.
Good lord, he was stunning.
Her silly heart began to pound again and, this time, she was certain it was not from fear of discovery.
Lord Charles was the perfect image of a man.
Dark hair, darker eyes, chiseled cheek bones with shadows beneath them in the night, she was fairly certain his jaw was as sharp as a blade, it was so perfectly squared.
And his shoulders? They stretched his bottle green coat to perfection.
His black cravat was slightly askew, as if he’d tugged at it like an irritated boy forced to put on his best clothes, revealing more of his neck.
But Lord Charles was no boy.
He strode towards her.
She tensed. For once, she felt herself powerless. It was hard, after all, not to feel entirely at his mercy attached to the greenery as she was.
He slid into the darkness and eased his way through the shrubbery with shocking grace. Like the darkness loved him.
When he neared her, she caught his scent of leather and sandalwood and something else absolutely intoxicating.
She caught herself just before she leaned in to better take it in.
As he towered over her, he inclined his head slightly. Black hair brushed his temples. His sensual lips parted in a bemused smile.
“What game were you playing at?” he asked, as he lowered himself before her.
“Game?” She winced. Was that her voice? That girlish, breathy sound?
Yes. Yes it was.
He nodded. “Mmmm. I’ve no idea what you were about, but it was most amusing listening to you dart about back there.”
“You heard me?” she exclaimed.
“Dear lady, Greenwich heard you.”
“I wasn’t that loud,” she protested.
In answer, he merely arched a brow in the moonlight.
She frowned. She’d thought she’d moved quite stealthily. How annoying that she had not.
“I say,” she piped, “how did you know it was me?”
He stroked his hand down the folds of her sheer skirts.
She gulped and held very still. For all that she’d been around scandalous behavior, she’d always been an observer. She’d never engaged in anything.
Of course, right now, this wasn’t truly inappropriate. He hadn’t even touched her. But just his nearness! It seemed to inspire something in her that no man had ever
done before.
The warmth of his hand stole through her gown and as he slipped the fabric free, his chest brushed against her torso.
Patience bit down on the inside of her cheek.
As he stood, he said softly, “There you are. Free.”
Free? If only she was. But a woman was anything but. Even a woman like herself with independent means.
“You knew who I was,” she said again, lest she be distracted by his sensual voice.
“I did, indeed,” he confessed. “It is a good disguise, I grant you. Very few would ever know that Lady Patience was one and the same as your Lady Mystery. Though I must say, I have trouble reconciling that the woman I met and the one standing before me now are one and the same.”
“Then I have mostly succeeded.”
“Mostly,” he agreed.
“You still haven’t told me how you deduced it was me.”
“Oh, grand skill of the most excellent kind. My powers of perception are almost godlike.”
She snorted.
He laughed softly in return. “Fine then. I followed you.”
She gasped. . . And then wished she could kick herself for such a silly reaction.
Rallying her better self, she replied, “I beg your pardon?”
“I wished to speak with you this evening. So, I went to your townhome. You were leaving. Swathed in a cloak and looking rather sneaky yourself as you rushed into your coach. I instructed my hansom to follow. . . And well, here we are.”
His nearness was intoxicating but it didn’t stop the irritation she felt at the ease of her discovery. “Bother.”
“Rather boring, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it was so easy for you. That’s what I resent.”
He gazed down at her. “I never would have unmasked your activities if I hadn’t followed you all the way here. . . And in truth, it almost felt like you were following me once we arrived here.”
She shifted uncomfortably from slippered foot to slippered foot. “I don’t follow.”
“Don’t you?” Very slowly, he lifted his hand and slipped his fingers into the silk ribbon which tied her mask to her face. “We just met yesterday and this is a place that I frequent. Not even your good friend, Lady Barton, comes here often anymore.”
Oh dear. Was it that obvious? “In my defense, I truly believed you still to be at Barring House.”
