Reckless_Mills & Boon Historical

by Anne Stuart

  Lina stared at her reflection. She was exquisite. A work of art. A creation cold and lifeless and beautiful. Good enough to lure the dissolute Viscount Rohan into her bed, further ensuring the necessary demise of Charlotte's hopeless daydreams.

  "Eh bien," she said tonelessly. And she rose from her dressing table, ready to finish the job. Charlotte only considered the green sarcenet for a moment before dismissing it in favor of the insipid peach that turned her ivory complexion to ash. She ignored Meggie's objections, waiting until the last minute to head down to the ballroom. Lina would be more than capable of sending her back to change, if it weren't already too late. The first guests had already begun to arrive, and Lina looked resplendent in clinging pink silk that molded her delicate curves. She gave Charlotte a look, then shrugged, as if her poor sartorial choice was no more than she'd expected, and Charlotte took up her place behind her. Had it been up to Lina she would have been by her side, greeting the guests as an equal, but Charlotte staunchly refused. There were few advantages to being a poor relation, but this was one of them. She didn't have to stand in line and smile and simper at idiotic young men and elderly villains. This was going to be one of the major crushes of the season— Lina had invited everyone, and Charlotte held her place as long as she could. It was only when she could see the black-and-silver mane of Etienne de Giverney overtopping everyone else's as he moved toward them that she panicked. Where the dashing Comte de Giverney went, his younger cousin, Viscount Rohan, was likely to follow, and she wasn't going to take that chance.

  She slipped away without a word to blend into the mass of guests, making her way toward the back of the ballroom. The only safe way to escape to her bedroom would be to take the servants' stairs. The main staircase stood just outside the ballroom, and she would be in full view of the arriving and departing guests if she tried to disappear by that route. Not that anyone would notice the movements of a poor relation, but she didn't want to take the chance.

  At least she was fortunate enough to have escaped before she had to endure Viscount Rohan's lazy glance, if she even got that much from him. The less she saw of (hat particular gentleman the better off she was. Adrian Rohan was fully as wild as his father had been, and while most women loved rakes, she did not. She threaded her way through the crowds, invisible as a woman of no wealth, beauty or youth could be, the door to the back stairs almost in sight, when a tall male figure suddenly loomed up in front of her, and she barreled into him, too intent on escape to stop herself in time.

  Strong hands caught her arms to steady her, and she found herself looking up into Adrian Alistair de Giverney Rohan's beautiful, exquisite face. He was one of the few men tall enough to make her actually have to crane her neck, and she was too startled to watch her tongue.

  Luck was most definitely not on her side. For the first time in her life Meggie's coaching paid off and Charlotte uttered the fateful words Bloody hell.

  His lordship had already released her, had murmured a polite apology beneath his breath in instant dismissal and was about to move on, her existence barely acknowledged, when her low-voiced but clearly enunciated words stopped him, and his hard blue eyes focused on her for what she was certain was the first time, despite the fact that they'd been introduced at least half a dozen times during the season and danced on one notable, horrible occasion.

  He blinked. And then a slow smile curved his mouth, and it was truly the most wicked, deceitful, appealing mouth, and his gloved hand reached out again to catch her elbow before she could escape. It was just the lightest of touches, perfectly within the bounds of propriety, there was cloth between his flesh and hers, and yet this touch burned.

  Bloody hell, she thought again, having finally grown comfortable with the phrase. Of all people, why did it have to be Rohan that she barreled into?

  "Miss...?" He clearly racked his brain. "Miss Spenser, isn't it? Have I done something to offend you?"

  She dropped a swift curtsy, difficult enough in the swirl of guests, and surreptitiously tried to pull away. How in heavens did he remember her name? She was hardly part of his world. His long fingers tightened. "Of course not, my lord. I do beg your pardon. I have no excuse for such appalling language."

  Now that he was actually looking at her, the plague of emotions was even worse, she thought, scowling. It had been bad enough, always watching him from across crowded ballrooms, fighting off the foolish daydreams that went all the way back to the fairy tales of her youth when she knew full well that this was no handsome prince—this was a wicked wizard, an evil faerie out to cast a binding spell on her.

  Up close it was far, far worse. The warmth in her belly, the tightness in her chest, the tingling in places she wasn't even going to think about. And the burn where his hand touched her arm. He was looking down at her. "You're Lady Whitmore’s companion, are you not?”

  "Cousin," she snapped before she could stop herself. And how in the world did he know that much? She'd counted on her own invisibility.

  Again that faint smile. "I stand corrected. Though aren't poor relations often required to serve as companions ? "

  It was a rude question, but nothing compared to the shock of her language. And he still wasn't releasing her. "If you'll excuse me, Lord Rohan," she said firmly, yanking her arm free a bit too roughly.

  He released her arm, only to catch her gloved hand in his. Then he smiled at her, a smile faintly tinged with malice. "I think I must insist upon a dance. Miss Spenser. Penance for your shocking breach of manners.”

  That was all she needed, she thought. She'd danced with him a hundred times, beneath the starry sky, dressed in a gown that suddenly turned her into an irresistible beauty, all in the dreams she'd wickedly allowed herself. Dreams she'd known better than to indulge in, but which she'd allowed herself any way, and now she was paying the price. She knew from watching him that his grace on the dance floor was something quite extraordinary, his form perfect. And yet there was a certain something in the way he moved that had more than one chaperone shaking her head, looking for some reason to bar him from the innocent young ladies who clamored around him.

  She had no chaperone, though at the advanced age of thirty she was too old to be considered innocent, she reminded herself.

  "I don't dance," she said. "Please release my hand."

  He didn't, not for a long moment. He truly had the most unsettling eyes, she realized. Usually his lids drooped down lazily, hiding his gaze, but she could see their deep blue depths, summing her up quite handily, and she thanked God those years of practice kept her blushes from showing on her pale skin, no matter how she squirmed inwardly.

  "Now, why do I get the impression you disapprove of me. Miss Spenser?" he said.

  She was feeling curiously light-headed and she deepened her scowl. Her expression was usually sufficient to scare men away, but clearly Viscount Rohan didn't scare easily. "I don't know you. Lord Rohan. How could I disapprove of you?"

  "Perhaps my reputation precedes me. You've got that starched-up look like you tasted something particularly nasty."

  People were watching. She'd never held a public conversation with a man for more than a few brief moments, and never with a pink of the ton like Rohan. She was supposed to be invisible, for heaven's sake.

  And he certainly had never paid any heed to anyone other than his most recent flirts, all of them stunning beauties. A plain old maid such as Charlotte Spenser would never qualify as the type of woman to interest someone like Adrian Rohan.

  He was still holding her hand, she realized with horror. "Where is your dance card?" he persisted.

  "I told you, I don't dance," she said through gritted teeth. Lina had long ago ceased insisting she carry a dance card, knowing it was a lost cause. In addition to never being asked, she had two left feet. She tugged at her hand again, but he held fast, stronger than she would have guessed. "Release me. Now."

  Her peremptory tone wasn't the wisest choice, she realized as his eyes narrowed. "I think not."

&n
bsp; Her slippers were light and soft, made for the dancing she refused to participate in. She gave him a deceptive smile, moving closer, and stomped on his foot with all her weight.

  With her light slippers she couldn't have done nearly the damage she would have wished for. Had it been up to her she would have broken his foot—but it was enough of a surprise to have him momentarily loosen his grip, and she pulled free, whirled around and escaped.

  She was half-afraid he'd follow her past the green baize door to the servants' passageway, but she'd overestimated her fascination. By the time she dared look back he was gone.

  She'd made it up to the servants' narrow staircase when she heard the music start. She was three times a fool, but there was a spot from the second-floor staircase with a perfect view of the ballroom. She'd done just that in her own house with Lina when they were both young girls, fascinated by the workings of society and the behavior of their shallow parents.

  At that point the two of them had judged it deadly dull.

  Lina had changed her mind, sailing through a glittering first season, capped with an extravagant wedding to the aging but extremely wealthy and still-handsome earl of Whitmore.

  Charlotte, on the other hand, had retreated in abject failure. Her ordinary looks, lack of fortune and unhappy tendency to speak her mind had made her part of a commodity that society had no value for, and she retired back to her family's ramshackle estate, her parents' only child a total failure.

  She remembered Viscount Rohan from that disastrous first season, though she'd presumed he'd forgotten entirely. He'd been presented to her as a suitable partner by one of the well-meaning hostesses, and bored though he was, he'd done his duty, standing up with her and displaying barely the trace of a martyred air.

  She had never been a good dancer—her family had had no money for a dancing master and she'd had to rely on Lina's lessons. Her nervousness at being in the presence of her secret crush had completely undone her. She'd trampled all over his elegant shoes, missed her cues, throwing the complicated country dance into total disarray.

  He'd said nothing, his elegant mouth growing grimmer as he tried to rescue the figure, to no avail.

  When the supreme torture was finally over she'd curtsied to him, and he'd bowed politely.

  And then he'd murmured, "I hadn't realized dancing was a blood sport. Miss Samson. You might consider warning prospective partners that they're taking their lives in their hands if they dance with you." His light, casual words were accompanied by a faint glint in his eye that she couldn't read.

  She hadn't tried, as her shame overwhelmed her. The fact that he didn't know her name was a relief rather than an added insult, and shed never danced again. At least never in public, and never with a partner.

  There were times, after Lina had chosen to retire to the countryside, that Charlotte would find herself alone in the sprawling manor house. She'd find an empty hallway or a deserted field, and she'd realize she was humming a melody beneath her breath, and it had naturally evolved into a carefree dance, moving with the wind, free and happy.

  Still, even Rohan's cruel, casual words hadn't managed to give her a disgust of the man. On the rare occasions when she accompanied Lina to evening parties her eyes would hungrily seek him out, and when he left for the continent her relief had been faintly tinged with disappointment.

  She'd come face-to-face with him twice since his return, and his blue eyes had swept over her with the same bored disinterest he evinced toward all and sundry, with the occasional exception of the great beauties. Charlotte Spenser was just a part of the anonymous horde of plain virgins desperately seeking a husband.

  Not her, though. Not ever. Her parents were dead, the ramshackle estate had passed on to the nearest male relative, a distant cousin she'd never even met. Evangelina had been widowed, and begged her to move in with her, and Charlotte had done so quite happily. She'd managed lo assiduously avoid any social occasion that smacked of the marriage mart, and in truth she'd been happier than she'd ever been in her life. She had her dearest friend and cousin for companionship, the Bluestockings to keep her busy and Adrian Rohan had been abroad.

  She knew it couldn't last. Rohan had returned unexpectedly as Europe once again braced for war. Charlotte's peace of mind was destroyed. She had no doubt that Lina would marry again, and despite her inability to give Whitmore an heir, Charlotte was certain a second, happier marriage would provide offspring. Perhaps she could become a helpful honorary aunt, if Lina's new husband would tolerate her.

  She looked down at the ballroom for the last time. Adrian Rohan had already moved on, forgetting her, as he leaned over a buxom young beauty. Forgetting her, as he always did. Which was the only consolation her pride could find. She hated the thought of appearing ridiculous or needy. Rohan's attention was elsewhere, and she didn't have to worry about being mocked.

  She moved slowly up the back stairs, ignoring the curious looks of the servants as they passed her. She reached the lavish apartments Lina had insisted she use and began to undress herself. There was no telling where Meggie had gotten herself to, but it didn't matter. Charlotte had made certain she had clothes that she could do and undo herself—the advent of a lady's maid had been a recently reacquired luxury. Though whether Meggie's rough ministrations could be called a luxury was something worth debating.

  She let down her long, thick hair and brushed it, then fastened it in a braid to keep it from tangling too badly as she slept. The water in the basin was cool, blessedly cool, against her flushed face.

  The sheets were cool as well as she slid beneath them. The spring air had been chilly, and a fire had been laid but not lit. She blew out the candle and burrowed deep under the covers, pulling the blankets up to her nose.

  She could still feel his hand on her arm, strong, restraining her. She was a woman who couldn't bear to be forced, bullied, cowed. So why was she tenderly stroking the place where he'd held her?

  She was moon-mad. Calf-brained, addlepated.

  But in this one matter her formidable intellect was no match for the dismal, unpalatable truth. She was in love with Adrian Rohan, and had been for years, and nothing, not his rudeness nor tales of his outrageous excess, nor all her own rational self-discourse, could change her.

  And once more castigating herself as an idiot, she fell into a deep, troubled sleep.

  Adrian Alastair Rohan stared down the dress of the exquisitely beautiful, exquisitely silly Miss Leonard, bored beyond belief even as he said all the right things. Usually an amiable flirtation was as good a way to spend an interminable evening. He would gel no more than a kiss from Miss Leonard, and while kissing had long ago lost its charm, he had it on good authority that Miss Leonard had had a great deal of practice at it and was considered something of an expert. It could be entertaining to see if he could manage to teach her something new.

  He'd rather be teaching the nervous and thoroughly delicious Charlotte Spenser, though he wasn't quite certain why. Her clothes were atrocious, her manner less than cordial, and whenever he happened to see her she acted as if he'd committed some foul crime. Yes, his reputation was terrible, but in his experience most women found it irresistible.

  It was the rest of the time that interested him. Because the honorable Miss Charlotte Spenser couldn't keep her eyes off him, a fact he found amusing. Despite her avowed disapproval of him and everything he stood for, he was fully aware she watched him whenever she thought no one would notice.

  As a poor relation and a spinster of no particular beauty she tended to hang back at the edges of the crowds, where she thought she could remain unnoticed while she stared at him. As far as he could tell, she paid no particular attention to anyone else.

  He was fully accustomed to having women watch him with appreciation and even longing. He was wealthy, heir to a title and possessed of more than average good looks, all thanks to his parents. His height, his pretty face, his deep blue eyes, so like his father's, had nothing to do with any accomplishment on his p
art, and he accepted the blessings of fortune with no particular vanity. Those blessings enabled him to indulge his varied appetites and interests, and for that he was casually grateful.

  But he wasn't the prettiest young man in society— Montague held that particular office. Nor the wealthiest, and he was a mere viscount, not a duke or even a marquess, though that would come once his father died. And as the honorable Miss Spenser could attest, he was far from the most charming. He had a nasty tongue and was never known to suffer fools gladly.

  And yet still she watched him when he danced with the newest beauty, when he laughed with his friends, when he snubbed upstarts and drank too much and occasionally made an ass of himself. And he wondered why.

  One possibility, and by far his favorite, was that she was planning his murder. The poor relation, snubbed once too often, was out for revenge, and he might very well find his next glass of negus poisoned, or a knife between his shoulder blades.

  It was nothing more than he deserved, but he doubted she had that in mind. In truth, he knew exactly why she watched him, and it was for the same reason half the women in society, young and old, married and single, plain and beautiful, watched him. She fancied herself in love with him.

  If she ever allowed herself to hold a civil conversation with him he would have been more than happy to explain that it was no such thing. Society would have it that women were pure and romantical and men filthy, lusting beasts. To his immense pleasure, he knew otherwise.

  Miss Spenser wanted him. Oh, she wanted it wrapped up in posies and flattery and the marriage bed, but she wanted his hands on her starched-up body, stripping those ugly clothes away from her.

  And he'd be more than happy to oblige, except that he never touched well-bred virgins. The very thought of finding himself leg-shackled to a scowling, disapproving creature like Miss Spenser was horrifying. And his hypocritical father would see to it that he did the right thing, entirely ignoring his own degenerate past.