“Dear Anne. You are a lady, not a nursemaid. The child will have a legion of servants to attend to her needs. And I will tell you what I found to be true of my own girls. The older they got, the more interesting they became. When Norrie is quite grown, she may call upon you as she pleases, and you will find that you take much greater delight in her company then.”
Lily could have no notion what dismay her words had struck to Anne's heart. She had realized then it was useless even trying to explain to Lily about such things as how warm and sweet Norrie felt being rocked at bedtime, the simple joy of coaxing tangles from curls yet baby fine, of enfolding small fingers still sticky with jam. Small stubby fingers that would all too soon grow into long elegant ones slipping out of a mother's reach.
It would be foolish to expect the bright butterfly that was her sister to understand any of that. Not that Lily was callous or unusual. Most of the fashionable ladies in London would have agreed with her. The rearing of children was best left to servants, and though it was sad that Anne could not see her daughter upon occasion, there were far greater tragedies. Great heavens, she might have been refused vouchers to Almacks.
Anne's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. Perhaps having children had come all too easily to those grand ladies. They had never had to endure the heartbreak of so many miscarriages, the even greater grief of laying to rest a tiny stillborn son.
When Norrie had been placed into Anne's arms for the first time, warm, alive, she had been like a small miracle. The babe had been at once so frail, so susceptible to every passing fever and sniffle, and yet also so bright-eyed, so quick, so eager to learn. Like a miser with a fragile treasure, Anne had hoarded her child within the secure walls of the nursery, ever fearful the jealous heavens meant to snatch Nonie away from her.
But it had taken Lucien to make that nightmare come to pass.
The clash of swords upon the stage pulled Anne out of her unhappy thoughts. Birnam Wood had come to Dunsinane and Macbeth rushed toward his end. When Kean stepped forward to take his final bow, the applause swelled around Anne, an excitement that did not touch her.
In the midst of the cheering crowd, she felt isolated and alone. Strangely, her gaze was drawn to the one part of the theatre she had sworn to avoid. Her eyes swept the upper tiers, seeking the box opposite.
Mandell's seat was empty. He must have left before the final scene. She experienced a strong relief mixed with a curious sensation of disappointment. The feeling confused her and she sought to ignore it.
The applause had barely died before Lily gathered up her skirts and rose eagerly to her feet. As much as she adored any sort of performance, Lily also loved to see and be seen, to compare her gown with the other ladies' present. It was with great difficulty that Anne refused her sister's insistence upon taking another turn about the foyer.
“I find the crowd far too fatiguing,” Anne said. “But you go on ahead. I am quite content to remain here.”
Lily looked a little vexed with her. Mr. Barnhart, who obviously found Anne's company a bore, merely stifled a yawn and offered his arm to the countess. But the gallant Lord Cecil beamed at Anne, saying, “Then I will stay behind and bear you company, Lady Fairhaven?'
“Oh, no,” Anne cried, dismayed at the prospect of having to make conversation with anyone. even the kindly Lord Cecil. “I will be fine by myself and you must be quite stiff from sitting so long.”
She stilled any further protest by leaning forward and adding in a conspiratorial whisper, “Besides, you cannot have Mr. Barnhart stealing a march upon you.”
His lordship glanced anxiously toward Mr. Barnhart, who was already escorting Lily out of the box. “Well, if you are really sure,” he said. He sketched Anne a quick bow and bolted after the others.
Anne sighed with relief, sagging back in her chair. At least for a few moments she could be alone with her hopes and fears. She did not have to keep her expression schooled into a smile, feign interest in Kean's performance, or watch what she did with her hands.
She plucked at her purse, running her fingers over the silk and the heavy bulge of the pistol. The weapon held the most horrible fascination for her. She was beset with a constant urge to keep stealing peeks at the pistol as though if she did not keep checking, the device might explode in her lap.
With an anxious glance about her, Anne bent over the purse. Easing open the clasp, she parted the silk edges just enough to peer inside. She touched the cold ivory of the pistol's handle, and felt for the note from Louisa Douglas to make certain it was also secure.
But at that moment she was startled by the creak of a footfall and realized someone was about to enter the box. Her pulse gave a violent leap, and in fumbling to close the reticule, she dropped it instead.
The slippery silk skidded beyond her chair out of reach. Anne bolted from her seat, scrambling on her knees to retrieve the purse. Before she could do so, she nearly collided with a pair of elegantly shod feet, muscular legs outlined to perfection by tight breeches.
Her heart seemed to stop as she glanced upward at the tall, powerful figure looming over her. Mandell’s face was a blend of light and shadow. As in that night in the garden, he was garbed in unrelenting darkness from the satin of his frock coat to his sable hair to the black of his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” she said.”I hoped that you had already gone.”
That expressive brow of his shot upward. “Faith, milady, but you are hard upon a man's vanity. Are you merely overwhelmed by my presence or have you lost something?”
“What?” Anne stammered, conscious of her ridiculous position, kneeling at his feet. “No, I haven't. That—that is, I dropped my—my—”
“I believe you ladies call it a reticule.”
To Anne's horror, he bent down beside her, reaching for the purse. His unexpected appearance had caused her to freeze, but now she was galvanized into movement. She dove for the purse herself, but she was too late. Mandell's long fingers had already closed about the reticule.
Anne held her breath, half expecting the damning contents to come tumbling out. But the clasp had miraculously closed in the fall. There was only a slight hesitation on Mandell's part before he handed the purse to her.
Had he noticed anything unusual? If so, he did not betray it by the flicker of an eyelash. He seemed concerned only with placing a steadying hand beneath her elbow and helping her to her feet.
As soon as she was standing, Anne shrank from his touch. She realized her heart was beating again with an almost painful rapidity. Since their last meeting, Mandell had assumed a supernatural presence in her thoughts, something dark, wild, and threatening to her peace of mind.
Resisting the urge to whip the purse behind her back, Anne said with what dignity she could muster, “Thank you, my lord, but now—”
“Now that I have performed this trifling service, you wish to send me to the devil. That would be a great pity, with you looking so lovely tonight.”
Anne shied as skittishly as a high-strung colt when Mandell reached out to touch the curve of her cheek. “I like what you have done with your hair,” he murmured. “The softer style becomes you. As does the cut of the gown.”
His gaze lowered to her décolletage. Lily had selected the design of the dress. Anne had said all along she feared the gown was too revealing. Under Mandell's bold eyes, she was sure of it. He added, “The effect would be even more enchanting in a garden by moonlight.”
Anne's cheeks fired. How could he be so shameless as to remind her of their last encounter?
“I have nothing to say to you,” she remarked. “If you have come to apologize, I would prefer you just sent round a note.”
“I would be happy to send you notes, flowers, anything else you desire, Sorrow. But what would you have me apologize for?”
Anne's gaze came uncomfortably to rest upon the outline of that sensual mouth. “You know full well!”
“Ah, that! You expect me to express my gentlemanly regrets for kissing you.
That would be both rude and untruthful.” He captured her hand. Holding her eyes with his own, he raised her fingertips to his lips. “I fear I cannot say that I am sorry. Do you really want me to?”
“I—I,” Anne faltered. It was so easy for him to fluster and confuse her. The contact of his mouth against her hand was fleeting, but enough to send a shiver of heat coursing through her. “I just want you to go away.”
Mandell released her hand, his eyes narrowing. “Why do I get the feeling that I am more than usually unwelcome? Are you worried I will frighten away your other admirers?”
“I don't have any admirers.”
“That's where you are quite mistaken, my dear.” He cupped her chin, forcing her to look up. Her breath snagged in her throat. She thought he would be bold enough to kiss her again, here in the theatre where anyone below in the pit might see. For a moment, she had difficulty remembering she had vowed never to let this man come near her again.
Somewhat unsteadily, she put his hand away from her. “Please stop teasing me. By now you must be quite aware that I don't know how to flirt. You must have laughed yourself nigh ill at the way I bolted from the garden like a frightened rabbit.” She could not prevent the tiny catch in her voice, the hurt and humiliation still so fresh in her mind.
“Nay, Sorrow. I had not the least inclination to laugh. The garden was a cold and lonely place after you had gone.” Mandell's words were as warm as a caress. Anne had never known any man so practiced in the art of seduction. He constantly made her feel as though the ground were about to shift beneath her feet.
She frowned. “Then I don't understand. If not for your own amusement, why do you keep seeking me out? What is it that you want?”
“You.”
The low spoken syllable sent a jolt through her entire system. All her anxieties over the desperate scheme to get Norrie back were driven clean out of her head. Anne did not remember bending her knees to sit, but she sagged down upon her chair. She barely managed to keep her grip on the purse, burying it in the folds of her gown.
“Are you cold?” Mandell asked.
Anne watched him retrieve her cashmere shawl from where it had tumbled to the floor. He draped the soft folds about her, his hands lingering on her shoulders.
Still in shock, Anne was certain she could not have heard him right.
At last she echoed doubtfully, “You want me? For what?”
His eyes widened in genuine surprise. Then a smoky heat drifted into his gaze. His lashes drifted downward, his stare tracing a slow scorching path from her lips to the exposed flesh above her bodice.
“Oh!” Anne shrank back. She wrapped the shawl tightly across her breasts.
“There is no need for you to bundle up so. It is not my intention to take you here and now.”
“Not now! Not ever!”
“That is another matter entirely.” He smiled at her, drawing up another chair. He sat so close that his knees brushed against hers.
“You must be quite insane,” she said. “You hardly even know me and yet you are telling me that you would ...
“Indeed I would, and gladly. It does not take me long to decide whether or not I want a woman in my bed.”
His bed. Disturbing images sprang to her mind of a place as exotic as a sultan's lair, redolent with seductive incense, satin and sin, Mandell's lean hard frame tangled amongst crimson sheets. Anne swallowed. The fire in her cheeks became an inferno.
“How dare you say such things to me!”
“A lady of your great virtue? Alas, we both know my opinion of that. Virtue is the last refuge of those lacking courage or imagination.”
“And in which of those categories do you place me?”
“I don't think you want for courage, Sorrow.”
He was accusing her of having no imagination then. He was very wrong about that. He could not know how her mind ran riot, focusing on his strong graceful hands, those long lean fingers, imagining the things they could do to her.
Mandell continued, “I am paying you the compliment of being bluntly honest. I could as easily seduce you with soft words, false pledges. But I admit my intentions toward you are quite dishonorable. The only promise I make is that there will be a great deal of pleasure for both of us.”
Anne could hardly believe that this fantastic conversation was even taking place. She stifled an outburst of hysterical laughter. For nearly twenty-six years her life had been as placid as a stagnant pond. Now, in the space of one night, she had to plot to abduct her own daughter and fend off an attempt at seduction.
“I have never had an improper proposal before,” Anne said. “I am not sure what I am supposed to say. Except, definitely no, thank you. My life is already in enough of a coil at the moment.”
“Perhaps I could help you untangle it, Sorrow.”
“You cannot help. If anything, you are making things more difficult, and please, stop calling me by that dreadful nickname.”
“But it suits you so well. There is a sadness that is never far from your eyes.” Mandell leaned forward in his seat. He managed to secure one of her hands. “What is wrong, Anne?”
“Nothing, except for the fact that you are tormenting me with these outrageous proposals. What makes you think anything else could be wrong?”
“For one thing, most women carry nothing more lethal in their purse than smelling salts.”
Anne's startled gaze flew up to meet his. His eyes held hers steadily, knowingly. Of course he knew. She had been foolish to think there was a chance he had not noticed the pistol.
“I am only carrying the pistol for protection,” she said. “From footpads like the Hook.”
“There could be a dozen Hooks abroad tonight and you would never heed them. What is it that really troubles you, dear heart?”
The softly voiced question inspired her with a strange desire to burst into tears. She shook her head.
“Only you.”
“I wish I could believe it was me that caused you to tremble so.” He turned over her hand as though examining it, the shaking in her fingers clearly visible. He ran his own fingertips over her palm, lightly stroking, evoking sensations that did nothing to stop the tremors coursing through her. He added with a sigh, “But there has always been something, or someone else. I would have the truth from you, Anne.”
A brief moment of madness came over her. She felt overwhelmed with a longing to unburden herself of all the fear and misery she had borne alone these past few months. It was wicked the things this man could do with his voice, his eyes. He could make it seem as though there were a chance that he might really care.
His grip upon her hand tightened, his voice becoming low and charged with an intensity that frightened her. “Trust me, Anne. Whatever, whoever it is who brings that look to your eyes, I will banish it. Whatever your unhappiness, your fears, in my arms, I can make you forget.”
Forget Norrie? Mandell's vow snapped Anne back to her senses as nothing else could. She reminded herself of exactly what he was, a callous, cynical seducer of women. Nothing more,
She yanked her hand away. “You are the last person on this earth that I would ever trust. A man like you! A libertine with no honor, no heart, no proper feelings! If you will not leave me alone, I shall go myself.”
“That will not be necessary.”
Whatever gentleness she had fancied in his face was shuttered away again. He presented the sardonic facade she found far more familiar. Idly, he rose to his feet, straightening his cuffs. “There is no need for you to run away again. Sorrow. I will leave if that is what you wish.”
He sauntered toward the door of the box, pausing only to glance back at her, his eyes as bright and hard as onyx.
“But my going changes nothing, Anne,” he said. “I want you. I will have you.”
He swept her a magnificent bow, then was gone, his soft-spoken threat seeming to linger in the air. Anne found she was trembling so badly, she had to grip the back of her chair.
I want you.
I will have you
Panic lashed through Anne, accompanied by a feeling of strange wild excitement. It was but one more reason to avoid Mandell.
One more reason to gather up her daughter as soon as possible and flee London forever.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sara Palmer unfurled the leaves of her ivory-handled fan and waved it before her, trying to enjoy the luxury of what might be her last night attending the theatre. The subscription on the box Mandell had hired for her was due to run out. Such an excellent location it had been, near the stage, rather private from the rest of the house.
If she came to the theatre again, it would have to be at the half-pay rate, coming in after the main bill was over, sitting in the pit. Just another one of the economies she would be forced to practice until she acquired a wealthy and noble lover, hopefully one more marriage-minded this time.
Sara sighed. Her prospects at the moment did not look good. She was a fool to have broken with Mandell before she had been assured of something better. The marquis had been most generous, and under his protection, Sara feared, she had learned to be extravagant. Only three days separated from him and she was already feeling the pinch. Mandell had finished paying for the lease on her apartment and the stabling fees for her horses, but there had been the dressmaker's bill she had forgotten to have him settle, also one from the jeweler.
Sara did not know what had gotten into her. She was usually far more efficient and businesslike in her dealings with men. Her only excuse was that she had been distracted of late, and she did not have to look far for the source of it.
Frowning, she glanced at the tall figure of the young soldier who lounged in the chair behind her. With a yawn and a stretch, her brother rose and moved toward the door of the box.
“Where are you going, Gideon?” Sara asked sharply.
“Just thought I would step out a moment to get a breath of air.”
“There is plenty of air right here. Sit down. I didn't ask for your company tonight merely to have you abandon me while you slip backstage to flirt with some actress.”
Susan Carroll Page 8
