by Darcy Burke
Clearly the French had inspired the fashion.
Her slippered foot refused to go through the doorway. Oh, no, she needed to brace herself first.
Kate gulped as she spotted one woman in a wine red gown, her dark, curled head turned towards a gentleman. The glimmering fabric poured over the underskirt and was tucked to the sides about three quarters down as current fashion dictated with white roses and diamond broaches. There was only one true aberration from modern fashion.
Kate blinked as if that might somehow cause the shocking sight before her to disappear. Goodness, the woman wore no underskirt! The bodice descended in a v to the point where her hips and thighs met. Even so, she wore a pair of strange little crimson silk pants with ruffles about her upper thighs. Her crimson stockings stretched up to her mid-thigh. Red velvet ribbons and diamond buckles held them in place.
What kind of woman would wear. . .
Mrs. Barton turned towards her, and her eyes lit with pleased recognition. Thank God, there was someone to guide her through the land of lewdness. Then again, Mrs. B might volunteer to be her personal guide to delights unsampled.
The actress snapped her golden fan open and started in her direction.
Kate smiled what she hoped was a bold smile. Unfortunately, she was fairly sure it was a brittle mockery of a grin. But if Mrs. Barton could thrive in this crowd, Kate could, even if it was only for the purpose of making the duke’s night one he wouldn’t soon forget.
Mrs. Barton strode forward, her long legs made even longer by a pair of extremely high red shoes decked with golden flowers and bows.
As if pulling a cork from a bottle, Mrs. Barton took her hand and pulled her through the door. “Welcome, my dear, to a life you have no doubt ever imagined.”
“Err. . .” Kate took Mrs. Barton’s arm and strode into the dark ballroom with her. “Thank you.”
“I am delightfully surprised you took up Lord Albany’s invitation.” Mrs. Barton’s eyes twinkled as she glanced down at her. “I did sense a need for freedom in you.”
Freedom? Right. Though not from clothing. . . Kate nodded like a puppet.
“Women in the ton can never truly be free,” Mrs. Barton proclaimed confidently. “They have too many people to please.”
“But you attend ton parties all the time,” Kate ventured, feeling a bit as if she’d been tossed into the middle of a mad, though beautiful, circus.
Artfully, Mrs. Barton wove through the tightly knit groups of gossipers, a queen amongst the revelers. “True. But you see, I have never been truly of the ton so I they do not hold me to its rules. I am a novelty. ” She paused and her lips twisted. “Rather like a trained monkey who bangs a pair of symbols, I add an air of naughtiness to their nauseatingly proper world. I put up with them because it’s good for my business. I am nothing if not a business woman.”
“An actress is always upon the stage, is she not?”
Mrs. Barton threw back her dark head, the red feathers in the black curls bouncing as she laughed. The rich sound turned the heads of half a dozen men who stared at her with unconcealed appreciation. “You, my dear, are a treasure of honesty.”
“Yes,” Kate said dryly. “A rather annoying quality, I admit.”
“I beg to differ.” Mrs. Barton waved her fan at the people surrounding them. “These pompous peacocks could use a dose of truth, and coming from such a pleasing creature as you, they’ll listen to anything you say.”
As they wove through the wide skirts of the women, Kate nibbled on her lower lip. Her gaze darted right to left trying to take in the sights. Dozens of couples danced in the middle of the floor. A full orchestra played a tune that seemed to be encouraging the dancers to do things they oughtn’t do. In fact, she’d never heard such music, nor did she recognize the steps the couples danced. The couples were close, their hands about each other.
“What is that?” she hissed.
“That my dear, is a marvelous dance quite popular in Venice and originated in Vienna. They’ve been doing it for a decade, and it’s danced quite publicly throughout many parts of Europe.”
“What is it called?”
Mrs. Barton sighed. “A waltz. It’s not permitted at parties here. Only we English would make such a fuss about a little dance.”
“Oh.” Kate followed Mrs. Barton as if she was a well-trained sheep, but she was lucky to have the woman’s arm, for no doubt she would have ended up flat on her face, due to her inability to focus on anything but the mad scenes before her. Still, she found herself scanning the faces, looking for a dark profile.
His profile.
Mrs. Barton paused and tapped a gentleman on the shoulder. The chestnut-haired fellow smiled at her. His shirt was scandalously untied and open at the neck. His hair was loose, brushing the tops of his shoulders. Without question, he reached into a pocket and pulled out a silver case. He handed Mrs. Barton what appeared to be a long, slender dark stick, then placed the case back into his pocket. He bent and very softly kissed her breast.
Laughing, Mrs. Baron swatted him away and continued marching forward. She stopped at a candle, placed the tip of the dark stick into the flame and drew upon the other end with her mouth. Kate watched with fascination as smoke curled up into the air, and Mrs. Barton held the thing between two slender fingers.
“He’s not here yet.”
“Who?” Kate asked, her voice dripping with feigned innocence.
“Please my dear, there’s no need to dissemble. I’d be out for a bit of mischief myself if I’d been caught like you and the good duke.” Mrs. Barton stopped at a long table covered in every possible pastry one could imagine.
To Kate’s shock, many of them looked like variations on women’s breasts. In the center were dozens of crystal glasses filled with a pink liquid.
Mrs. Barton picked up two glasses and shoved one straight into Kate’s hands. The actress drew a long puff of smoke then blew it slowly out of the side of her mouth. “My dear, it truly is a shame about the other night.”
“Mmm,” Kate agreed as she drank. She sputtered at the strength of it though it was really quite good. Sweet and bubbly, it raced down her throat like candied fire. She took a deep sip and didn’t utter another word. Really, she had no wish to discuss the other night.
“Who would have thought the torch bearer would be such an idiot as to stumble upon a pig running across the stage? I tell you the opera is the most preposterous thing.”
That was how the fire had started? Kate’s tryst with Darkwell had been dashed to an end by a brainless torchbearer and a ne’er-do-well pig? She guzzled down half her glass, and after a moment, noticed the number of couples who kept going in and coming out from a series of curtained archways at the back of room. She pointed and opened her mouth to speak.
“No, no, my dear,” Mrs. Barton whispered, grabbing Kate’s hand and lowering it to her side. “No need to point at the obvious.”
“But what’s—”
Mrs. Barton arched a dark brow, and Kate just stopped short of smacking herself for own blundering. Apparently, debauchment didn’t quite make one worldly.
“Precocious plunges into deep waters are hardly agreeable to one’s health, and I do think you’ve already taken more than enough plunges for one week. Perhaps you should ease into these waters.”
Kate couldn’t argue with her there. In some ways, she couldn’t believe she’d launched herself straight into such a wild group just to see the duke again. But here she was, and anticipating was singing through her veins, along with the sweet punch.
Mrs. Barton tossed back the contents of her drink then scanned the room. Her face lit, and she snapped her fingers.
What the devil was she doing? But before Kate could ask, a heartbreakingly beautiful man made his way towards them. He strode through the crowd like a young Adonis rising from the sea. Despite the fact she had Darkwell embedded in her thoughts, her mouth dried at his sheer beauty.
His cheekbones were two slashes above a chiseled jaw, an
d his long russet hair shone with copper tints. Piercing, jade green eyes roamed from Mrs. Barton to Kate like a man trying to pick which sweet he wanted to devour first. It made her positively nervous. His perfect, white shirt was open at the throat exposing well developed muscles and a smooth chest. Black breeches clung to his thighs. Clearly the man rode a great deal, which only led her to wonder what he might do with such strong legs at his disposal.
She had to admit he was a great deal prettier than Darkwell, but that very fact made him less interesting. For all his astounding masculinity, he lacked the rough edges her duke possessed.
The man stopped before them, towering over them both at well over six feet. He extended his bare hand to her, and Kate placed her fingertips out for him to take. Smiling slowly, like a languorous cat luring its prey into its patient grasp, he took her hand and turned it over. He lingered over her wrist, his soft, warm breath caressing her skin. Then he pressed the barest of kisses upon her exposed wrist, skimming the flesh. She had to stop herself from snapping her hand back. It was positively delicious, yet felt completely wrong.
“Madam,” he purred, his voice low and rippling with some accent.
Mrs. Barton smiled on with approval. “Mrs. Darrell, I am pleased to introduce Count Svenden.” She teased the tip of her closed fan down the man’s muscled chest. “He doesn’t speak a word of English, but I promise, he has other talents.”
Kate didn’t have to guess at what this fellow excelled at. The man’s mouth was an invitation to the most decadent of pleasures. Clearing her throat, she pulled her hand back. “Lovely to meet you, Count.” She glanced around. “So. . . What brings you here?”
Mrs. Barton rolled her eyes. “Speaking to a man who doesn’t speak your language is a waste. Try one of his true talents.”
Kate glared at the woman who was fast becoming her tutor in temptation.
“Dance with him,” Mrs. Barton said as if that was her only intent on introducing her to the young Casanova.
“I don’t know the steps,” Kate protested. Even if she did, she wasn’t about to let herself be wrapped up by this Germanic Adonis. He might try to sweep her off into one of the other rooms and that was a talent of his she didn’t wish to test. As infuriating as Darkwell was, he was the only one she wanted.
“It matters not.” Mrs. Barton eyed Svenden who stood waiting patiently. “He’s a master teacher at guiding women’s bodies.”
“I have no doubts,” Kate drawled, and with the resignation of one being led to the block stuck out her hand and let the devil lead her to the dance floor.
Chapter Twelve
Ryder stumbled straight into a golden candelabra. He winced as its heavy, sculpted metal bit into his black silk-covered shin. The massive piece didn’t move a jot.
There was no denying it, even as pain shot through his leg. There was a woman in a bright pink gown, the silk shining under the dim light, whirling around the floor in the arms of a damn fop. And that woman was the blasted torment of his days and nights.
“Good god, man! How much have you had to drink?” Hunt demanded, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Not enough,” Ryder gritted. He righted himself, spotted a gold liveried servant swooping by with a silver tray of drinks. Without ado, he snatched up a crystal flute of champagne and tossed the contents down in one swallow.
“You’re on your way now.” Hunt arched a dark brow, staring at him as if he’d suddenly gone mad.
Ryder barely listened to him as he contemplated breaking the glass just to take the sudden edge of insane disbelief and fury throttling through him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Kathryn Darrell waltzed—waltzed—across the floor with amazing grace, her pink skirts swishing, her softly curled hair decked with white flowers, brushing her neck and slender back.
The man—no, the bastard—guiding her loomed over her, clearly enjoying his temping view.
And she!
She was smiling.
At another man.
The very thought was. . . Well, it was bloody horrifying. Worse, it was horrifying that it was horrifying.
He was not supposed to feel this raging possessiveness, but whether he should or not, he did.
Hunt tapped him on the shoulder, his gaze directed in Kathryn’s swirling direction. “If smoke could curl from your nostrils, it would do so.”
Ryder ground his teeth down. She thought she could just throw herself into his world without knowing the dangers, did she? She thought she could just leap to another man and a worse scandal. Had the woman no sense of self-preservation? Had she been gallivanting about with more men and more parties while he’d spent the last three days with a gin bottle and what Hunt insisted on calling angst?
Ryder thrust the champagne glass at Hunt. “Hold this.”
Hunt grasped the thing, his lips pursing into a frown. “Consider what you’re about to do—”
“Silence. Absolute silence,” Ryder snapped.
Hunt’s lips twisted with annoyance. “I shan’t weep at your funeral.”
Ryder threw him a blistering stare then blew out a sharp breath. Ryder had no idea what he was about to do, but he damn well was going to do something.
The mass of dance couples noted his bizarre presence amongst them, many of the ladies turning their lascivious glances upon him. A few of the men glared, sensing that blood was about to fly.
His throat started to close as he spotted the bastard and Kathryn. The fop had his hand on the lowest part of her back and her chin was tilted up, her face merry.
Enough.
Her smiles were meant for him, not any jackanapes who might twirl her about the dance floor. He didn’t care if that sounded completely ridiculous.
Ryder marched up to her partner, grabbed his white silk covered shoulder and pushed him back from Kathryn.
The man’s green eyes flared then narrowed. “Was?” he growled in German.
Of course he had to be Germanic.
“Arschloch.”
Ryder was not entirely sure what gibberish was filtering from the man’s ridiculously sensual lips. Fat lips, in truth. But he knew an insult when he heard one. “Arschloch, indeed. In England, we’d say you’re a tosspot’s git.” To emphasize this, Ryder curled his hand and pumped it up and down, keeping a pointed gaze on the ass. “Tosspot, you see?”
Kathryn tottered back from the sudden dislodgement from her dance partner and at Ryder’s rude gesture. Her stormy eyes widened as she stared at him. Then she blinked quickly as she took him in.
Ryder glanced at her, drinking in the sight of beautiful pale skin, furious eyes and gorgeous blonde hair.
Firmly, he pointed at her and skewered the bastard with his stare. “Mine,” he snapped, then for emphasis, pointed to himself and then at Kathryn again. “Miiiiine.” Hauling his fist back, Ryder let it fly. His knuckles smashed the younger man’s chin and the idiot staggered.
“What are you doing?!” Kathryn screamed.
The fop shook his blond head then squared his shoulders, ready for a fight.
“That’s it, you poncy-assed bastard.” Ryder nodded, lifting his fists. “Come and get it, Mein Herr.”
“Ja?” the bloke intoned, his face indignant. “Kommen sie hier.”
The guttural language filled the sudden silence as the entire room stared at the fight breaking out. Ryder caught sight of them in their various states of attire, forming an oddly shaped circle around the blossoming brawl.
“Pardon me!” Kathryn cut in, her hands propped upon her hips. “I was having a splendid dance.”
Ryder gaped. Marveling at her audacity, he swung his gaze to her. “Splendid dance?” he echoed.
She narrowed her eyes and took a step towards him. “Yes,” she hissed. “Now hie off.” A smile, that damn enigmatic smile, tilted her lips as she mocked him. “Count Svenden is an excellent dancer. I have yet to find him disappointing.”
Ryder sucked in a breath. Was she inferring he was a disappointment. She—She—Hell! He had
no idea what to think. But he was damn well going to show her there was nothing disappointing about the Duke of Darkwell. “I am not about to leave you in the arms of this lecher.”
She snorted, her arms folding over her beautiful breasts. “Given our scandal, and its rather underwhelming conclusion, I believe I would rather bet on the count here for satisfaction.”
Frustration mixed with a good dose of anger rendered him temporarily speechless.
The count lowered his fists and held out a hand to Kathryn, his eyes turning soft with heat and blatant invitation. “Kommen sie, meine Liebster. Lasst uns Liebe machen, ja?”
Kathryn gave Ryder a challenging grin, her gaze locked with his as she lilted, “I have no idea what you said, count, but I would love to.”
Ryder snapped his mouth shut. She had no idea if she was agreeing to milk a cow or to milk the count! Yet, just to spite him, she was going to do it. Well, there was no way in Hell he was letting that happen.
As she extended her slender hand to the Germanic idiot, Ryder snapped, his voice so low he hardly credited it as his own, “The hell you say.”
Her arms fell to her sides, and her cheeks flared with heat at his gruff tone. “I beg your—”
Ryder marched up to her, ignoring the fact he was acting like a complete Neanderthal, and grabbed her hand. “If you’re going anywhere, it’s with me.”
“You sent me on my way, if you recall,” she bit out.
“A mistake I intend to remedy. We are settling this.” He glanced down at her soft lips. Gripped by a complete lack of reason, he yanked her to him. “Now.”
Lowering his lips to hers, he devoured her mouth as if it was the last thing he’d ever taste. God, it was sweet. Sweet with wine and desire, and anger.
Her body tensed against his then her hands gripped his shoulders. Before he could think otherwise, he swept her up in his arms, cradling her against his chest.
