by Darcy Burke
Only the words that came out of his mouth weren’t “Red Door,” but “Black Horse.” It seemed old habits died hard.
Two nights later, Philippa arrived at Lady Anstruther’s ball in the company of her father, that woman, and Lord von Egmont. She immediately scanned the ballroom for Sevrin, but couldn’t find him. He was either not here or hidden amongst the crowd. It was likely the former, since she’d looked for him every night and he had never been in attendance after Lady Dunwoody’s ball. This shouldn’t have surprised her since she was fairly certain his polite invitations were few and far between.
Resigned, she instead looked for Lydia who was returning to Society tonight after her name had been wagered at White’s as Sevrin’s mystery woman. Horrified, she’d taken to her bed and was only here tonight because her great-aunt had demanded she show everyone she couldn’t be cowed by a ridiculous—and untrue—wager.
A group of people were clustered around Someone Very Interesting in the far corner. Philippa’s breath caught as she wondered if it might be Sevrin. But it couldn’t be. People didn’t fawn over him, they stared at him from across the room. He was interesting, but dangerous.
“What do you suppose is going on over there?” she asked von Egmont.
“Let’s find out.”
He escorted her through the crowd until they were near enough that she could finally make out the person of interest. Lydia! Their gazes met and Lydia smiled widely. “Excuse me,” she said to those around her. “I must speak with my dear friend, Lady Philippa.” She cut through the people and Philippa met her.
“Come and walk with me,” she said, taking Philippa’s free arm and casting a glance at von Egmont.
Von Egmont disengaged himself from Philippa and stood aside.
Lydia pulled her away from the throng. “Can you believe it? I’m the most popular girl in London. All because some nincompoop wrote my name in the betting book at White’s. I was certain my reputation was doomed, but no one believed it. Indeed, it’s given me an air of excitement. My dance card is nearly full, Philippa, full!”
Philippa smiled at her friend’s exuberance. She deserved to bask in this moment. “How lovely that tragedy has turned into victory.”
“Aunt Margaret is beside herself and of course taking all the credit.” Lydia adopted a high, scratchy voice, “‘If I hadn’t dragged you out of your room, you’d still be crying into your pillow, silly gel.’” She rolled her eyes.
Margaret was a spinster universally feared for her sharp tongue and ability to ruin anyone. That her great-niece hadn’t blossomed into one of the ton’s most sought-after young ladies had been a particular source of bitterness—at least according to Lydia. How satisfied she must be feeling now that her protégé was suddenly the toast.
Philippa was less concerned with Lydia’s aunt’s reaction than with the wager itself. She naturally held a personal interest in what happened with it. Specifically, that her name wasn’t written down. “I wonder why your name was entered, though. Peculiar, isn’t it?”
Lydia cocked her head to the side. “Perhaps not. Sevrin’s mystery woman is rumored to be a debutante, after all.”
A fact that made Philippa a bit nauseous. “What nonsense. The woman was supposedly masked.”
“Also rather young and possessed of a certain air.”
Philippa cringed. If someone had—correctly—deduced Sevrin’s mystery woman was a deb, what else had they discerned? The scar on her elbow perhaps?
The flesh just below the hem of her glove suddenly itched.
Lydia shrugged. “Ah well, I daresay that may be the last we hear of the wager after Saxton castigated the young man who wrote my name.”
Philippa would cling to that hope. “I heard about that. I almost feel sorry for the man if Saxton turned his icy Sinclair Stare on him.” If people feared Lydia’s aunt, they were positively petrified of running afoul of Saxton’s father, the Duke of Holborn. The males in their family were so renowned for their ability to cut, that their trademark look had been coined the Sinclair Stare.
“I do not. Feel sorry for him, that is. Serves him right for sullying my name.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Though, I may thank him in my prayers tonight.” She giggled softly.
They’d circuited half the ballroom, drawing interested looks and smiles as they progressed. Lydia inclined her head at people and smiled in return, clearly enjoying her notoriety. All the while, Philippa was dreadfully aware of how close she’d come to utter ruination. If someone had written her name down, would everyone assume the charge was false and clamor for her attention? Or would they somehow divine the truth? A cold shiver slithered down her spine.
Lord Allred intercepted them. “Good evening, ladies.” His gaze settled on Philippa. “I expect you to save me a dance, Lady Philippa.”
She dipped a slight curtsey, forcing her mind away from a disaster that would likely never be. “I’d be delighted, my lord.”
“The set after the next?”
“Perfect.”
“Until then.” He bowed to them and they continued on.
Lydia squeezed her arm. “He’s so handsome—all that muscle from his sporting activities. He’s quite the cricket player, but then you’d know all about that. He seems interested in you.”
“Yes, we’ve danced together the last two nights.”
Lydia smiled knowingly. “He’s courting you.”
“Not formally.” But perhaps he would, provided Sevrin found him acceptable. Where was Sevrin anyway?
“Do you want him to? I mean, are you really looking for a husband? Aunt Margaret says you enjoy stringing men along.” Lydia turned wide eyes toward her as the color drained from her face. “I’m so sorry, Philippa. I never meant to insult you.”
It was nothing she hadn’t heard before—not directly, but via whispered gossip that invariably made its way back to her. “Apology accepted. Just promise me you don’t say that to anyone else.”
“Of course not. But you could marry anyone and yet you don’t.”
“I plan to marry soon. Why don’t you tell your aunt that?”
Lydia gave Philippa an earnest look, clearly trying to make up for her faux pas. “If you want me to, I will.”
Philippa patted her hand. “It doesn’t matter.” If she didn’t marry, she needn’t worry about what the Aunt Margarets of the ton would say—they’d be too scandalized by her mother’s public separation from her father.
They returned to where they’d started and were immediately set upon by people wanting to talk with Lydia. The commotion was so great that Philippa didn’t see Sevrin approach until he was upon her.
He was garbed in rich navy blue with a wine-colored waistcoat. Allred might be handsome, but Sevrin was devastating. His dark eyes glittered beneath the thousands of candles illuminating the ballroom—and they focused solely on her.
Silently, inconspicuously, he handed her a small scrap of paper and then turned without a word. In fact, the encounter was so brief as to perhaps not even have occurred. However, his departure through the ballroom, his form standing out like a prize stallion among a field full of nags, evidenced that it had.
Belatedly, she realized he’d given her a note. With shaking fingers she unfolded the parchment.
Remove Finchley from your list. I can no longer help you. Best wishes with your endeavor.
She turned the paper over looking for more. That was it?
The warm fuzziness that had pervaded her a moment before evaporated like a bead of water over an open flame. He couldn’t mean to simply give her a note and walk away? He’d committed to helping her! Maybe he’d carelessly abandoned that girl in Cornwall, but she wasn’t going to let him do the same to her.
Livid, she stared after him, wishing she could run him down and demand an explanation. Covertly, she glanced around and then surreptitiously made her way to the perimeter of the ballroom. She marked his progress as she surveyed her own path to ensure no one was paying undue attention to
her. He reached the exit and she quickened her pace as much as she dared. Just a few more steps and she’d be free of the ballroom.
At last she stepped into the—fortunately empty—corridor and strode to intercept him. She caught his sleeve between her fingertips. “What is the meaning of this?” she hissed, holding up his ridiculous note.
He turned. And tried to shake her off. “Go back to the ballroom. You know we can’t be seen together.”
“Then find some place private because I’m not leaving until you explain yourself. You said you’d help me.”
“I did help you, but now I can no longer do so.”
Suddenly she felt as if the world were pressing down on her, like she couldn’t breathe.
“You can’t abandon me. How am I to know d’Echely’s or Vick’s or Allred’s true natures?”
“I can’t help you.” He sounded strained, annoyed. And he still didn’t look at her.
She grabbed his lapels. “Look at me!”
He did and there was something in his eyes—regret maybe. Whatever it was, it gave her pause. “I can’t help you,” he said again, with an edge that didn’t match his gaze.
Voices sounded from behind her.
“Bloody hell,” he breathed. Then he grabbed her elbow and pulled her to the nearest door, which he opened. He pushed her over the threshold and followed her inside drawing the door closed behind them.
Darkness enveloped them, but she’d seen they were in a small closet. A very small closet. That from the smell of it contained candles.
The voices grew louder and louder and then they just stopped.
Her body quivering with barely-checked panic, Philippa closed her eyes and waited for ruin.
Chapter Ten
AMBROSE listened intently for any sound from the corridor. He held his breath waiting to see if they would be discovered. After all their near misses at Lockwood House to be found here in an indefensibly incriminating position…
She exhaled and it sounded like a cannon blast. He brought his gloved finger to her mouth and pressed it against her lips. Now her breath sucked in, albeit much more quietly. He tried not to think of the heat of her mouth seeping through his glove or the gust of her breath against his finger. And he fought the urge to slide that finger into her mouth in the faint hope she might suckle it.
His cock roared to attention and the small closet surged in temperature.
Finally, muted voices came from outside the door. He couldn’t hear what they said, but only because his senses were full of Philippa—her lilac-honey scent, the warmth of her body so close to his, the sound of her soft breathing, quickening with each beat of her heart, signaling that her desire—like his—was climbing.
The voices continued, but he was having a hard time concentrating on anything but Philippa’s proximity. Because of the tight space, he stood so close to her that if he just inched forward—and as he thought it, he did it—her breasts would be pressed against him.
He closed his eyes in ecstasy. This was the closest he’d been to a woman in five years. His previous kisses with Philippa notwithstanding.
Instead of retreating as he might have expected, she leaned into him. And then she somehow read his mind—at least partially. She pressed her lips to his finger.
He stifled a groan as he cupped the side of her face and slid his palm down to her collarbone. Her heart beat strong and fast there, and the hot silk of her flesh burned through his glove.
Kissing her was out of the question. It would only lead to God-knew-what, and he couldn’t go there with her. But that didn’t stop him from lowering his head and inhaling the scent of her hair. He brushed his cheek against hers and bit his tongue lest it dart out and trace a path to her ear, down her neck, then lower to the edge of her bodice.
She nudged her cheek against him and breathed a single word, “Ambrose.”
He was a mass of dry, brittle wood and she was the flame that would burn him to the ground.
Which was what made him step back. Not far, because the closet simply wouldn’t allow it.
He picked up the sound of fading footsteps in the corridor and took that to mean those outside had left. He allowed himself to exhale and so did she, their breath warming the already steamy interior of their confined space.
With each breath he took, reason returned. And anger—at himself, but he’d never been very good at directing it.
“Philippa, you shouldn’t have followed me.” Though he whispered, he injected a firm dose of urgency.
“I’m to just let you abandon me?” Her whisper was far less fierce. In fact, he wondered if she wasn’t upset, but in the darkness, he couldn’t tell.
He couldn’t let her get to him. He’d had his fill of lowering his defenses around beautiful, alluring females. Or rather, one beautiful, alluring female. “I’m not abandoning you. You don’t need me to find a husband.”
“Apparently I do if you think I should remove Finchley from consideration. He seems perfectly acceptable to me. Just yesterday I saw him in the park and we had the most diverting conversation about his latest purchase at Tattersall’s—”
Christ, maybe she did need him. Or someone anyway. “I take your point, however, I can’t be the one to help you.”
“What’s wrong with Finchley? I’d like to know.”
He was careful to keep his voice low. “He’s an idiot. For one, he’s far too interested in my mystery woman.”
“But surely that will die down after what Saxton did to that boy who wrote Lydia’s name in the book.”
“Perhaps. If anyone can keep scandal to a minimum it’s Saxton or his father. But just as they can tamp it down, others can stoke it. Every moment we spend together is a moment we risk your reputation.”
She was quiet, which allowed him to be painfully aware of her proximity again, of the heat emanating from her delicious body. And also of the distance that really stretched between them, regardless of how close they now stood. He could dream of her the rest of his days, but he could never, ever have her.
“You should go,” he said, while the dark recesses of his mind thought of how he could raise her skirts, lift her against the wall, and slide into her.
Her hand found his cheek in the darkness and stroked his jawline. “’Tis a pity things aren’t different. If you weren’t who you are…”
He grabbed her hand and pressed a hard kiss to her gloved palm. “Go. And if I had to pick one of your suitors right now, I’d choose Allred. From what I can discern, his reputation is sterling.”
“Are you giving me permission to kiss him now?”
Jealousy cut through him. “Yes.” He forced the word through the tight muscles of his throat.
The space around him moved, and he felt her lips against the side of his mouth. He held her close a moment and spoke softly against her ear. “But don’t be cruel. Don’t kiss him if you don’t plan to marry him. He’ll spend the rest of his life cursing his loss.” He felt her shiver, but ruthlessly pressed himself back as far as the closet would allow.
“Oh no, Allred,” she said at full voice, which nearly sent him into a panic. “I’m supposed to be dancing with him.”
She cracked open the door and peered outside. “It’s clear.” She threw a glance over her shoulder, but he couldn’t read her eyes. Then she was gone.
He pulled the door closed and immersed himself in darkness once more. He rested his forehead against the door and took deep, even breaths until his cock relaxed and the sexual tension in his body dissipated. Somewhat. It never went away completely these days, and he could only hope a return to fighting would improve his condition. Just three more days.
After another moment, he opened the door and stepped into the corridor, coming face to face with Booth-Barrows who was on his way from the ballroom. One of his dark brows made a slow climb up his forehead as he contemplated Ambrose. Ambrose gave him an equally studious stare. They communicated more silently than they could ever have hoped to with words.
&nb
sp; Booth-Barrows, I saw you at Lockwood House.
Ambrose, And I saw you.
They both inclined their heads and went their separate ways. Ambrose had decided he’d best walk the direction Booth-Barrows had not, which meant he was headed back to the ballroom. Just as well, since he figured he should dance with another debutante who wasn’t Philippa.
Who to choose? He scanned the wall next to where he entered and immediately saw one of the girls who’d been with Philippa at Lady Dunwoody’s. They hadn’t been introduced, but what did he care? He made his way to her.
“Good evening, I believe we met the other night, Lady…?”
She blinked up at him with pale sea-green eyes. They reminded him of the water surrounding the Roseland Peninsula back home.
“Miss Cheswick,” she supplied. “I’m not sure—”
“Would you care to dance?” While he didn’t frequent London balls, he was certain of her wallflower status by the way her eyes lit.
“I would, my lord.” She dipped a brief curtsey and then he led her onto the dance floor.
The line for the dance was forming, and it was the devil’s luck—or his own—to find himself standing next to Lord Goddamned Allred who was partnered with Philippa.
She looked flushed and lovely. Her delectable lips formed the slightest O of surprise at seeing him, but she quickly masked it by shooting Miss Cheswick a questioning look. Miss Cheswick simply shrugged and gave a mildly bewildered smile. He was glad he’d asked her to dance above anyone else. He only hoped his attention wouldn’t solidify her wallflower status.
The music started as Allred nodded at him. “I say Sevrin, is it true you’re to fight in Dirty Lane on Friday night?”
He hadn’t spoken very loudly, but his voice carried to Philippa, whose head snapped in his direction. Her eyes widened, and he could fairly see the questions trying to tumble from her mouth.
Ambrose nodded. He was a bit surprised Allred would broach this topic in front of ladies in the middle of a dance. “It is.”
