"Love makes people stupid," she had said. "Never let your heart become involved. Indeed, you should leave the matter entirely to me. I shall find you a suitable husband. One who will not trouble you too much in the bedroom once you've given him an heir." Her mother was not the sort to sugar her words. "Marriage is, unfortunately, a necessary evil. It is a matter of business. A woman unmarried and past her prime is nowhere, and at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to getting anywhere."
Yet despite giving out this advice, her mother had floated from one lover to another since her scandalous divorce, only finding a fragile state of temporary contentment while she had a man's adoration, and then sobbing into her pillow when he left her. Not that anybody was supposed to know how she cried. By the time Lady Charlotte re-emerged from her bedroom she was always well powdered and propped-up again.
True Deverell had paid for a costly Private Act of Parliament, clearing the way for both he and his former wife to marry other people, but Lady Charlotte remained in that same state of anxious, unwed limbo that she so feared for their daughter.
Meanwhile, Raven's father— who, for many years, had referred to marriage as a soul-crushing enterprise— recently took a new wife, and was apparently extremely happy this time, doing the one thing he'd sworn he would never do: fall in love.
With this opposing advice and so many contradictory examples in her life, was it any wonder Raven became an outspoken rebel? As a young girl she used to say she would marry only for a great deal of money, just because she liked to shock folk. But the inconvenient truth of the matter was, try as she might, she simply could not raise much enthusiasm for that idea. The more money a man had the more he was accustomed to getting everything he wanted, the way he wanted it, and that did not match well with Raven's independent spirit.
Now an adult, she hoped to be valued in life as something more than some man's acquisition. The idea of opening her own version of Deverell's, just for women only, had come to her quite suddenly that day as she faced Matthew Bourne's derisive laughter, yet the possibility remained on her mind tonight, a brightly glowing spark.
Her mother would throw cold water on it, of course, the moment she suspected Raven of any such scheme. Lady Charlotte thought her daughter should be content in a dutiful and miserable marital arrangement like any other young woman. "We all have to suffer marriage and motherhood," she would exclaim. "It is a woman's lot in life to bear all the pain. That's why we have diamonds to console us for it."
Well, Raven did not particularly care for diamonds. She preferred Whitby jet, much to her mother's irritation.
"You cannot go about in mourning jewelry all the time or people will think someone has died," Lady Charlotte had snapped as they dressed for the ball that evening. "You're meant to be catching a husband, not reminding everybody of death."
"But I am in mourning, mama," she had replied with suitably dramatic flair. "As I stand before you on the cusp of unholy matrimony with any man who'll take me, I mourn the death of all joy."
Her mother had then called her "Lady Macbeth" and they'd argued until Raven gave in and changed her earrings to small emeralds. At least now, when she failed in the task of catching that husband, it could not be blamed on her taste in jewelry.
She searched the watching sea of faces, but there was no sign of any interesting man, or of her mother at that moment. Perhaps some luckless heir was currently being run to ground on Raven's behalf. The idea made her smile as she envisioned her mother dragging the fellow's carcass across the floor, bound in ropes. But it was just as likely that Lady Charlotte sought prospects for herself, especially since she parted company with her last lover by riding a phaeton over his foot in Hyde Park.
Candlelight sparkled around the room, as if stars fell from the night's sky, slid down the chimneys, broke into little pieces and sprinkled themselves through the room, where they hovered, glittering wildly, catching and multiplying on lavish swathes of silk and an abundance of gemstones. The Winstanleys' guests wore their most elegant garments this evening, parading in their finery to compete with each other. It was all very pretty, but brittle and shallow, just as artificial as the laughter and conversation.
As her father liked to say, "these hidebound stuck-ups" were not really alive at all. Their brains echoed emptily, their senses deadened by the monotonous triviality of their lives. The upper classes were born to perpetrate traditions and prejudices, and they understood nothing that was different or new. In fact, they feared new ideas, her father said, because their comfortably numb existence was threatened by them.
Her shifting gaze found the tall, handsome figure of Matthew Bourne among the falling, darting stars. He stood with the graceful and demure Miss Louisa Winstanley. And her hawk-eyed mama. Although he looked wistfully over at Raven several times, he had not been able to separate himself from the Winstanleys tonight.
What would her father say about Matthew?
"That young man doesn't know himself at all, so how can he know you?" Yes, she heard her father's deep voice, very assured, giving his perceptive judgment. "He has some growing up still to do, his stride yet to find."
Quite so, papa. Matthew was not the man for her.
Put her up in a house on the coast, indeed! He wouldn't have the first idea what to do with her once he had her there. How did he expect her to pass the time? By planting flowers and painting landscapes? That would not keep her out of trouble for long.
She closed her eyes, thinking back to that afternoon— the uncomplicated pleasure of riding at wild speed, the wind scoring her face, excitement rattling through her body. If only she could find a man who made her feel like that, she mused.
Alas, he would probably not be a gentleman or deemed "suitable" by her mama.
Raven lifted her lashes and the room ceased to spin as the dance ended and her gaze met a pair of eyes amid the crowd that watched. A pair of eyes that were almost black, not dull, bored or empty, but very much alive. Heated, angry eyes. Challenging eyes. Stripping her bare.
Hale.
His name sliced crisply and ruthlessly through her daydreaming, as if he carved it through her consciousness with a spear of flint.
Chapter Four
"Who is she?" he demanded, his voice low. He didn't need to point her out. His gaze had been fixed upon the woman in green silk for the past fifteen minutes and he was certain the men beside him would know who caught his eye.
They did.
"Raven Deverell. Not a creature to be courted by the faint of heart."
"Deverell?"
"The daughter of True Deverell— who, of course, needs no introduction."
Hale took a deep breath, the first one he'd been aware of since he first set eyes on her again. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the woman rider who winked at him earlier that day.
He observed her smiling flirtatiously at several men around the room while she danced. Her first partner was too busy trying to keep up with the steps to notice how her attention wandered away from him. The second and third partners made more attempt to keep the flighty woman's eyes upon them, but she seemed increasingly annoyed with each man as the dances wore on, her smile becoming strained. He saw her lips move, although of course he could not hear her conversation. When she laughed, it was an exaggerated gesture in which she tipped her head back, as if what they had just told her was the most humorous remark she'd ever heard. But Hale sensed she was not laughing with her partners at all. Her eyes were too clever, too wily, too restlessly searching for other amusements.
"Miss Deverell is in London for the season with her mother — Lady Charlotte Rothsey," another man whispered. "You must have heard all about her parents' divorce years ago, and the family scandals before and since. Really, I'm shocked the Winstanleys still invite Lady Charlotte. She's burned most of her bridges in society. Torched them with relish, it might be said."
As a member of Deverell's, the most exclusive gentleman's gaming club in London, Hale had met True Deverell on se
veral occasions. He knew there existed a litter of children, some born to Deverell's former wife, Lady Charlotte, and some to his mistresses. Abruptly now he recalled the black-haired girl who once appeared at his side and then, having tried to instruct him on how to play his cards, cunningly spirited away his fob watch.
Had he been more interested in the social season, he might have seen her again before now, but his usual avoidance of London this time of year meant that he'd missed her growing up. Until today.
Raven Deverell who had, for so long, remained nothing more than a naughty child running away from him and trailing a green ribbon through his memory, was suddenly there before him again. As a woman. Very much grown up.
When had that happened? Had so much time passed?
Each time she looked up at the chandelier, light caught flame in the small emeralds hanging from her ears and a long tail of midnight hair trickled down her back.
His whispering informant continued, "The elder brother was mixed up in some woman's death a few years ago, down in the west country. He was never tried for any crime, but there are folk who believe he got away with murder. The other brothers aren't much better. None are shining examples of morality. Not that anyone is these days."
Hale shot him a quick glare.
"Present company excepted, of course," came the swift amendment.
He looked across at the dancing filly again. Her shoulders— gently sloping above short, puffed sleeves— curved into slender but strong, beautifully shaped arms in long white gloves. Her skin was not fashionably pale. There was a warmer, darker shade, revealing a bloodline that wandered from the usual, carefully cultivated path of English pedigree. Her hair was a rich, thick tumble of black curl, arranged in casual haste. Or perhaps not arranged at all, but left to fall however it wished. Hence the "tail", which seemed to have a will of its own.
Hale felt his hands twitching with a strange restiveness and so he found them hasty occupation, checking the knot in his cravat and then smoothing fingertips over his hair, which was still slightly damp at the ends.
Her eyes were doe-like, the color dark but uncertain from that distance. Soot black lashes were half-lowered, like cunning, miniature fans in some ladylike attempt to hide the direction of her gaze.
But she'd seen him. Hale knew it. He felt that moment of recognition. He tasted it.
There was nothing ladylike about the way she'd used those eyelashes earlier when his gaze caught hers between a muddied silk handkerchief and the brim of a tweed cap.
Nor was there anything gentlemanly about the way he watched her now.
His pulse quickened to a most unsettling, unusual pace.
Her lips were full and lush, a tender pink, reminding him of blushing peony petals at their peak. His favorite flower.
"They say she's been running about with Matthew Bourne. His parents are at the end of their tether, because the boy refuses to give her up. There was talk of sending him away with a tutor for a tour abroad, but after what happened to his brother in Paris...well...his parents won't let him so far out of their sight."
Hale stared grimly across the ballroom, watching her.
"She's been engaged before, but nothing came of it," his informant continued. "There have been various affairs, so I hear, but nobody ever won her icy little heart."
"Oh and that American steamship chap, Cornelius Vanderbilt, claimed she bit him."
"Bit him?"
"Of course, Americans tend to exaggerate."
Listening to all this, Hale was partially horrified, a little amused, and reluctantly intrigued.
"I'm sure her father would provide a good dowry just to get her well married." Yet another man had joined the conversation. "Deverell can certainly afford it. But who wants to align themselves with that family of reprobates? Besides, keeping a woman like that as a wife...? She's a handful. Untamable in all likelihood. Not the way to a quiet life, by any means. A mistress, however..." he chuckled, "that would be a more agreeable prospect, eh? One can hardly blame young Bourne."
Matthew Bourne. Hale winced at the name. He didn't think he'd ever felt such strong adversity to a person in his life as he did to that boy. And it multiplied by the moment.
Naturally Bourne had no thought of marrying her— his parents would never sanction the match— but he would take advantage of so much wild, unguarded beauty. As would every man in that room, given half a chance. They were like moths to the proverbial flame.
She was clearly a vivacious, too-sociable creature of questionable repute and doubtful virtue.
He was surprised his aunts had never mentioned her during one of his dutiful visits to their parlor for tea and cake. Usually they had plenty of social news to impart, especially when it involved broken engagements and scandalous liaisons. But then he only listened to a quarter of their conversation. Perhaps less.
Now he realized what he might have been missing.
Raven. A perfect name for a dark satin filly, spirited and watchful, scampering around the paddock with no intention of being caught and saddled. Flicking her tail in the sunshine and showing off.
"I appreciate the warning, gentlemen," he said finally. "But I only asked her name. I didn't suggest I was looking to have her as a wife. Or as anything else."
"No, Hale. Your words didn't."
* * * *
After dancing for half an hour and fending off the dogged attentions of Guy Hammond and Felix Faulkner— two handsome rakes who recently lost sizeable wagers to her and now sought to claim something in return for their trouble— Raven was eager for respite. About to slip backward out of the ballroom and find her mother, she was stopped abruptly by a deep voice.
"You realize, of course, that you broke the rules. But I understand that's something of a Deverell specialty."
Tiny, impish footprints darted up her spine, and made her draw a quick breath, as if her corset had just tightened another inch. Her skin prickled, sensing the ghost of his touch upon it. But unlike most ghosts, this one did not come from the past; it came from the future. And it was certainly not a cold or timid caress.
"Rules?" She didn't turn immediately, but kept her back to him.
"Yes, Miss Deverell. Standards by which all members of the Racers' Club are bound to comply."
"I'm not a member of this...Racers' Club, whatever that might be," she replied in her mother's most dismissive tone of hauteur. "I have no inkling of what you mean to accuse me."
"Riding a horse, madam, in a race that was strictly for men only."
Raven laughed lightly. "I hate to disappoint, but you are quite mistaken, sir."
And then he must have stooped to whisper, for she felt his breath on the back of her neck. It almost stopped her heart. "I know it was you, Miss Deverell. You winked at me as you rode that horse this afternoon. You wanted my attention. Again." His breath moved closer, disturbed a curl beside her cheek. "Now you have it."
Spinning around, just as he straightened up to his full height, she found herself facing a grey felt waistcoat that no man of fashion would wear in the evening. In fact, she saw by his suit of clothes that he'd come directly from Bourne Lodge, not bothering to change. She looked upward. And kept looking up until, somewhere in the rarified air above her, she located a hard, chiseled jaw clenched in an emotion deeper and darker than anger. Apparently he thought to intimidate her.
"But I, sir," she gave him an arch smile, "know nothing about your silly club. I'm sure I wouldn't be allowed in it."
"No. You certainly would not." Finely sculpted lips parted, so slightly it was a miracle any words escaped. "But you were aided in this deception by your friend, who hosted the race today and who is a member of our silly club. For now. Until I have him tossed out."
His demanding gaze bore down upon her and she felt undone by it, as if he'd found a single hook on the back of her gown that somehow, once released by a solitary brush of his regard, let the silk fall to her ankles. Raven kept her head high, despite the quickening of her breath and the
erratic skip of her pulse. "My friend? I have many. Which can you mean?"
"Young Bourne. I could have your lover cast out for life after that little ruse today. With one word from me he'd never get his horses in another race."
Just like that he had assumed they were lovers, of course. "Why tell me all this? I don't even know who you are."
His cold smirk told her that he knew this was a lie.
She swallowed and moved to pass. "Neither do I care. Excuse me, sir, I must—"
Suddenly he had her around the waist and before she could object, they were waltzing. He hadn't even asked.
Chapter Five
She felt the stinging, envious rebuke of every woman there, while the men watched in varying degrees of amazement. Queen Victoria herself might have entered the ball at that moment and possibly been mistaken for a small, plain woman of no particular importance. If she was noticed at all.
Because the very proper, well-respected gentleman, Sebastian Hale, Earl of Southerton, was dancing with the notoriously naughty Raven Deverell. An odd couple, indeed.
"You're not even dressed for a ball, sir. What could you be thinking? I'm surprised they didn't turn you away at the door." But of course they did not, because he was Hale. He could get away with wooden clogs, a worsted shepherd's smock and hayseeds in his hair if he wanted.
"They let you in, did they not?" he replied coolly. "Apparently standards are not what they were."
Ah, good. She always enjoyed an argument with a capable opponent. The company at this ball was in danger of putting her to sleep until he showed his grim face. Raven felt considerably lighter on her feet suddenly, reawakened. Perhaps it was simply because he was someone new.
"Why are we dancing?" she demanded. "I didn't hear you ask me."
"If I asked, you would have made some dainty protest about resting your feet or feeling faint and requiring a chair."
"Oh, is that what women usually say to escape your horrid clutches?"
Chasing Raven Page 3
