by Olivia Drake
She had driven him mad with desire. He had spent half the night tossing and turning, finally resorting to his hand to relieve his pent-up frustration. But that was a poor substitute for having Lindsey in his bed. In his fantasies, he was back in that pitch-black dressing room with her, only this time he let her unbutton his breeches. This time he allowed Lindsey to pleasure him as he’d done to her. And this time he pushed her down onto the floor and mounted her, riding hard until they both reached the peak of bliss—
“Ahem.”
He realized that Bernard stood before him, holding a fresh length of linen. Thane glared at him. “What?”
The valet lowered his gaze to frown at Thane’s throat. “You cannot mean to go out with your neck cloth in so disastrous a condition, my lord. Unless you wish for my reputation as a gentleman’s gentleman to fall into complete and utter ruin.”
“Don’t be theatrical.”
Nevertheless, Thane ripped off the ruined cravat and tossed it onto a nearby chair. He looped the fresh linen around his neck and then shifted impatiently from one foot to the other while Bernard deftly tied it.
The valet’s precise movements reflected years of discipline in the military. Thane admonished himself for his testiness when he owed the fellow a debt of gratitude for saving his life. The two of them had survived many a battle together, equals in fighting a common enemy. Thane knew of no one he trusted more.
“Regarding cravats,” he said in a more modulated tone, “have you found out who stitched the one used in the murders?”
“I’ve visited a number of tailors, and as yet no one recognizes it.”
Thane had known that hope was a long shot. “Try some of the gentlemen’s emporiums along The Strand. The villain might have purchased his neck cloths from a lesser-known establishment.”
“I will indeed—and the button you found beside the third victim, as well. By the by, did you learn anything of importance from Lady Entwhistle yesterday evening?”
Thane had learned he was a glutton for punishment. He had been trapped for the better part of an hour with the most desirable woman in the world, yet he had stopped himself from taking the ultimate prize. He didn’t know if that made him a hero . . . or a damned fool.
One thing was certain: the episode had been a huge distraction from his investigation. He’d been following a hunch that Lady Entwhistle might be in cahoots with Wrayford in regard to the murders. The first victim had been in her employ, and given her penchant for playing nasty games, it was possible she had provided Wrayford with a handy place to conduct his romances with the slain maids. Those two were precisely the unscrupulous sort to get their jollies out of seducing and then strangling vulnerable women.
He realized Bernard was waiting for an answer.
“She was entertaining Wrayford, along with two other scapegraces. There wasn’t sufficient time for me to conduct a thorough search of her house.”
However, he’d had ample time to conduct a thorough search underneath Lindsey’s skirts. He’d been so enthralled they had almost been discovered in flagrante delicto. Despite the risks, he had burned to take Lindsey right there on the floor of the dressing room, and damn the consequences.
“Will you be calling on Miss Crompton today?” Bernard asked.
Thane jerked his head back. He hoped to God that a flush didn’t give him away. “Miss Crompton? Why the devil would you bring up her name?”
The valet cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. “You mentioned her while you were dressing yesterday, my lord. You were intending to determine a time when she might accompany you and Miss Jocelyn to the shops.”
Thane had completely forgotten. “I did encounter her,” he admitted grudgingly, “but there was no opportunity to ask. I’ll have to do so another time.”
The prospect of seeing Lindsey again sent a jolt of heat to his loins. The trouble was, Mrs. Crompton had forbidden the courtship. She had made her ambitions quite clear to Thane. If he called at their house, the footman stationed at the door would be instructed to tell him that Lindsey was indisposed. Likewise, any notes he posted to her were likely to be delivered to Mrs. Crompton instead. Lindsey would be kept insulated from any contact with him.
Perversely, Thane relished the challenge. He resolved to glance through his stack of invitations and determine which society gatherings Lindsey likely would attend in the coming evenings.
And when he did arrange a clandestine meeting, they wouldn’t be heading to the shops. That was merely a cover for his true purpose. Lindsey suspected he’d done away with the maids Tilly and Nelda.
It was time he set her straight.
“You’ve driven him away,” Mrs. Crompton whispered. “I demand to know precisely what you said to him.”
Lindsey gave her mother an innocent look. “I cannot imagine, Mama. Perhaps he’s simply lost interest.”
She sat on a gilt chair in between her parents in the ballroom at the Marchioness of Wargrave’s house. Her father was engaged in conversation with the elderly gentleman beside him. At the front of the chamber, a stage had been set up with white columns, statuary, and clumps of ferns to simulate a Grecian temple. A low hum of conversation blanketed the ballroom as everyone awaited the imminent arrival of a famed soprano.
Lindsey saw her mother cast yet another worried glance toward Lord Wrayford, who sat with Miss Frances Beardsley at the front of the chamber. Much to Mama’s aggravation, a vast fortune mattered little when it came to protocol. The Cromptons’ common lineage had consigned them to the back rows of the audience.
“He ought to have invited you to sit with him,” Lindsey’s mother muttered. “He promised . . .”
“Promised what?” It incensed Lindsey that Mama and Lord Wrayford had formulated a secret pact behind her back. Wrayford had admitted as much himself that day she’d gone to his house. Was she to have no say in the matter of her own future?
“Hush,” Mrs. Crompton whispered. “The performance is about to begin.”
A dark-haired woman mounted the steps to the stage. Her coppery gown shimmering in the candlelight, she struck a pose beside a column with both hands clasped to her bosom and her face raised to the heavens. After a dramatic pause, she launched into a song with tones so pure Lindsey felt a prickling over her skin.
Or perhaps it was something else that caused the chills. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a tall man in the doorway. Angling her head ever so slightly, Lindsey saw him more clearly.
Mansfield.
Her heart launched into a mad drumbeat that drowned out the smooth clarity of the opera singer’s voice. Fixing her attention on the stage, Lindsey sat rigidly in her chair, her gloved hands clenched in her lap. Three nights had passed since that erotic episode with Mansfield in the dressing room at Lady Entwhistle’s house. All the while, Lindsey had been on pins and needles, both dreading and anticipating when he would walk back into her life again. One fact was certain: she had not succeeded in banishing the memory of her shamefully wanton behavior.
What had she been thinking, to grant him intimacies that belonged only to a husband?
She hadn’t been thinking, that’s what. The power he wielded over her heart and mind defied explanation. Mansfield was a charmer; she had known that from their first meeting. But her sister Blythe was the one who fawned over men, while Lindsey had always been scornful of such romantic nonsense. So how was it that he had coaxed such a sinfully glorious response from her body? It was almost as if Mansfield had cast a spell that erased all her common sense.
She couldn’t concentrate on the musical performance when he stood only a few yards behind her. Had he come here on purpose to seek her out? Or was his presence merely a coincidence?
She didn’t believe in coincidence. Especially not when it came to Mansfield.
Ignoring her better judgment, Lindsey risked another glance over her shoulder. The moment she did so, he lifted his hand slightly and beckoned to her.
Her heart lurched again, and she wrenched her ga
ze back to the singer. Thankfully, Mama was engrossed in watching the stage, as were all the guests around them. No one else had noticed Mansfield.
Blast him for motioning to her as if she were a servant trained to do his bidding. And blast herself for feverishly casting about for an excuse that would enable her to slip out during the performance. It was preposterous even to contemplate such a discourtesy.
Yet the knowledge of his presence burned into her. Instead of heeding the sweetly melodic voice of the singer, Lindsey entertained a vision of Mansfield’s arms enclosing her, drawing her against his muscular body, pressing his mouth to hers in a passionate kiss. . . .
Lindsey opened her fan and waved it to cool her flushed face. Then she realized he would know she was overheated and lowered it to her lap again. Botheration! It didn’t matter what the cad thought of her.
Mansfield was an expert seducer who knew precisely how to tempt a lady into sin. He had offered only a flimsy excuse for snooping in Lady Entwhistle’s house, saying that he’d come there to return something. Lindsey knew he had to be lying. Otherwise, he would have knocked on the front door like any other gentleman.
For the past three days, she had wracked her brain to conceive of a logical reason for him to be creeping around in the dark. Her obsessive thoughts kept going back and forth on a well-trod path. Had he intended to carry on a tryst with Lady Entwhistle, just as Lord Wrayford had done?
Or worse, had Mansfield meant to seek out one of the female servants—in his guise of the Serpentine Strangler? After all, Lady Entwhistle had employed the first murdered maid.
Staring ahead at the stage, Lindsey tried to reconcile that horrible possibility with the tender man who had kissed her senseless. He had known two maids who had disappeared—Nelda and Tilly—and Nelda had bragged of having a gentleman lover. On the strength of that knowledge, Lindsey had gone to the Bow Street Runners. Ever since, she had agonized over her decision and prayed for a happy conclusion. If only Cyrus Bott could discover their whereabouts, then Mansfield’s name would be cleared.
Meanwhile, Lindsey felt weighed down by her secret. She could only imagine Mansfield’s reaction if he knew she’d reported him to the law. If he was guilty, he might well seek revenge. And if he was innocent, he would be wounded by her colossal lack of faith in him.
For the remainder of the set, Lindsey kept her eyes trained straight ahead, pretending that he didn’t exist. At last the singer concluded the first portion of the program, and Lindsey joined in the polite applause.
As the aristocrats began to leave their seats to seek refreshments during the interval, Mrs. Crompton caught hold of Lindsey’s elbow and urged her to her feet. Lindsey’s father made to stand up as well, but her mother said, “There isn’t any need to disturb yourself, Mr. Crompton. We’ll return in a few minutes.”
Papa gave Lindsey a quick smile and a nod. “Off to gossip, are you? Pray behave yourselves.” He and the stoop-shouldered older man resumed their conversation about the shipping trade.
“Come along,” Mama commanded. “We only have a few minutes.”
Clutching her closed fan, Lindsey allowed her mother to herd her down the row of chairs and into a broad aisle. She scanned the throng of elegant gentlemen and ladies. But Mansfield’s tall figure had vanished from sight.
Where had he gone?
She realized that Mama was steering her toward Lord Wrayford, who was strolling in their direction with Miss Frances Beardsley on his arm. The girl resembled an elaborately decorated confection with pink bows festooning her sleeves and waist and a matching ribbon threaded in her blond curls.
Under her breath, Lindsey hissed, “Please, Mama. We mustn’t intrude on them.”
“Nonsense, this is your chance to charm him,” Mrs. Crompton whispered back. Her agreeable smile widened as they reached the pair. “Why, my dear Lord Wrayford. How very pleasant to see you here. And Miss Beardsley, I trust you’ve enjoyed the performance thus far?”
Frances made a show of clinging to Wrayford’s arm. Unfortunately for her, he wore a coat in a garish shade of mustard yellow that jarred with her aura of syrupy sweetness. “It was eminently satisfactory,” she purred, “especially considering our prime position in the front. So, Lindsey, how was it at the back of the chamber? I do hope your view wasn’t too terribly impaired.”
“I’ve always believed that the view is not as important at a concert as the quality of the sound,” Lindsey said. “A fine soloist is much better appreciated from the vantage point of a slight distance.”
Frances curled her lip. “Well! I found the company more stirring than the singer.”
She batted her pale lashes at Wrayford. But he was too busy leering at Lindsey’s low-cut bodice to notice.
Lindsey snapped open her fan to block his view. “Did you?” she said in a bored tone. “How very remarkable.”
She considered adding a yawn for effect, but Mama was already frowning slightly at the flow of conversation.
“I’m looking for your mother,” Mrs. Crompton said to Frances. “Do you happen to know where she’s gone?”
“She was here with us a few moments ago,” Frances said, making a vague wave toward the guests who were heading toward the refreshment tables. “I believe she went that way.”
Mrs. Crompton stepped forward to take firm hold of the girl’s arm. “Do show me if you will.”
“But Lord Wrayford and I were—”
“He’ll accompany Lindsey. Now come along at once. You simply must tell me who made that deliciously dazzling gown of yours.”
Frances snapped at the bait. As they walked away, she launched into a rhapsody about the superiority of her seamstress.
Lindsey found herself alone with Wrayford. He regarded her with wary resentment, hardly a surprise, since at their last face-to-face meeting she’d left him doubled over in pain. Thank heavens he had no idea that she’d witnessed his erotic romp with Lady Entwhistle.
Lindsey leisurely waved the fan to keep her bosom hidden from his gaze. “I trust you’ve collected your phaeton.”
He folded his arms in the manner of a sulky boy. “I did indeed. Though since you’d stolen it, you ought to have paid the stable fee.”
“Consider it the price of attacking a lady.” She glanced around to see that most of the guests had trooped out to the dining chamber for the refreshments, leaving the ballroom nearly empty. “Shall we join the others? I perfectly understand why you’ve no interest in pursuing your courtship of me. As far as I’m concerned, we may deem your agreement with my mother null and void.”
Turning, she strolled toward the open doorway. He didn’t follow at first; then the hurried tapping of his footsteps caught up to her. “Now, Miss Crompton, pray don’t be hasty. Why, thoughts of you have occupied my every waking hour. I vow you are the most ravishing creature ever to walk the face of this Earth.”
She burst out laughing. “How preposterous. I suspect you told that very same lie to Miss Beardsley.”
“Jealous, are you?” He watched her with a lordly confidence in his own superior birthright. “It could have been you sitting up front with me. Perhaps if you apologize nicely, I’ll reconsider our estrangement.”
From the avaricious look in his eyes, she knew he still coveted her dowry. But he also craved a sop to his overweening pride.
He would have neither from her.
“Heaven forbid I should ever come between you and Miss Beardsley.” Lindsey paused, then couldn’t resist adding, “Or between you and Lady Entwhistle.”
Wrayford started visibly. His pale blue eyes widening, he fingered the folds of his elaborate cravat. “Lady Entwhistle? Why, I hardly know the woman.”
“Hmm. There’s a rumor flying around that you were seen departing her house a few nights ago.”
“Bah. You shouldn’t heed such silly gossip.” His clammy fingers wrapped around her upper arm. “Come, my pretty, we’ll find a quiet corner and have a pleasant little chat. You may beg my forgiveness for your mis
treatment of me, and if you’re lucky I shall be generous enough to grant you clemency.”
During that absurd speech, he steered her out the door and toward an alcove featuring a life-size marble statue of the goddess Athena. Lindsey considered yanking free, but she disliked making a scene while guests strolled the grand hall with its frescoed ceiling and massive chandelier.
A man stepped out from behind a bank of ferns. “Wrayford. I see you’re coercing women again.”
With a jolt, Lindsey found herself looking up at Mansfield. Her pulse sped up at the sight of him. He embodied the essence of masculinity in a chocolate brown coat, snowy white cravat, and fawn breeches. She yearned to catch his eye, but his hard gaze was focused on her companion.
Wrayford glowered. “Go find your own female. I’m sure Miss Crompton would be alarmed to learn how many hearts you’ve broken all over the Continent.”
Mansfield quirked his mouth in a way that resembled a snarl more than a smile, the expression enhanced by the thin scar that bisected his cheek. “Better broken hearts than a trail of debts. Now, you will allow me to have a word alone with Miss Crompton.”
A look passed between them, and Wrayford’s tough stance wilted. With gutless bravado, he told Lindsey, “Your mother will hear about this outrage!”
He turned and stomped off into the throng of guests. Mansfield placed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her into the alcove so that they stood behind the potted ferns. The light pressure of his fingers conveyed a possessiveness that should have irked Lindsey but instead thrilled her to the core.
“Perhaps we should find someplace more private,” she murmured.
His mouth softened into a cocky grin. “I’d like nothing better than to ravish you, but now is hardly the appropriate time.”
A hot blush swept her cheeks. “I didn’t mean . . . it’s just that we mustn’t be seen together.”
