by Liana Lefey
He tensed, his eyes widening, and she held her breath. After a moment, however, he shook his head and laughed softly. “My apologies. For a moment, I thought I knew you.”
“Unlikely, my lord,” she husked, eyeing him like any bold miss. “I’m sure I would remember a man like you.”
“You would indeed,” he said, his tone causing her belly to tighten.
It was dangerous to flirt with him, but safe in the knowledge she was unrecognizable, Harriett couldn’t help herself. Exhilarated by her own daring, she ventured a step further. “You certainly think well of yourself, sir.”
There was no sarcasm in the laughter that followed her dry comment, no derision. Only apparent delight in her candor. “Confidence is an aphrodisiac,” he said, coming close enough for her to breathe in his scent. “And you, my lady, possess it. Not to mention a few other attractive assets.”
Her cheeks heated as his dark gaze flicked down to her décolletage. To be admired for her appearance was not something to which she was accustomed. Safe behind her mask, she took a cooling sip from her punch. A bit of the froth clung to her lip and she licked it away without thinking. When she looked up, she saw her enemy’s gaze was now fastened on her mouth.
A giggle lodged in her throat. Good lord, the man was practically salivating! If he knew who it was he ogled, he would likely suffer a fit of apoplexy. The thought spurred her to new heights of recklessness. With wicked intent, she drew a deep breath and watched as his gaze again dropped. The poor fool appeared unable to decide whether to look at her mouth or her bosom. The giggle again tried to escape, and it was only with the greatest self-control that she held it in. Even so, her lips quivered on the verge of a laugh.
“You’re enjoying this,” said her nemesis.
“Yes.” Freed to do so, she favored him with an impudent grin. “Quite.” And with that, she turned and began walking toward the seating area. Her legs shook the tiniest bit, but all in all, she’d handled that very well indeed. Before she could reach the tables, her escort moved ahead to hold out a chair for her. She tried to concentrate on maintaining her sultry demeanor.
Her stomach knotted as he sat opposite and stared at her. If he should recognize her...but he wouldn’t, would he? Never in a thousand years would he expect her to wear a gown this daring or to behave in such a forward manner. The Harriett Dunhaven he knew was a completely different person. She was perfectly safe as long as she said nothing to give herself away.
“Might I ask your name, my lady?”
Her throat constricted, and she forced a low chuckle past the obstruction. “That would defeat the whole purpose of wearing a mask, now wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose I can wait until midnight,” he said with a shrug.
Damn. She’d forgotten about that. Perhaps Cat might not mind if they left a tiny bit early…
Leaning in, he lowered his voice. “You are correct in that part of the fun of this is the mystery. We could be anyone, couldn’t we? For all you know, I might be a footman.”
“And for all you know, I might be a lowly kitchen maid.” She raised a brow.
A slow smile parted his lips. “Never, my lady. I can see well enough through your mask to know you are a diamond of the first water.”
Oh, can you indeed? Considering he’d mistaken her for a servant once before, it amused her to no end to hear him spout such drivel. She fluttered her lashes and came close enough to see the pale gold flecks in his whiskey eyes. “Tell me, dear footman, are all of your fellow servants so ambitious in their compliments? If so, I wonder that every lady of quality does not run away with a manservant. I fear I shall be in grave danger of a scandal should my own head footman prove as gifted as you in manners and speech.”
He stilled, and she thought that perhaps she might have gone too far. Then he said softly, “Why take a chance on him, when you can have me? I would certainly be more discreet. And a hell of a lot more fun.”
An outraged retort tingled on the tip of her tongue. Easy. It is only meaningless banter. He, too, must be feeling emboldened by the intoxicant of anonymity. Though tempted to call his bluff and see what resulted, she decided it was time to bring the conversation back to safer ground. “I believe I should like a demonstration before risking my good name on a mere footman’s promise,” she teased with a meaningful glance toward the dance floor.
Standing at once, he offered his arm.
Harriet placed her hand—her naked hand—on his sleeve and was struck by the glaring absence of William’s ring. She fought a sudden urge to yank her hand back and flee. There was no reason to feel guilty. William was gone, and it wasn’t as if she planned to actually allow this rogue to take any liberties with her person.
As they danced, Harriett again became acutely aware of Manchester’s physicality. His form was lean and fit, his movements graceful and sure. William had been taller, which had meant he’d always had to look down in order to meet her eyes. Not so much with Roland.
Roland. The name echoed in her mind, seeping into the dark corners, smoothing around the curves of her other thoughts. She’d never before thought of him in terms of his Christian name. He’d always been “Manchester’s other son” or “William’s brother” or “that drunken blackguard.” To call him “Roland” seemed too intimate, though she supposed if she had married William she would have been entitled to do so.
But you didn’t marry William whispered her conscience. That fact was brought home as she looked into Roland’s eyes and saw desire. Real desire, not that sarcastic leer he’d put on back at the Hospital for the purposes of intimidating her. Those other men tonight had looked at her with want, too. For a moment, she just basked in the knowledge that she was desirable.
It was enormously satisfying. She felt powerful. Now at last she understood what so many women seemed to learn quite early in their lives. The male before her was helpless, a veritable bull with a ring in its nose, and she was the one holding the lead.
She could tweak that lead and make him dance a merry jig for her pleasure, but it would be a dangerous game to play. Desire could work for or against a woman, and it tended toward the latter when mutual. Arabella had learned that lesson and come to rue it.
Glancing to the side, she saw Cat dancing with an enraptured gentleman. Her precocious sister had already mastered the technique of leading the bull. She’d likely be married before the end of this Season—God willing.
Her gaze returned to Manchester. She would enjoy this moment, savor it, and then disappear. He would wonder about her for the rest of his life, but he would never know. It was a memory she would treasure, the memory of having held Mad Manchester in her thrall, if only for a little while.
Tomorrow, she would return to being dull, dutiful Harriett. But she would never again fear him.
Ten
Roland was determined to discover the identity of his dance partner. There was something so familiar about her, and yet she looked like no woman he ever remembered meeting. The thought sent a shiver of apprehension down the back of his neck. Had they met before? Did he simply not remember? Had he been in his cups?
She looked at him with amusement, clearly enjoying her feminine sway over him. One corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, and his loins tightened with alarming swiftness. He had not been lying when he’d told her confidence was seductive.
There was a strange, mutable quality to her eyes. One moment they appeared sea-green, the next more bluish, and yet the next a more brownish tint. The shining coffee curls that spilled down over her shoulder to caress her bosom—her glorious bosom—lay against skin like creamy velvet.
A slow smile tilted the corners of her lips. She had a lovely, generous mouth that begged to be kissed. “You are going to make me blush, my lord footman.”
“I’m glad to know it,” he replied without shame. “It would be a sore disappointment indeed, were I to have no effect on you, my lady kitchen maid.” Her low laugh sent a bolt of want lancing down into his vitals. “Wh
o are you?” he asked, keeping his tone light and playful.
She denied him the answer with a raised brow and another sly smile as the dance separated them.
When she returned, he tried again. “Shall I guess?”
“I cannot stop you.”
From the top of her head to the soles of her feet, she was perfection. Her form was exquisite, her attitude intriguing. Rarely had he met an unwed woman so at ease, so sure of herself. Confidence indeed. She couldn’t be more than twenty. “Well, you’re not Lady Abingdon,” he teased, looking down at her décolletage with frank appreciation.
Another laugh burst from between the mystery woman’s lush lips.
Lady Abingdon was one of Society’s most notorious personages. If a gentleman found himself badly owing, he might pay her a visit or two and be relieved of his debt—for a price, of course. Roland had done so once in his youth. Too ashamed to ask William or his father for help so soon after having left, he’d instead chosen to pay court to Lady Abingdon.
Even at more than twice his age, the lady had exhibited an appetite for bed sport that could only be called voracious. That was when he’d learned women had desires, too. He’d called on her three times and she’d been generous with him to a fault. It was not something he was proud of.
“You’re not either of the Ladies Lennox,” he said, again lading his tone with mischief.
She shook her head, causing her shining chocolate curls to bounce.
“Could it be that you are Lady...” He thought about it for a moment. Dark hair, greenish eyes, the height was right. “Lady Scranton?”
Her smile widened, and for a moment he thought he’d gotten it right, but once more she shook her head. “Wrong again, my lord footman.”
Frustration threatened to unseat his pleasure. “Pray tell me, my lady. I must know your name.” He froze as she moved closer to reach up and boldly caress his jaw with a slender hand.
“I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait along with everyone else,” she whispered. With a laugh that was pure wickedness, she pulled away. “Look for me when midnight arrives.”
“Shall I look here or in the kitchens?” he asked, managing to sound nonchalant.
Those beautiful lips quirked. “I shouldn’t waste my time searching below, if I were you.” Turning, she sauntered away, her walk a provocation all by itself.
He could follow her, but it might be looked upon unfavorably. Have some self-control, man. If she wanted to tease him a bit and whet his appetite, who was he to deny her the pleasure? There would be time aplenty to satisfy his curiosity later. At midnight, to be precise. He watched her until she disappeared into the crush.
In the meantime, he had business to attend to: Harriett. He’d been looking for her all evening, but had yet to spot the troublesome tyrant. She was here. He’d confirmed her presence and that of her younger sister earlier through an acquaintance. But where was she?
Searching the crush, he strove to pick her out from among the bright silks and merrymaking. He meandered about the edges of the room, looking carefully at those seated along the walls. She was not among them and neither was she hanging about in the gallery above. Perhaps she was in the powder room? Or perhaps his friend had been mistaken.
He was surprised to find himself disappointed at the thought. Truly, he’d hoped to find her and negotiate some sort of truce—as a means to introduce her to several unmarried acquaintances, of course. Having encountered his as-yet mystery woman, his trepidation at the prospect of seeing Harriett had waned. A good thing, too. Still aroused by her, he now wondered how he could ever have been stirred by someone like Harriett.
He’d been without a woman for far too long. That must be it. Lack of intimate female companionship had taken a toll on his judgment. Since William’s death, he hadn’t felt like maintaining a mistress. They required great amounts of attention, patience, and money. The latter he could now give in plenty. The first two had been in short supply for some time.
That was all about to change, however. He was required to marry within the year, and the mystery woman seemed as good a candidate as any. If luck remained on his side, he would satisfy his brother’s mandate to marry and his request to look after his betrothed.
If he could ever manage to find Harriett, that is.
Having nothing better to do, he again went up to the gallery to see if he could pick out his nameless lady. But though he looked and looked, she was nowhere in sight. At first he thought nothing of it, but as it drew closer to midnight he began to grow concerned.
Just as he was about to go down to search her out, a flash of teal caught his eye. There! She was on the far side of the ballroom amid a cluster of ladies. He observed as she drew one of her fellows aside. After a few moments of what looked to him like urgent pleading on the part of his mystery woman, the pair parted company with the group and made for the exit.
Dismay filled him. She was leaving? Now? Determination rushed in to displace despair. Not without his first learning her name, she wasn’t. He took the stairs two at a time, heedless of the startled looks from those he brushed past, and headed for the same exit. There they were up ahead. He knew better than to call out. If she had decided to leave before the midnight reveal, then it must mean she wanted to keep her identity a secret.
Moving among those loitering in the hall, he followed the pair out. The foyer was all but empty, and he breathed a curse for the lack of cover. Hiding behind a potted orange tree, he listened as the two talked.
“What shall I tell Papa when he asks where you have gone?”
“Just say I wasn’t feeling well and decided to wait in the carriage. Tell him it was a headache brought on by all the noise. He knows I am accustomed to quiet. And it isn’t as if I’m actually leaving. I’ll be waiting for you. I’m just going to take a short nap, that’s all.”
The mystery woman’s companion—her sister, apparently—stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Honestly, Harriett. You cannot avoid Russell forever. Running away will only aggravate the problem as he seems to delight in chasing after you. You must confront him and tell him you are not interested.”
Roland’s skin went icy and hot all at once. Harriett. She’d called the woman Harriett. He peered through the leaves in disbelief. Maybe they had worn similar gowns and he’d made a mistake...but no, it was the very same gown he’d admired earlier tonight.
And the woman wearing it—Harriett, he reminded himself with growing chagrin—was just as fabulously beautiful, just as alluring. He watched as she removed her mask. Without her customary stern expression, she was bloody stunning.
“I will think about it, Cat, but right now I really must get out of here,” said Harriett, darting a nervous glance about the room. “Please make my excuses.”
The one called “Cat” rolled her eyes. “I cannot believe I am aiding you in your cowardice.”
“Please, Cat? I don’t often beg you for help, but please? Just this once?”
“Very well,” grumbled the other. “What shall I tell Lord Russell when he asks where you’ve gone?”
“Don’t bother with him,” said Harriett in a rush. “He didn’t recognize me. At least I don’t think he did. That’s the whole point of my leaving before midnight. I don’t want him to know it was me.”
Roland didn’t think she was talking about Lord Russell, but nonetheless doubt crept in. Could he be mistaken?
Regardless, he now knew who his mystery woman was. What to do with the knowledge escaped him at the moment, however. He needed time to process the discovery and decide his next move.
“Do whatever you must, but make sure Papa doesn’t come out to fetch me back inside,” continued Harriett. “I cannot explain now, but suffice it to say that if I were to be seen unmasked tonight it would be catastrophic.”
The other girl’s eyes narrowed. “Something else is going on here, isn’t it? What have you done?”
“Oh, not now!” wailed Harriett. She propelled her sister back toward the ball
room.
“All right!” said Cat, digging in her heels and turning. “You needn’t push me. I’ll go.” She jabbed a finger at Harriett’s chest. “But you owe me, and make no mistake—I shall one day call in your debt.”
“Yes, fine,” said Harriett. “I shall be your slave when the time comes. Just go!”
“I shall remember you said it,” said her sister, laughing.
Harriett’s shoulders sagged in obvious relief. After a moment’s hesitation to make sure her sibling was headed in the right direction, she resumed her journey to the entryway.
The instant the footman had taken her request for her carriage and gone outside, Roland knew what he had to do. Quiet as a mouse, he retreated back into the hall—following Cat, but making sure not to alert her to his presence. As soon as she disappeared into the ballroom, he took off at a run back toward the foyer, deliberately making as much noise as possible. “My lady kitchen maid!” he shouted just as Harriett finished tying her mask back on.
The panic in his quarry’s eyes was gratifying. Now that he was armed with her identity, he recognized the look. Oh, she knew exactly who he was. The knowledge galvanized his resolve. If the lady wanted to play with fire, then she was about to get scorched. “I looked for you, but you never came. Are you leaving now, so soon?”
“I—I began to feel ill, my lord.” Her smile was shaky, and her face below the mask had grown pale.
He had no sympathy whatsoever. “How unfortunate. Allow me to escort you to your carriage.” Inside, he chuckled with glee as her expression grew even more frantic. That’s right. The game will be up the moment I see the crest on your carriage door, and you know it.
Indeed, she began to balk. “No, no. I wouldn’t wish to keep you from the festivities, my—”
“Nonsense,” he cut in. “I insist. It would be unchivalrous of me to let you go unaccompanied in your condition.” He watched as she swallowed, as her eyes darted about the room. Run, little rabbit. Run.
