He took up residence in an offset hallway, where he could watch her without fear of further harassment from Grant. He watched her approach a half dozen different gentlemen, and grew increasingly unsettled. In spite of the recent gossip—or perhaps, because of it?—the men all seemed eager enough to speak with her. He couldn’t quite identify the emotion coursing through him as he watched her speak with so many of them. It wasn’t only worry for her, the thought she might say the wrong thing to the wrong man.
He didn’t like the way the men looked at her.
The things he imagined running through their minds.
Was he . . . jealous?
It was a startling notion. What cause had he to be jealous? She didn’t belong to him. She had refused his offer of marriage. Emphatically. But tonight, the memory of that refusal stung for reasons that were far more complex than his wounded pride.
When at last she drifted close enough he could hear what she was saying—this time to the Duke of Rothesay—his blood ran hot with irritation instead of envy.
“Tell me, Your Grace,” she said, smiling up at the duke, “did you perchance attend the literary salon at St. Bartholomew’s on June 1st?”
West groaned beneath his breath. Was that what she was asking everyone and their brother? Good God, did the woman not understand the need for subtlety?
He emerged from his hiding spot to take her by the arm. A squeak escaped her lips, but he pulled her ruthlessly toward him. “Ah, Miss Channing, there you are.” His words might be civil, but his tone held a curt warning. “Would you please excuse us, Your Grace? Miss Channing is an acquaintance of my sister’s, and I have an urgent message for her about . . . er . . . books.”
Without waiting for an answer, he spun her deeper into the hallway, grateful for the fact that the wall sconces here flickered with a less glaring light.
Once they were out of sight of the ballroom, he let his anger fly. “Well?” he demanded, loosening his hold on her arm. The chit was going to get them both killed, asking questions like that. But she wasn’t asking questions now. In fact, she was almost mutinous in her silence. “You’ve been running your mouth all evening, to every peer within earshot,” he ground out. “Do you have nothing to say to me?”
One gloved hand fluttered near her throat. “You . . . ah . . . you have startled me.”
“Mouse, that’s nothing compared to what you are doing to me.” He glowered down at her. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is to draw attention to yourself like that?”
That seemed to unpluck whatever was tangling her tongue. “Stop calling me that.”
West bit back the impulse to tell her he called her that so he wouldn’t think of her in more dangerous, desirous ways. “What are you doing here, questioning everyone and their uncle?”
“I think the more pertinent question is what aren’t you doing?” She lifted her chin. “I’d imagined you as a hero, you know. Coming in, sword drawn, determined to save the day. Just like a hero from the pages of one of my books.” She bit her lip, her gaze wavering. “And yet, you aren’t doing any of the things a proper hero would.”
He stiffened against the hurt accusation in her voice. She expected him to act like a hero in one of her bloody books? Good Christ, had this woman any notion of how the world actually worked? “Well now, there’s your first mistake,” he snarled, feeling her lack of faith like a sword to the chest, no matter that as her anti-hero, he lacked the damned sword itself. “The characters in those bloody books you are always blathering on about aren’t real.”
Her cheeks went pink. “I know they aren’t real. I am not a simpleton. But while you seem perfectly able to ignore the things we heard that night, I cannot, not when the fate of the country hangs in the balance. So while you lurk in hallways like a bogeyman, I have been out asking the questions that might lead us to our traitors, something you don’t seem to have the . . . the . . .” The delicate flush staining her cheeks intensified. “The stones to do.”
West cocked his head. She’d called him a coward, and in this, at least, she very nearly had him pegged. But she was wrong about one thing. And so he leaned in, his hands splayed against the wall on either side of her, until she was pinned against the wall, her body trembling against his in a manner that brought nothing of fear to mind. “Let me be the first to assure you, Mouse, I’ve got stones enough to get the job done.” He leaned in closer, until the very parts of his body in discussion pressed indelicately against her. His hips flexed, and a soft gasp escaped her lips. He bent his head, his lips brushing against her quivering earlobe. “Any job you wish.”
Here, of course, was where a sensible woman should slap him. He was all but mounting her in the hallway outside of the Duke of Harrington’s engagement ball.
Instead, she stilled.
And then . . . miracle of miracles, was she leaning back into him?
He pushed away from her and dragged a hand through his hair. Surely her capacity to surprise him should no longer come as such a . . . well . . . surprise. She ought to be shrieking. Slapping him silly. Fainting again. Instead, she was staring up at him with those wide brown eyes, her plump, pink lips almost begging for a kiss. This woman twisted him in knots, with her damning combination of innocence and determination. But the very traits that made the blood roar in his ears might actually get her killed.
“I beg of you, Mary, you must forget we ever heard anything in that library.”
“You expect me to just forget what we heard? Let them proceed without trying to stop them?” Her eyes narrowed. “Risk the life of our queen?”
West gritted his teeth. She was a distraction he couldn’t afford, and he felt guilty as hell for involving her as much as he already had. “Better than risking our own lives,” he lied, wanting her safely at home reading that obscure novel he’d imagined earlier. “Someone else can handle it.”
“It must be us,” she retorted. “There is no one else to do it, thanks to your reputation and my sister’s delicate state!”
West wanted to shout at her. Or worse—kiss her, though that was arguably what had landed them in this trouble to start. “If we overheard them plotting,” he ground out, choosing his words carefully, “it is likely someone else already has too, someone whom Scotland Yard will believe. No doubt the proper authorities are already on their trail and closing in.”
Though, if the authorities had heard so much as a whiff of this plot, surely they would have taken his complaint more seriously. The memory of how the detective at the Scotland Yard desk had laughed at him still stung. It was the reason he was here tonight, and why he’d gone out every night this week, listening to conversations, cataloging voices, his thoughts centered on things less pleasurable than the usual distractions.
Not that she needed to know any of that.
He took a more prudent step away from her. “For Christ’s sake, the Duke of Rothesay isn’t the man responsible for this plot.”
“Why would you say that?”
“The men I saw in the library were considerably less portly.”
She pursed her lips. “Right then.” She dipped her gloved hand into the low-cut bodice of her gown and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I should probably cross him off my list.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He snatched the folded piece of paper from her. “Another list? No wonder your fingers were always stained with ink.” As he scanned the very thorough list of names, dread pooled like a regrettable night, somewhere deep in his gut. “How did you even come up with a list like this?” he asked, though he shouldn’t be surprised anymore where this woman and her surprising array of talents were concerned.
She’d even included some names here that he’d neglected to consider.
“Debrett’s Peerage, of course. There is a copy in Lord Ashington’s library.” She waited a beat. “Books can be very instructional, you know.”
He glared down at her. “Do you even realize how stupid it is to ask these sorts of questions?” he choked out. �
��To make a list such as this, and pull it out of your bosom and consult it in goddamned public?”
She frowned. “I only came to—”
“It seems to me you only came here tonight to yammer that pretty little mouth of yours,” he interrupted, giving rein to his darkening mood. “Whoever this is, he is not an honorable man. Surprise was our only advantage in this game, and if you’ve spoken to the wrong man tonight, or said the wrong thing at the wrong time, you’ve just given it all away!”
Confusion colored her face. “You . . . that is, you think my mouth is pretty?”
He snorted. Good God. That was what she took from this conversation? “Don’t let it go to your head.” He was angry with her for making him feel weak, and angry with himself for making it so easy for her. He folded the list and shoved it inside the pocket of his evening jacket. “I just think there are better uses you could put those lips to. You need to go home, before you do something really stupid.”
Like bite her lip again.
Because God help him, he couldn’t be held responsible for the consequences.
Chapter 12
Better uses for her lips . . . ?
Good heavens, the man was a menace, saying the most outrageous things.
And no matter the way West was glowering down at her, no matter how many times he called her “Mouse”, Mary didn’t want to go home yet. Had he any notion of what it had taken for her to get here? She’d slipped from her sister’s house under cover of darkness and walked two terrifying blocks to flag down a hack on Oxford Street. She’d braved brigands and bodily harm and more importantly, public ridicule. She knew everyone here was whispering about her. Knew what they thought of her. If she was brave enough to face the scandal that trailed in her wake, she was brave enough to face West’s handsome, hovering frown.
And she wasn’t leaving until she was ready.
“This conversation is growing as tiresome as that unimaginative nickname.” She stepped around him, lifting her skirts in her hands and aiming for the hum of the crowd in the larger room beyond. “I came here tonight to speak with the men on that list,” she said as a parting shot, “not to converse with a coward.”
She nearly escaped, too. But just as she emerged into the brighter lights of the ballroom, she felt his touch on her arm. No doubt it was her imagination, giving life to things that weren’t there, but she could almost believe there was a plea in that touch. She looked down at the shape of his gloves against the bare skin of her upper arm, her anger disintegrating.
“What do you want, West?” she sighed.
“I want you to dance with me,” came his answer.
She hesitated. He was a rake and a boor and she ought to want nothing at all to do with him. More to the point, she hated dancing. But drat it all, she was already letting him pull her into his arms. Her slippers were on the dance floor.
It would be rude to pull away now.
As he began to swing her around in large circles, she waited for the prickle of awareness, the fear that too many people were watching. Those dreaded emotions didn’t come. Instead, three years of dancing lessons, the preparation for her nonexistent come-out, proved useful now. The feel of his hand against the small of her back, guiding her with subtle pressure, made her want to follow wherever he might lead. Even if he led her to ruin.
The earlier flash of anger he’d shown seemed to have been shoved to a distant corner. Either that, or harnessed and held to a tighter rein. He was playing the perfect gentleman now, if a bit too quiet. Some devil in her made her want to test that restraint.
And so, as they began their second rotation around the dance floor, she peeked up at him through her lashes. “I’ve not yet had a chance to speak with the Duke of Harrington.” She lowered her voice. “Perhaps you could introduce me when this dance is over?”
“I don’t think so.” Though his tone stayed pleasant, his jaw tightened.
She thought of the news of the duke’s engagement, announced to an appreciative crowd not even a half hour ago. “He’s on the top of my list, and he just announced his intentions to marry the daughter of an Italian countess,” she countered, a little too loudly. She tempered her voice back to a whisper. “Who better to have sympathies for the Orsinian cause?”
West swung her with a bit more force. “The Duke of Harrington isn’t our man.”
“How would you know that, lurking in hallways as you have been?”
“I know,” he told her, “because his Grace is connected to my family. He comes to dinner at Cardwell House at least once a month. He is an impressively honorable man.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip as the room spun by. Drat it all, West had already ruled out the Duke of Harrington as a suspect? She thought of how quickly he’d dismissed her suspicions of the Duke of Rothesay as well. And the list he’d kept, now tucked in the inside pocket of his evening jacket. She’d have to make another one, and the thought of it poked at her.
Couldn’t he see? This was why they needed to do this together, why they ought to share their plans and suspicions with each other. She shouldn’t have to waste her time considering leads that led nowhere. “Who else, then?” she pressed, trying to remember the other names written on the now-purloined list. “If you’ve already discounted Harrington and Rothesay, you must have an idea of who else we should be considering.”
Instead of answering the question, he glowered down at her. “Tell me, Miss Channing. Why no chaperone this evening? Did Poor Mrs. Greaves die in a fit of apoplexy after your visit to the brothel? Or has your stubbornness gotten her sacked?”
Mary sighed in frustration. Why was he refusing to discuss this with her, avoiding the topic as if it might prove a deadly disease? She couldn’t help but feel disappointed in his lack of enthusiasm for the chase. During that Sunday visit to the brothel, she’d imagined . . . well, she’d foolishly imagined him as a white knight, riding in on his charger to the save the day. But perhaps that was the problem with allowing her imagination free rein.
So often, heroes only existed on the pages of books.
“No, Mrs. Greaves is still alive and gainfully employed, if a bit more suspicious of me now,” she replied, not wanting to talk about housekeepers. Or chaperones. Or brothels. “I claimed to have returned to the wrong pew, and she pretended to believe me rather than consider the less palatable alternative, I think. And why do you care whether or not I have a proper chaperone? I am already ruined.” He ought to know, given his starring role in her shame. Although, she could perhaps look back on that night and admit that Westmore could not be held entirely responsible for that debacle.
Heaven knew she had played her own starring role in that bit of folly.
His head lowered toward her own, until his lips brushed her ear. “Why I care is scarcely the question, Mouse.” This time, the sound of that nickname sent a shiver rippling down her spine—one he could no doubt feel through the indecent press of his hand, drat the man. With his breath warm against her ear, she could almost imagine it was meant as an endearment instead of an insult. “The fact is that I do care, whether I ought to or not.”
His words made her head feel fizzy, shaken up inside. Surely it was just the unaccustomed nature of dancing, and not any real meaning behind such dangerously delicious words. He didn’t care about her. He couldn’t care. He was a man with a reputation, a man who sought only his own pleasure, and didn’t give a fig about what others thought or wanted.
She needed to remember that, even as her pulse bounded beneath her skin.
His head dipped toward her ear again. “How did you even come to be here tonight, if you didn’t bring a proper chaperone? Did you steal Ashington’s coach?”
“If you must know, I slipped out of the house after my sister fell asleep and summoned a hackney cab.”
His fingers tightened against the small of her back. “You took a cab here? By yourself?”
“I am afraid I lack a fairy godmother to conjure a more spectacular means of conveyance.” Sh
e hesitated, wondering why his fingers were suddenly gripping her right hand with more ferocity. “And I also lacked the pumpkin.” She met his gaze, feeling the edges of her mouth wanting to turn up, in spite of her continued annoyance with him. “Probably on account of the fact that people have a dreadful habit of urinating through the garden fence. Hardly a good location for growing vegetables.”
West glared down at her, his eyes lingering on the slight upward tilt of her entirely too-kissable lips. She was teasing him, clearly.
But had she any concept of what could happen to an innocent woman flitting about the streets of London? Riding alone in a hackney cab, traipsing darkened streets? Christ, even this dance floor was dangerous. He could feel the curious eyes on them, the appreciative glances she garnered from too many men. The way the women stared at her, jealousy sharpening their claws. He felt an overwhelming need to protect her.
He clenched his teeth. “It isn’t safe to be out in the city after dark.”
“You prowl the streets at night.” She shrugged, the motion pulling against the grip he had on her. “I see you go out, nearly every night.”
Her admission that she watched for him through her window made his feet stumble a bit. So, she spent her evenings peeking out her curtains, did she? It made him feel smug that she had sought a glimpse of him the past week, the same way he had looked for her.
But not so smug he could forget the danger.
Somewhere on this dance floor might very well be one of the men they sought. The thought that the traitors might be watching them now made his feet began to slow. The urge to whisk her away, ensure her safety, burned like an ember beneath his skin.
What was wrong with him, to be reacting in this manner?
“Speaking of finding one’s bed . . .” he started, but then stopped as her lips parted with a soft gasp. He’d only meant to say perhaps it was time to find hers tonight, but he was loath to correct the misimpression, especially given that her gloved hand had just gone limp in his own.
The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel Page 14
