A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  Sabine suppressed a snort. Romantic? Ha! There was nothing romantic about a dynastic marriage—two rich families uniting to get even richer. Or perhaps, as they said, it really was a love match? She hoped so, for the princess’s sake. She couldn’t imagine much worse than being married for your money. Not that it was a problem she’d ever face, of course.

  There was still no sign of Hampden, and the room was overly warm. Sabine sidled behind a pillar, closer to the open French doors where a cool breeze wafted in from the gardens.

  A number of conversation stools had been placed around the edges of the ballroom for those who chose to watch the proceedings rather than dance. A pair of elderly matrons gossiped happily on the other side of the pillar, unaware of Sabine’s unintentional eavesdropping.

  “…the ceremony itself is in two weeks’ time. The second of May.”

  “At Carlton House?”

  The first lady nodded. “Rumor has it the princess’s wedding dress is costing upwards of eight thousand pounds!” She issued a disapproving sigh. “Of course, Prinny loves putting on a show. His daughter’s wedding is the perfect excuse.”

  Her companion smiled placidly. “Well, I, for one, cannot wait. If it’s anything like the Jubilee celebrations two years ago, it will be extraordinary. Don’t you remember, Lydia? We watched that miniature naval engagement they staged on the Serpentine. The one with all Lord Nelson’s victories.”

  The first dowager nodded, causing the ostrich feathers in her coiffure to wobble excitedly. “The Times reports that more than ten thousand fireworks have been ordered for the displays.”

  Her friend inhaled sharply. “Terribly dangerous. Why, only a few weeks ago I read about an accident in Westminster Road. Two neighboring fireworks manufacturers exploded. The roof was blown clear off one of them! It was a miracle nobody was killed.”

  “Let us hope this celebration is more carefully planned.”

  Their turbans bobbed in unison.

  Heloise sidled up. “Why are you hiding over here? Come on, everyone’s clamoring for an introduction to my gorgeous French ‘cousin.’ ”

  “I can’t think why.”

  Heloise grinned wickedly. “Oh, I think it might have something to do with the fact that I’ve been circulating the rumor that not only are you beautiful, talented, and sweet-natured, but also an heiress.”

  Sabine gasped. “Why would you do that?”

  Heloise looked smug. “Because Richard gets his own way far too often, that’s why,” she said cryptically. “He needs a little healthy competition.”

  Sabine opened her mouth to explain just how unnecessary that was, but Heloise grabbed her arm.

  “Oh, goodness! Do you see that man coming toward us? The one with the curly hair? That’s Edward Hughes Ball Hughes. I know, it’s a ridiculous name, but he was up at Cambridge with Richard. He’s in line to inherit a considerable fortune. And he’s been begging for an introduction to you for the past ten minutes.”

  The young man stopped in front of them and bowed. He had a pleasant, rounded face, though his complexion was a little florid. “Evening, Heloise. You’re looking lovely. Won’t you introduce me to your friend?”

  “Of course,” Heloise said with a beatific smile. “Edward, this is my cousin, Miss Sabine de la Tour.”

  Sabine gave him an encouraging smile.

  Heloise shot them both an overly innocent glance. “She was just telling me how much she was longing to dance—”

  Edward took his cue with a wry smile. “Was she really? Well, in that case—may I have the honor of the next, mademoiselle?”

  Sabine shrugged inwardly. No reason she couldn’t have some fun. Especially since Hampden hadn’t even bothered to turn up.

  She smiled and took his hand. “Sir, I’d be delighted.”

  Chapter 32

  Richard scanned Lady Carstairs’s ballroom. It took him less than a minute to locate Sabine, whirling around the floor with his old schoolmate, Eddie Hughes Ball Hughes.

  Of course it was a bloody waltz. Richard watched her glide across the floor as naturally as if she’d danced it a hundred times and swore under his breath. “Everything that deceives enchants,” he muttered darkly. She’d done a bloody good job of enchanting Eddie. He had a soppy, besotted smile on his ruddy face.

  Richard’s mood darkened as he catalogued Sabine’s transformation. He’d known it was going to be bad. She’d looked good enough to eat in the unadorned rags she’d arrived in. In decent clothes, she was ravishing.

  Her dress was a masterpiece of suggestion: just diaphanous enough to hint at the body beneath it without actually revealing anything scandalous, a promise that if she moved in just such a way it might afford an unrestricted view of something pink or something white.

  Richard frowned. How on earth was that bodice held upright? The tiny sleeves offered no visible means of support. It was a miracle of structural engineering.

  The midnight-blue color was the perfect foil for her dark hair, which was pinned up in a way that looked deceptively haphazard but which had doubtless taken a great deal of effort to achieve.

  The effect was beyond tempting. Richard curled his fist against the impulse to reach out and unpin it, to let it slide down over his hands and the pale skin of her shoulders in a blue-black wave. The image brought a rush of blood to his head.

  She was wearing the necklace he’d provided. Seeing her in something he’d picked out gave him a primitive thrill of satisfaction. Unfortunately, it also drew attention to the perfect curve of her breasts and provided salivating devils like Eddie an excuse to drool down her cleavage.

  The dance ended and Sabine returned to the side of the room. A group of young bucks lingered in the vicinity, clearly hopeful for an introduction. Heloise beckoned a few of them forward, and Richard watched with a mixture of amusement and contempt as Sabine reduced the newcomers to dumbfounded, stammering idiots. All she had to do was smile, apparently, and their gray matter ceased to function.

  Heloise introduced Sabine to Reverend Twiggs and Richard shook his head. The vicar didn’t stand a chance.

  Sure enough, Sabine smiled and said a few words. Twiggs blinked slowly, like a boxer who’d taken one too many hits to the head. He flushed a deep red. His Adam’s apple disappeared into his dog collar, then bobbed up again like a fishing float.

  Richard chuckled darkly. He sincerely hoped the man was reminding himself of the sin of mortal lust and the evils of fornication. What was that quote from the Bible? “But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”

  The vicar was guilty as sin.

  And what about that bit in Proverbs? “Do not desire her beauty in your heart, and do not let her capture you with her eyelashes.”

  It was too late for old Twiggs. Sabine had lethal eyelashes, and a way of looking up at a man from under them that liquefied his insides.

  Raven sidled up and Richard shook himself out of his trance. He was gawping like a bloody schoolboy.

  “God, these affairs are boring,” Raven drawled. “I only agreed to come tonight because of your damn sister. Half an hour, I told her, no longer. I swear, Richard, if I didn’t love her quite so much I’d strangle her with my bare hands.”

  “You married her,” Richard murmured unsympathetically. “It’s your own bloody fault.”

  Raven grinned. “I have no regrets, I promise you. In fact, I see my darling wife over there, with your little criminal. What are they up to?”

  Richard tilted his head. “Fending off Eddie Hughes Ball Hughes, amongst others.”

  Raven raised his dark brows. “Even Lacorte would have a hard time printing enough money to rival his fortune.”

  Richard ignored his friend’s wicked smile and the sudden, primitive urge to stride over there and throw Eddie through the French windows. He shot a murderous glare at his sister across the room. “Why the hell is Heloise introducing her to Drummond? The man’s a fortune-h
unter!” He watched with rising irritation as Sabine threw her head back and laughed at something Drummond said. It set his teeth on edge. “He’s a penniless rogue. You know he doesn’t have honorable intentions!”

  Raven shot him a sly, knowing glance. “And you do, I suppose?”

  Richard opened his mouth, but Raven didn’t give him a chance to answer.

  “Liar! You’re thinking of exactly how many seconds it would take to get her out of that dress. You’re counting the number of ties and tapes and ribbons and hooks—”

  “I am not,” Richard growled.

  Raven raised his brows at him.

  “Eighteen seconds,” Richard conceded grimly, watching her. “Twenty-five at most.”

  Five covered buttons at the back of her dress, two tapes to untie at the shoulders, one side tie holding her petticoat closed. The front lacing on her short stays, one knee-length chemise to pull over her head. And then skin. Glorious, naked, heavenly skin. He bit the inside of his cheek.

  Raven chuckled. “I think you couldn’t be more obvious if you bared your teeth and beat your chest.”

  Richard felt a muscle twitch in the side of his jaw. It was time to put a stop to this. Sabine was supposed to be his fake fiancée. He needed to put his woman-deterring plan into action.

  —

  Sabine’s partner returned her to Heloise’s side, bowed, and excused himself. Heloise handed her a glass of champagne and tilted her chin across the crowded dance floor.

  “Raven and Richard have arrived.”

  Sabine picked out Hampden’s dark curls and broad shoulders, and wished she’d brought her lorgnette. He bent his head to listen to something Raven said, then smiled—a lazy, cynical smile that caused his cheek to crease into that almost-but-not-quite dimple. Her heart gave an irregular kick. He was so full of vitality, so ludicrously handsome, that she felt momentarily dizzy.

  The simple cut of his coat and unfussy cravat made the ruffles and posturing of the younger men in the room seem ridiculous. It was easy to see why the ladies found him irresistible. He was a man supremely confident in his skin. He carried himself as if he were a prince, like Lucifer himself, addressing his cohorts. Sabine envied his assurance.

  Heloise rolled her eyes at the females clustering around him. “Sometimes,” she said darkly, “I am ashamed to call myself a woman. Look at them. They’re like a covey of quails. The younger ones are all swooning and sighing, and the older ones are trying to catch his eye to make an assignation.” She shook her head. “Evenings like this remind me of throwing bread crumbs to the koi carp in the pond; it’s a feeding frenzy.”

  Sabine snorted at the apt description.

  Heloise wrinkled her nose. “Word’s got out that he finished with Caro Williams. They’re all angling to be next. The eligible ones, that is.”

  Sabine frowned. “Eligible?”

  “Richard’s famous—or, rather, infamous—for his mistress rules: three months maximum. No virgins. No wives. No exceptions.”

  Sabine raised her eyebrows.

  Heloise shrugged. “He says being so straightforward makes it easier all around.”

  “My God!” Sabine gave a horrified gasp, caught between laughter and despair.

  “Raven says the betting books are already filling up at White’s. Money’s favoring Mrs. Winters, the new opera singer at Covent Garden.”

  Sabine’s heart gave a painful little wrench.

  Heloise continued. “The ones who aren’t mistress material are just as bad. The stunts some of them play! You wouldn’t believe what they’ll do to try and wring a proposal out of him.”

  “You mean they try to force him into marrying them?”

  Heloise nodded grimly. “Only last week Henrietta Tilton threw a glass of ice water over herself. And Sophia Alwell ‘accidentally tripped’ on her hem and practically threw herself into his arms.”

  Sabine chuckled. “Isn’t that rather shortsighted? I mean, surely forcing a man into marriage results in contempt, not affection?”

  “All they can think of is being addressed as Viscountess Lovell.” She took a meditative sip of champagne and studied her brother with a critical eye. “It doesn’t help that he’s as rich as Croesus. If he were a penniless dolt it wouldn’t be half so bad. But some wicked genie present at his birth decided to play a great joke on everyone by adding charm and intelligence into the mix.”

  Sabine studied him gravely. “Don’t forget the dimple,” she added judiciously. “Even I can see the potential allure of the dimple.”

  Heloise sighed. “Richard could be stranded on a desert island, walk off into the wilderness, and return a day later with a beautiful woman on his arm.” She shot a sideways glance at Sabine. “I know what you’re thinking—that you’re immune. Just because you’ve seen a part of him that he rarely lets others see—namely the grouchy, overbearing, insufferable side of him—you’re still in danger.” She nodded. “Believe me, as someone married to a handsome, arrogant, overly intelligent bounder myself,” she glanced across the room at Raven, who caught her eye and responded with a raised eyebrow and quirk of his lips that made Heloise snap open her fan and vigorously cool her heated cheeks, “you are still very much at risk.”

  Raven’s smile widened as he took note of his wife’s obvious loss of composure. He bent and murmured to Richard, who also glanced over in their direction. His eyes narrowed on Sabine and her breath caught. She shot him her most imperious stare.

  “Your brother’s interest in me is purely professional,” she managed weakly.

  Heloise snorted. “Poppycock! He hasn’t taken his eyes off you the entire time we’ve been standing here. He just looks away when you look over at him. The whole thing is highly diverting, I assure you. If I weren’t such a wonderful sister I would tease him mercilessly.”

  Sabine’s heart thumped in hope, which was beyond stupid. The man was her enemy.

  Heloise tapped her lips with her fan. “Forgive me, but Raven told me who you are.”

  Sabine stilled, suddenly wary, but Heloise shot her a conspiratorial smile. “Oh, don’t worry—your secret’s safe with me,” she whispered from behind her fan. “I wanted to thank you, actually.” She kept her gaze on her brother. “Richard’s relished having you as an adversary. You’ve obsessed him—or rather, Philippe Lacorte has—for the better part of three years.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “I always thought it would be something of an anticlimax when he finally found Lacorte, but you’re even better than anyone could possibly have imagined.”

  Sabine didn’t know what to say to that.

  Heloise squeezed her arm. “Pursuing you across Europe gave him a purpose, something to focus on after Tony’s death.” She sighed. “His position as the heir sets him apart, you know. People treat him with equal parts envy, respect, and awe.” Her lips twitched into a smile. “But you have absolutely no reverence for his title. You’re neither intimidated nor impressed by his wealth—because you can simply print your own fortune, if you want it.” She gave a gurgle of laughter. “It’s wonderful!”

  Hampden chose that moment to push off the wall. He straightened and, along with Raven, began to circumnavigate the room, stalking toward them like two graceful panthers.

  Heloise nudged her arm. “Don’t look now, but they’re coming this way!”

  Sabine took a fortifying swig of champagne.

  Chapter 33

  Hampden stopped directly in front of her, bowed low, and kissed her knuckles. The heat of his lips burned through her evening gloves. Sabine snatched her hand away.

  “Why were you scowling at me from across the room?”

  “I wasn’t scowling. I was squinting. Anything over ten feet is a blur. It’s better if I narrow my eyes.”

  Raven chuckled. “I can think of several people here tonight who improve dramatically if you narrow your eyes.”

  Heloise smacked him on the arm. “Hush, you beast! Someone will hear!”

  “I wasn’t talking about you, my lovely.�
� He grinned down at her, then nodded at a rotund lady in a silver dress and heavy jewelry who was holding court at the far end of the salon. “Lady Carstairs, our hostess,” he added helpfully to Sabine.

  Sabine raised her brows in surprise. “Her diamonds are paste!”

  “You’re the only one here who can tell.” Hampden shrugged. “The real ones are probably stored in a bank vault somewhere.”

  She pursed her lips. “What’s the point in owning something beautiful if you lock it away? No artist wants his creation hidden in a safe-deposit box. It should be seen and enjoyed.”

  Heloise nodded in agreement.

  Hampden shrugged. “What matters is that everyone thinks they’re real. The ton is all about appearances. Everything around us is fake, to some degree or another.” He shot a teasing grin at Sabine and Heloise. “You ladies are the worst offenders.”

  “How so?” Heloise demanded.

  He gave her the kind of smile that older brothers employ merely to infuriate their younger siblings. “A cynic would argue that no woman is ever truly honest.”

  Heloise took a deep breath to argue, but he held up an admonishing finger and forged on, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Everything about you is artifice. You use corsets to disguise unsightly bulges, padding to give you curves you don’t naturally have. You pluck your eyebrows, hide your complexion beneath powder and rouge. And that’s just your appearance. In conversations you feign interest in us men and our hobbies. Sometimes you even pretend to be stupider than you are, just so you don’t intimidate us.” He raised his brows, which gave him a wicked look—the perfect devil’s advocate. “Why, some of you even fake innocence—until the wedding night. And when the poor new husband discovers his ‘virginal bride’ is anything but, it’s too late.”

  Heloise punched him on the shoulder. “You’re right. That’s very cynical. And completely untrue. Don’t you think so, Sabine?”