Secrets of a Perfect Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  She raised a brow back, then got to work. She quickly sketched an outline of the family parlor, then reached for her pencils. “Can I have the plans?”

  Adrian rose and brought them to her. Setting them on the seat beside her, she selected colors, working from Adrian’s meticulous notes, then started to bring the sketch to life.

  Propping one shoulder against the window frame, Adrian watched. Normally she would have frozen and ordered him away—she hated people looking over her shoulder. But Adrian had watched her work so often in years gone by, his presence did not distract her. At least, not in the usual way.

  “There’s a plate shelf along that wall.”

  He pointed; Abby remembered and changed pencils to quickly sketch it in. She sensed him hesitating, trying to find a way to say something.

  “I know Mama asked, but Bellevere is huge. Sketching all the rooms is a mammoth task—let’s make it a commission. I’ll pay the going rate.”

  Abby didn’t stop sketching, didn’t look up. After a moment, she said, “It was your birthday on New Year’s Day—your thirtieth. I’ll give you the folio for your present.”

  Silence followed, filled with thoughts, considerations, hesitations. Then he asked, “Can I choose my present?”

  “At the moment, the folio is all you’re being offered.”

  She didn’t need to look to know his lips set.

  “In that case, I’ll take it.”

  With that, he returned to the desk. Abby smiled to herself and sketched on.

  She wasn’t quite so sure of herself when, the next morning, courtesy of her aunt and his mother, she found herself being handed into his curricle, then whisked off to Richmond.

  Admittedly, the day was unusually fine, the sun bright, the air clear. The park when they reached it was deserted, but, to her eyes, utterly beautiful, bare, ice-encrusted branches sparkling in the sunshine, long swaths of lawn white under the light cover of snow. The deer were gathered in herds, heavy-antlered heads rising to view the interlopers.

  Her sketch pad on her lap, she gave no thought to Adrian’s machinations. Only when he confiscated her pencil, then drew her down to stroll with him along the carriage path, did she remember.

  The man was a rake—supposedly the most experienced lover in the ton. A master seducer. A point most unwise to forget. Especially when alone with him.

  “Stop quivering—I’m not going to eat you. At least,” he murmured, his tone deepening, “not out here.”

  “I’m simply cold.” A blatant lie with her cheeks burning—she found it horrifying that she knew precisely what his last comment meant.

  He chuckled—her temperature rose another notch.

  “What a liar you’ve become, sweetheart.”

  She wasn’t fool enough to answer that. Adrian had drawn her arm through his, set her hand on his sleeve, then covered it with his hand. Even through their leather gloves she could feel the heat of his palm. Her skirts brushed his boots; their arms brushed as they walked. Physical intimacy and its pleasures were too much on her mind—and his. She drew in a breath and was conscious that he watched her breasts rise. “This ball—how large will it be?”

  “Over a hundred, certainly, possibly more than two—at this time of year, I doubt that there are more potential guests than that in town.”

  “Two hundred?” Abby tried to imagine it.

  “Many will be the older generation, those who no longer have the energy for the usual winter visits, but there’s bound to be a goodly number of others, too, who for one reason or another are back in town.”

  Like him. Abby wondered about the ball, how she would cope, whether she would enjoy it—whether he would stay by her side and steer her through it. “Will there be much dancing?”

  “Some, of course, but not as much as there would be were this the height of the Season, or the guest of honor one who might care.”

  She glanced at him. “You mean the duke?”

  Adrian nodded, his mind on other things. More interesting things. “Do you waltz?”

  Abby shrugged. “A little.”

  “Meaning a few revolutions at the Hunt Ball every year.”

  She shot him a sharp glance. “We haven’t had a Hunt Ball since you shut Bellevere.”

  He raised his brows. “In that case, I should clearly make reparation.”

  Before she could fathom his intention and protest, he swung her to face him, then took her in his arms. Humming, he started to waltz. Luckily, her feet followed instinctively, even though her eyes went round.

  “Adrian!” She quickly looked about.

  “There’s no one to see.” He kept humming, whirling slowly, evenly.

  “The deer are looking at us as if we’re demented.”

  “Stop fussing and pay attention.”

  “Attention!” Her gaze locked on his face. “Someone might drive by at any moment and find us waltzing in the snow like bedlamites.”

  He grinned and drew her closer. “You need the practice—relax and match the rhythm.”

  With an aggravated “humph,” she did. He had never waltzed with her—never had the opportunity. As they slowly revolved across the frosty lawn, Adrian wondered at his foolishness. His shortsightedness. Abby fitted perfectly in his arms as if crafted just for him. Once she concentrated and correctly gauged his stride, she relaxed and the magical quality of the dance took hold.

  He’d used the waltz to seduce ladies aplenty, but with Abby in his arms, he didn’t think of seduction—of the game, the moves, the myriad ways to win; he only thought of Abby. Thought of the way her body flowed with his, of the supple, vibrant feel of her under his hand, of the enticements of her thighs as they slid past his, the glide of her hips against him. His gaze drew in until he saw only her, her face turned up to his. Her gaze drifted over his face, then found his eyes.

  His humming died as their own music took hold.

  They waltzed, slowly twirled, over the white lawn, beneath the glittering branches. The cold was intense, the silence even deeper; there was nothing to break the spell. Gazes locked, they spoke—or their bodies spoke for them. Of yearning, of simple needs and uncomplicated pleasures. Of years gone, times past. Of their history, their possible futures. Their hopes.

  The music slowed; they barely noticed.

  Then they stopped.

  Their breaths plumed between them, neither willing to shatter the precious moment. Slowly, for once hesitantly, Adrian lowered his head. Abby’s eyes held his, then her lids lowered; her gaze fell to his lips. She leaned toward him as his lips found hers, then settled. Her lips parted on a sigh, and he accepted the invitation.

  Magic held them—the gentle magic of a new discovery, doubly precious for being found in the guise of an old friend. It held them enthralled as lips melded, tongues touched, traced, tangled. Which of them moved to close the embrace, neither could tell—perhaps both. Adrian’s arms slid about Abby and closed; she stretched her arms over his shoulders and twined them about his neck. Then leaned into him.

  The sudden flash of heat was unexpected; Adrian inwardly groaned. He tried to retreat, but Abby had him again. Damn. He was addicted. He couldn’t pull away from what she offered, couldn’t cut short the delight.

  When he finally managed to lift his head, it was spinning. And he was aching. One step away from teeth-gritted pain.

  Soft and pliant in his arms, she looked up at him, eyes searching. He saw puzzlement in her gaze, then abruptly it cleared, to be replaced by a look of understanding, of feminine triumph barely veiled.

  She smiled.

  He bit back a groan.

  She straightened and glanced around. “It’s a long drive home.”

  “There’s a comfortable inn nearby.”

  Her smile didn’t dim, but softened. “I think we’d better start back.”

  She attempted to step out of his arms, but he held her securely; still flush against him, she could be in no doubt of his state. She widened her eyes in question.

&nbs
p; “I have a proposition.”

  She raised her brows.

  “As long as I don’t try to seduce you, you won’t ambush me.”

  She didn’t try to pretend ignorance, but considered, then asked, “And if you do try to seduce me?”

  “The next time I try to seduce you, you have my permission to rescript the rules in whatever way you like.” She would anyway. “Meanwhile, I’d appreciate it if you could spare my ego.”

  He let her loose, settling her hand once more on his arm and turning her toward his curricle.

  She glanced at his face. “Your ego?”

  “A fine thing when the master seducer is seduced by his prey.”

  Abby looked ahead. The small smile that had curved her lips slowly widened to one of considerable delight.

  “Do you truly not gamble anymore?”

  Abby asked the question from her place in the library’s window seat. Sitting behind his desk, Adrian lifted his head, looked at her, then returned to his letters. “You mean cards, horses…gaming?”

  “Yes. All that sort of thing.” She’d been wondering for days; this seemed the only way to get an answer.

  “I haven’t wagered in seven years.”

  She hesitated, then asked, “Since your father died?”

  Adrian shook his head. “Before that. Papa and I were still at loggerheads when he died, but he did know I’d stopped frittering away the estate.” He glanced at her and saw the question in her eyes. He hesitated, then said, “A friend of mine died. There were five of us, firm friends from Eton days—all hellions. We wagered on anything and everything, even more than our peers. Then one day, Freddy—Frederick Ramsey—lost all. Everything. Over one game of faro. His patrimony, his sisters’ dowries—the lot. None of us were in any condition to help him—we were up to our ears in debt ourselves.” He met her eyes. “Freddy shot himself.

  “For the four left, it was a salutary shock. On the night I heard, I swore off gaming.” He paused, then looked at the letters piled before him and grimaced. “Of course, some might say I still gamble with business. And, of course, I’m gambling now. With you.”

  “Me?”

  He lifted his head and trapped her gaze. “I’m staking all I have, all I am, all my future, on winning you.”

  Abby held his amber gaze, sincere and direct without any of the unnerving sensuality he could, if he wished, bring to bear. One part of her scoffed, dismissing his declaration; in her heart, she knew it was true.

  Confusion reigned as she looked across the room at him—at the gentleman known to the ton as “Scandalous Lord Dere.” To him, seduction was a game, a game at which he excelled. Yet he wasn’t playing now. She believed he meant all he said. That it was her or no one. That she was the only future, the only wife, he wanted.

  At the moment.

  Therein lay the rub. She wanted an assurance that would last forever.

  Lifting her pencil, she returned to her sketching.

  Abby looked at her reflection in the cheval mirror in her chamber, and sighed despondently.

  “But it’s lovely!” Agnes said. “Don’t you like it?”

  Abby focused, and smiled. “The dress is beautiful. I had no idea this shade would suit me so well.” The shimmering aquamarine set highlights in her hair and turned her eyes more gold than brown.

  As for the actual gown, it was, to Abby’s mind, rather daring in the way it clung to her curves with only an abbreviated frill to form over-the-shoulder sleeves. There seemed rather a lot of her skin showing, screened though some of it was by gauze. Another frill adorned the hem of the slim skirt; it flirted teasingly about her ankles whenever she turned.

  “Fetch my gold reticule and my Norwich shawl.” She turned and looked over her shoulder at her reflection, and wondered what Adrian would think.

  What Adrian thought was her current obsession; if there’d been a mind-reading gypsy to hand, she would have employed her on the spot. She needed, more than anything else in life, more than anything she’d ever needed before, to know what Adrian truly thought. What he truly felt. She’d tried her best all week to draw some clue from him; all her careful watching had confirmed was that this man, the Adrian who now was, was a far cry indeed from the youth she’d known.

  As far as she could see, all the changes were for the good. Not, perhaps, precisely as she’d have had him, but overall, she had to approve of the result. He’d been chipped at and chiseled by life and fate—he’d been a work of art in her eyes to begin with; he was now, she suspected, as close to her dream incarnate—her adult dream incarnate—as made no odds.

  Turning, she accepted reticule and shawl from Agnes, then headed for the door. As she walked down the corridor, she inwardly grimaced. Her thoughts, her feelings, had never been in doubt, but until she knew his, they’d reached stalemate.

  From her viewpoint, the matter was simple, her mind cast in stone. She wouldn’t, again, risk giving her heart to him only to have him, at some later date, hand it back. Oh, no. She’d lived through that misery once—never, not ever, again.

  He’d changed in so many ways, but had he learned to love? Love, only love, could reassure her, could make her believe in a forever with him.

  The other three were already in the front hall waiting; they looked up as she descended the stairs. Esme smiled, Janet beamed. Adrian’s gaze raced over her, down to her toes, paused, then, slowly, rose. When his gaze reached her face and his eyes met hers, she saw they were wide, slightly dazed. His chest rose as he drew in a breath.

  Then something hot flashed through his amber eyes. He stepped forward as she reached the last step and held out a hand. Offering her gloved fingers, she let him hand her down, then turn her.

  “Exquisite.”

  The low murmur reached her as Adrian altered his hold and settled her hand on his sleeve. With a wave, he directed Esme and Janet to precede them out the door; as they descended the front steps and Adrian handed her into the waiting carriage, Abby tried to place the particular look in his eyes.

  Adrian paused on the pavement, giving the three ladies time to sort out their skirts; Janet seized the moment to chuckle gleefully and squeeze Abby’s arm. “Nothing like a stunning gown to take that particular trick.”

  Abby would have liked to ask which particular trick, but as soon as they both sat, the carriage rocked and Adrian climbed in.

  He sat beside her. She spent much of the drive to the Wardsleys’ house in Upper Brook Street staring out at the passing facades, and wondering. When their carriage slowed and joined the stop-start line of carriages waiting to set their occupants down before the red-carpeted steps, she felt Adrian’s gaze—on her face, her exposed shoulders, sliding lower.

  Without moving her head, she glanced at him; the light from a street flare momentarily illuminated his face. It was hard, not the social mask he so often wore.

  Suddenly, she knew—recognized—what she had seen in his eyes.

  Possessiveness—the instinctive desire to seize, to hold.

  She had always thought his eyes those of a predator. As the carriage rocked to a halt and a groom opened the door, Abby looked forward and quelled a shiver.

  He handed his mother and her aunt down first, then assisted her to the pavement. Her hand once more anchored on his sleeve, they followed the older ladies up the steps and into the house.

  A babel of noise and a rush of scented warmth enveloped them; the long hall was presently crowded as people milled, exchanging greetings and looking about as they slowly made their way to the ballroom door where their host and hostess stood in the receiving line.

  People caught sight of Adrian and Janet; they waved and smiled—some stopped to exchange greetings and introductions. Abby responded easily but a trifle absentmindedly, her eyes wide, her gaze dancing over the shifting throng. Colors—there were so many hues, both vibrant and pastel, bright and dark, strong and pale. Jewels glittered against milky white skin, and winked from amid lustrous curls. Perfumes and scents wreathed the ai
r, some heavy and sensual, others light and breezy. Everywhere she looked—everywhere her senses darted—there were contrasts, in color and texture, in shape and attitudes, even in grace and awkwardness.

  And the talk! It was a bubbling, frantic stream of ever-escalating excitement. Swept up on the tide and carried forward, Abby suddenly understood the ton’s liking for balls, something that had hitherto escaped her. A tonnish ball was more than an invitation to enjoyment—it was an opportunity for the ton to make their own enjoyment, a participatory endeavor. The hostess provided the venue, the guests of honor the reason, but the ball guests—the ton—made the ball.

  It was suddenly so clear—and immensely fascinating. Abby looked around with newly opened eyes, appreciating the vitality that flowed around her.

  People jostled as they neared the ballroom door; Adrian’s arm was there, protecting her, steadying her. Abby glanced up in time to glimpse the severe look he directed at someone behind them. He looked down at her. “Stay close.”

  She had little choice; Abby searched his face, his eyes, then smiled and looked ahead, masking her surprise that his possessiveness was still evident, still clear in the set of his features, in the chiseled angles and planes of his face.

  After greeting and being introduced to the Wardsleys and their daughter, her fiancé, and his illustrious relative, they moved into the ballroom. Her arm linked with Esme’s, Janet waved to one side. “We’ll sit over there.”

  Adrian steered Abby in the older ladies’ wake; Abby shifted her feet appropriately, but her attention was fully engaged with drinking in the sights about her. Her fingers itched; she wished she’d brought her sketchbook—what a challenge to capture the intense energy of the ball on paper. It was all so alive—and so brilliantly lit, so superbly staged. She swung around to look back at the door—at the long wall the ballroom shared with the front hall. Three wide double doors, mostly glass, divided the ballroom from the long hall; at the moment, the hall was still full of guests, pausing in their chatting to wave to friends already inside the ballroom.

  The ballroom itself was all pale blue and white; for the occasion, white and gold wreaths trailing long gilt ribbons were fixed to the fluted columns lining the walls. More gilt and white ribbons arched overheard, joining the columns to the candeliers, also wreathed and trailing ribbons. The rising drafts stirred the ribbons, the gilt fracturing the candelight.