A Reckless Encounter

by Rosemary Rogers

  It fell to his son and heir—the unwanted heir—to walk a fine line between his father’s tainted reputation and the necessity of maintaining the facade without being tarnished by the same brush. Publicly he would not denounce his father, but privately, he did all he could to show his contempt for the man the earl had become. It had become a game of sorts between them. A serious game in which winner took all.

  Christ, it was just as bitter a regret for him as for his father that Anthony had died from that fever. There were times he felt trapped, imprisoned and raging against the invisible bars of his cell.

  He welcomed strife, welcomed a challenge, welcomed anything that would distract him. Why not? It was better than the reality of his situation, the trap that closed in around him a little more every day.

  It wasn’t the mechanics entailed in the myriad technicalities of a vast shipping business that he found stifling, for that could be energizing if he was left to his own devices and decisions. But it was intolerable to be in the position of having his every decision supervised and examined as if he was still a schoolboy at Eton.

  If not for his mother, he would have damned the title and the money and left long ago, taken the Grand Tour that Napoleon had denied him until His Majesty’s invitation to lead an army against the Corsican. It was not as he had first envisioned touring the Continent, with the smell of gunpowder and stench of death in his nostrils, the screams of dying men drowning out everything but the instinct to survive. He had learned the art of killing, refined it, then been sent home to be civilized once the war ended.

  It was difficult. Acquired savagery still surfaced at times, still seethed beneath the thin veneer of civility. So he’d left England for a while, traveled, seen places in the world that were exotic and dangerous. He’d gone to South America, Spanish California and New Orleans in the American South, and when he’d come home at last, it was to find his entire life irrevocably changed.

  Had he remained in England, he would probably have died of the same fever that had killed his brother. It was an ironic twist of fate that he’d survived legions of French while Anthony—the heir, the golden son—had died at home in his bed.

  There were times Colter almost envied him.

  5

  Light from thousands of candles and wall sconces illuminated the vast ballroom. Glittering jewels sparkled on bare bosoms and elegant coiffures. Music soared above the chatter and laughter of hundreds of guests, linen-draped tables lined walls and potted plants cast feathery shadows on polished floors. Celia scarcely recognized her cousin’s ballroom. It exceeded her childhood dreams.

  It had seemed immense when vacant, but now the ballroom had shrunk to a suffocating constriction of space. For a brief moment, she was slightly panicked. How had she ever thought for a single instant that she could manage this? She was out of her depths here among these people far too accustomed to the trappings of wealth and polite society. Since arriving in London she had realized how far apart her world was from this glittering society. The chasm was wide. Almost too wide.

  Nervously she ran a swift hand over the skirts of her new gown, the satin and tulle embroidered with tiny gold stars and ending in a graceful train. It was caught just beneath her breasts with a wide sash also embroidered with gold stars upon lush blue velvet. Matching slippers were adorned with stars sewn in glittering gold threads. The only concession to the cool night was a silk shawl of sheer white, spangled with more gold stars.

  Lily had dressed her hair, piling it in luxuriant curls atop her crown and allowing artful tendrils to fall over her forehead, temples and neck. A wreath of gold stars was placed upon her brow, with a matching piece that was attached to the comb securing her curls.

  “It is the a` l’enfant style,” Lily said, gazing at her with approval when Celia had stared at her reflection in the mirror. “Ravissante!”

  Astonished at the transformation, Celia hadn’t even heard Jacqueline come into the room until she came up behind her, saying with delight, “How beautiful you are, petite. But you should hurry, for we must form the receiving line.”

  “I…I’ll be down very soon, I promise,” she’d said, and saw that Jacqueline understood.

  The light hand on her shoulder squeezed tightly. “You will be quite the thing tonight. No one will be able resist not only your beauty, but your sweet charm. Just be yourself, and all will be well.”

  But would it? Celia thought distractedly that if Jacqueline knew the truth she would not be so certain of success. There were moments she considered leaving rather than disappointing her cousin, but still she stayed. She must face Northington again, must see for herself the man who had brought so much pain into her life. She could never be free until he paid for his injustice.

  Now that the moment was here, she wavered between anticipation and stark fear. Yet the face in her mirror looked composed, showed nothing of her inner turmoil.

  At last she took the wide, curved staircase to the ballroom on the second floor. She waited, heart thumping an erratic rhythm. It was so crowded, a whirl of men in evening breeches and elegant coats, a glitter of jewels and flashing smiles in a sea of strange faces.

  Finally she spied Jacqueline in the receiving line. She was in her element, laughing gaily, reveling in the success of her first ball of the Season. The guest list included most of the upper strata of society, and quite a few were in attendance. Ladies Jersey and Cowper formed a gracious quartet with Jacqueline and Carolyn. Celia knew them by reputation only. The formidable ladies could ruin a young lady’s aspirations with a simple rejection to the inclusion of Almacks, their vaunted club, and it was the single-minded goal of many London mamas to have their daughters accepted into that desired society.

  Celia had no illusions about her future. Yet her desire to please Jacqueline made her dutifully agree to all the preparations. It was necessary to feign interest in a suitable marriage in order to achieve her true goal.

  Oh, but she truly felt guilty over the subterfuge. Jacqueline was far too kind and loving to be duped in this manner, and several times Celia had hovered on the verge of confession. Only the memories of Maman’s tragic death and the man responsible kept her still silent.

  And now she would once more face Lord Northington. Fingers gripped her ivory fan so tightly it crackled a protest, and she relaxed before it broke.

  I must remain calm. It is the moment I’ve waited for all these years.…

  Would Northington recognize her? Remember the little girl whose mother he had killed as surely as if he had plunged a dagger into her heart?

  “Celia dear,” Jacqueline beckoned, a gloved hand urging her forward. “Come and meet Lady Jersey and Lady Cowper.”

  Pasting a smile on her face, Celia moved forward to greet the two formidable grande dames of London society. Oh, she thought in surprise when they greeted her quite graciously, they are very pleasant. Perhaps it is just their reputations that are intimidating, though they are assessing me quite openly.

  “Will you remain long in our fair city?” Lady Jersey inquired, her lace-and-ivory fan wafting a slight breeze over elegant features as she gazed at Celia. “Lady Leverton informs me that you’ve only recently arrived from the Colonies.”

  “Yes. I’m not at all certain how long I’ll remain in London. I suppose that depends upon the kindness of my godmother and her husband. Lady Leverton has been far too good to me, and I’m truly enjoying London sights.”

  Emily Cowper leaned forward, fascination evident in her round face. Rumored to be the most accommodating of Almack’s patronesses, she seemed genuinely interested in the American colonies. “Tell me, how does our city compare to the Colonies? Is it true that wild savages roam the streets of cities in America, or is that only one of those ridiculous rumors that so often abound?”

  Celia snagged a glass of champagne punch from the tray carried by a passing footman, and smiled brightly over the rim.

  “As it happens, it’s partially true. On occasion the natives have been known to visi
t the city, but for the most part, they prefer their own company. Can you blame them? However, it wasn’t so long ago that uprisings and massacres indeed were visited upon American cities. The retaliation was quite harsh.”

  “Ah, I do not understand this American penchant for hostility,” Lady Jersey remarked, blithely ignoring the recent war with France. She flicked her fingers in the air to indicate contempt. “One would think they would be too busy rebuilding their primitive capital to even consider retaliation upon savages.”

  Celia delicately refrained from mentioning that it had been British soldiers who had burned Washington and the Capitol before ravaging the countryside only five years before. She said instead, “There are hostile tribes of natives still inhabiting the wilderness, but they remain distant for the most part.”

  “How terrifying!” Lady Cowper gave a delicious shiver. “I cannot imagine such a horrid fate. All those brown men running about half-naked and abducting females—they have been known to do that, no?”

  Celia nodded. “It has happened.”

  “How terrible! I’m so glad I live where it’s quite civilized.”

  “You wouldn’t think it so civilized if you were to walk past St. Giles Cathedral,” Lady Jersey said dryly. “All those wretched women hanging about, and even the children ready to cut your purse—or throat—without blinking.…”

  As the conversation turned to other subjects, Lady Cowper’s gaze drifted across the ballroom and her brow shot up. “Oh my, do look who has arrived!”

  Turning, Jacqueline gave a small gasp of delight. “It is Northington!”

  A chill shivered down Celia’s spine, and she could not at once bring herself to turn and look at the man who had destroyed her childhood. She emptied her champagne and gave the glass to a footman. Her fingers tightened on the bone handle of her fan. She waved it idly back and forth, rigidly waiting. Hairs on the back of her neck tightened; it felt as if the careful cluster of artfully arranged curls on her crown were standing erect.

  Lady Jersey said, “He arrives late, and does not even acknowledge the receiving line. Is that Sir John Harvey with him? Perhaps I missed his name on the guest list…”

  Jacqueline’s chin lifted slightly at the implication, and though her mouth was smiling, there was a glint in her eyes. “I don’t turn away pleasant company. Harvey’s father is a baron, and Sir John I find quite charming.”

  “Yes, perhaps. His father is a member of the Carlton House set and quite fast, you know. A gambler, as is his son, but neither is as proficient as Northington.”

  “Neither man has the best reputation,” Lady Cowper said with a flutter of her fan, and her eyes held a speculative glow. “Yet he is so attractive, for all that he seems so…well, dangerous, I suppose you could say.”

  Lady Jersey lifted her lorgnette to gaze across the room. “You must mean Northington. A handsome man, and yes, so dangerous. Quite the rogue, they say. Very adept with the pistol and the sword, and has been known to walk away from several duels, though of course, that’s still frowned upon these days. How many commendations did he receive for his military service?”

  A gleam of naked excitement brightened Lady Cowper’s eyes. “One commendation was awarded for Northington’s courage in leading a charge against Napoleon’s right flank in which nearly every man of his squad was killed but him. But, of course, I’m not surprised that he survived. He has a certain air about him…not just dangerous, but—savage. Yes, that’s it! His skin is nearly as dark as one of Miss St. Clair’s savages, don’t you think? Oh, I wonder what he would look like half-naked. I’d allow him to ravish me, I vow!”

  They all laughed but Celia, who managed to force a stiff smile. No one even noticed her silence. But how could they know what had happened to Maman? Or that she was near dizzy with suppressed anger, anticipation and nausea at this reminder of it?

  Oh, I cannot do this! she thought. I cannot stand and listen to them talk about him as if he’s gallant or brave, or even human!

  But, of course, she could say nothing, and the talk of Northington continued, Lady Jersey once more ignoring the feelings of her companions as she said, “It was reported that Northington disposed of the French at an alarming rate. A bold soldier—and an even bolder rake. He’s cut quite a swath through not only actresses, but several high-born ladies. You do recall that scandal two years ago with Letitia Goodridge? She’s still in seclusion, I understand. Quite heartbroken, they say. Apparently Sir Lawrence has locked her away in the country since she was so imprudent as to make a public scene with Northington. Foolish chit. At least Lady Katherine was discreet. Discretion is everything.”

  The ladies nodded approval and agreement, a silent pact that set the standard of the day.

  “But do look at him,” Jacqueline said in a whisper that reeked of triumph. “Northington could persuade any woman to folly if he chose. I think he’s a devastatingly handsome man, and from one of the oldest families. Scandal barely touches them.”

  “I would think,” Lady Jersey observed, “that would depend upon the nature of the scandal. Ah. He sees us. I expect he will properly present himself now.”

  Celia steeled herself to turn and look toward Lord Northington at last, and drew in a deep breath for courage. Surely he was not truly handsome after ten years, when he had not been what she recalled as very appealing even in his younger days. Indeed, if not for his lineage and family’s influence in the shipping industry, even Americans would not have found his company especially desirable.

  Nerves jangled, her stomach throbbed and there was a loud humming in her ears as she turned at last to look once more upon the man she hated.

  Yet she could not find him in the throng of satins, jewels and lamplight. She had thought there would be instant recognition, that the hatred she had nursed all these years would immediately focus on Northington despite the time that had passed. Yet none of the men present had the face of her childhood nightmares.

  Bewildered, she stood stiffly as her cousin moved forward to greet another man. She had a vague impression of a tall man with dark hair, impeccably dressed and with an air of polite boredom in his movements, but her gaze focused beyond him.

  Celia searched the crowd for Northington, her eyes scanning faces restlessly, barely paying attention as Jacqueline began the introductions. Only when the hated name penetrated her distraction did she realize that the man before her bore the same name.

  “Lord Northington,” she repeated tonelessly, and saw from the corner of her eye her cousin’s slight frown.

  “Yes, dear.” Jacqueline stressed the first word. “Surely you recall his name on the guest list. Northington has honored us with his presence this evening, and we are most delighted.”

  “This must be the young lady who has captured Sir John’s instant admiration,” a deep voice said, the tone slow, rich, seductive.

  She turned her gaze to look fully at the man before her. Her breath caught.

  Eyes of a startling blue gazed down at her from beneath black lashes, and Celia recognized him at once as the man she had seen aboard the Liberty. Confused, it took a moment to find her voice.

  “Sir John is most flattering if he has indeed expressed admiration for me, my lord,” she finally said.

  “I would say he has been truthful, for a refreshing change of pace. Flattery imparts insincerity, but in this case he’s quite correct. You are indeed lovely.”

  His sensual voice had a husky, mocking quality that sent a shiver down her spine. He reached for her hand, took it in his broad palm, held her fingers in a light clasp as he bent to place a kiss upon her gloved knuckles. Celia did not resist. She felt as if all eyes were watching, waiting for her response.

  Panic swelled, coupled with an overpowering need to escape this room that had suddenly grown far too stifling; the music and laughter and smell of perfume threatened to suffocate her.

  But it was his touch that unnerved her most, burning into her skin even through the gloves. She snatched her hand away
, saw the leap of surprise in his eyes, heard Carolyn’s soft gasp.

  Faintly, she managed to say, “How kind of you. If you will excuse me, I must attend some personal business.”

  Aware of Jacqueline’s disconcerted stare and Carolyn’s gaping expression, Celia maneuvered a path through the crowd without taking flight or stumbling. She had to escape that penetrating gaze and the discovery that this Northington was not the man she had hated for so long. But who was he? A brother? Cousin? Or perhaps he was a son…Whoever he was, he wasn’t the man she had come to ruin.

  There had to be two Lord Northingtons.

  And she had to collect her wits before she said or did something else foolish. Already, she had risked offending her cousin as well as Northington. Her direct cut would not go unnoticed, nor would her ill-bred behavior. It was nearly unforgivable, and she must seek a way to make amends or she may ruin everything.

  Celia sought a quiet corner away from the crowd and din of revelry, and sank down upon a cushioned bench in an alcove across the hall. Her lovely gown was not made for sitting at all but for dancing and standing, yet at the moment she didn’t care. Her head throbbed and nausea churned so that she felt as if she would truly be sick at any moment. She should leave, but how could she? To go upstairs now would be an insult to Jacqueline after all she’d done, all the preparations she’d made and her hopes for her beloved Léonie’s daughter to make a decent match.

  A burble of hysterical laughter caught in her throat. How can I tell her that’s the farthest thing from my mind? No. I must remain. Ah, I’m such a coward to flee.…

  She drew in a deep breath to calm herself. After all this time, if she was undone by so trivial a setback as the wrong Lord Northington, then she might as well have remained in America and let Maman’s death go unavenged.