A Reckless Encounter

by Rosemary Rogers

  Was she a green-eyed little witch who had managed to wheedle her way into a society where she didn’t quite fit? Or were there darker secrets that lay beneath the facade of a guileless American? Was she involved in conspiracy and anarchy with James Carlisle? He was a rum one, and the reason for Colter’s brief voyage on the bucket known as the Liberty. Yet it didn’t seem likely that Celia St. Clair was a part of the conspiracy. What would she have to gain? She wasn’t English and had no vested interest.

  Yet there had been deceit in those wide green eyes, a glint that promised hell to pay for the man so bold or foolish enough to try to peel away the layers of guile to get to the truth.

  It should be easy enough to do. Yet it should have been easy enough to intimidate her.

  But Celia St. Clair had not been intimidated, nor even interested. She had been—indifferent.

  He saw her on the dance floor, where she stood out in an endless sea of females clad in pale muslin or silk or satin. She wasn’t the tallest woman there, nor even the most beautiful, but she was definitely intriguing.

  She had accepted a dance with Reginald Harwood, the youngest son of a landed baron, and Colter watched as she performed the steps of the contredanse with fluid grace. The hem of her gown lifted around trim ankles as her feet moved across the floor, slippers glittering with golden threads that caught the light.

  When Harwood returned her to Lady Leverton and bowed over her hand, Colter moved forward. It was time to get the obligatory dance out of the way, then he would leave.

  As the musicians ensconced upon a dais at the far end of the ballroom began playing a waltz, he approached Lady Leverton and her charges, a colorful flock of silken birds still chattering like guinea hens when he reached them.

  “Do you waltz, Miss St. Clair?” His question cut across their chatter like a knife. Instant silence ensued at the breach of etiquette in directing his request to her instead of her chaperone.

  Slowly turning from her cousin to look at him, Celia made no reply for a long moment, but simply gazed at him as if she had never before seen him.

  Lady Leverton spoke up in a bright chirp. “Miss St. Clair performs all dances beautifully, my lord.”

  “Then I claim this waltz with her.”

  Celia began, “Oh, but I believe that Lord Harwood is—”

  “Is dancing with Miss Grantham at the moment. Shall we?” He put out his hand, a challenge in his eyes.

  As he’d suspected she would, Miss St. Clair accepted his challenge and allowed him to take her arm and lead her onto the dance floor. She moved a bit stiffly in his arms, obviously uncomfortable, but kept a smile on her face as she gracefully followed his steps. The waltz allowed him to hold her hand and put his free hand on her back, though social protocol demanded that he not slide it any lower than her shoulder blades. The waltz was scandalous enough, but without drawing attention to them, there was little she could do if he did let his hand move lower.

  Deliberately he slid it to the small of her back, fingers a light pressure against firm flesh instead of one of those damn corsets women had taken to wearing again. A bloody nuisance, in his opinion, and damned inconvenient to remove. Warm female flesh beneath thin silk instead of stiff whalebone was much more enticing.

  He heard a quickly inhaled breath, felt a vibration of suppressed indignation quiver through her.

  “Be so kind as to move your hand, my lord.”

  “You don’t really want me to do that.”

  “Yes, I do!”

  He pressed it even lower and she took a jerky step away from him. Not releasing her hand, he turned her in the steps, at last moving his hand up her back again.

  She was stiff, unyielding, her face a set mask of white fury and blazing green eyes that narrowed up at him like a cat, spitting fury and uncertainty. Her tawny hair was piled atop her head in an intricate style, fastened with some kind of comb made of gold wire and stars. It glittered in the reflected light of crystal chandeliers.

  What would she look like with her hair tumbled across a pillow, those lips parted and her eyes half-closed…A tempting thought.

  “You move most agilely for a marionette,” he observed when she resisted his effort to turn her.

  “Your meaning escapes me, my lord.”

  “Does it? You move as stiff and wooden as a puppet jerked by strings.” He swung her about before she could pull away. “Relax. I don’t intend to eat you.”

  Her head tilted back smoothly, so that her eyes met his in a steady gaze. “If you find me unresponsive to your charms, my lord, I can only assume that you wish to charm me. Is that the case?”

  Amused, he deliberately studied her upturned face until she looked away. “Are all Americans as direct as you, Miss St. Clair?”

  “I have no idea. Do you find me too forthright in my replies?”

  “To the point of rudeness.” He smiled at her angry gasp. “Perhaps it’s the custom in America.”

  “No,” she said after a moment. “It’s not the custom. I have behaved badly, my lord, and I apologize.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. Her apology was too ready and too glib; he didn’t believe it for an instant.

  “Apologies are easy, Miss St. Clair. What restitution do you offer?”

  “Restitution? You expect too much, my lord.”

  “I disagree.”

  The waltz would be ending soon. He steered her toward the far end of the ballroom, a subtle curve that she had not yet noticed. She arched her head to look up at him.

  “Your arrogance is outrageous, my lord. It’s easy to see that you have earned your wicked reputation.”

  “May I ask why you took a sudden dislike to me?”

  For a moment he thought she would not answer, then she said, “Perhaps I do not wish my name added to your long list of conquests.”

  “A list that is long in supposition and short in actuality.”

  “Nonetheless, your attentions can both elevate and ruin a lady’s reputation. Discretion, it is said, is everything.”

  “And so it is. Then it would be indiscreet to dance with you again.”

  Her upward glance was oblique. “More than four dances in an evening and my reputation will be in tatters.”

  “If that’s the case, I’ll dance with Lady Jersey five times. That would set tongues wagging and add to my wicked reputation.”

  “You jest, my lord!”

  “Yes, Miss St. Clair, I jest.” She was light on his arm, tall enough that her eyes were level with his jaw, taller than most women of his acquaintance. A faint smile curved her mouth and laughter gleamed in her eyes.

  They had reached the far end of the ballroom where a chill breeze filtered in through doors that led onto a wide terrace. Two steps took them through it, and they were outside. She didn’t seem surprised.

  “Why did you bring me out here, my lord?”

  She eased free of his loose embrace and moved to the wide balustrade that edged the terrace. Reflected light streamed through windows in ragged squares to illuminate her face as she turned toward him, draped gracefully upon the stone ledge. The gown she wore was a virginal white spangled with gold, demure in style yet unable to disguise the lush curves of her slender body.

  “I think you know why I brought you out here,” he said, and saw that she did. It was in her eyes, the aware gleam of a female certain of her allure.

  Green-eyed little witch. He should give her what she so prettily expected. Lady Katherine’s brazen touch had reminded him it had been too long since he had been with a woman, and now the silent invitation in Miss St. Clair’s wide eyes was instantly arousing. His arm snaked out to pull her close, to hold her against his chest and press her against him. She made some kind of soft sound—protest? Pleasure?—but made no effort to push him away. His hand tangled in the hair on her nape, pulled her head back to give him access to her lips as he brought his mouth down over hers.

  She tasted as he’d known she would, hot and sweet and willing. Her lips opened from
the pressure of his mouth on hers and he took instant advantage. His tongue slid inside the heated velvet of her mouth, taking complete possession as she made a soft, choked sound like a moan.

  He felt her shiver, moved harder against her, so they fit from chest to hips. Deliberately leaning into her, he pinned her between the balustrade and the rigid pressure of his erection. It prodded against the soft swell of her belly, an insistent persuasion, and for a moment, he felt her yield.

  An instant later she wrenched free and would have pulled away if he had not held her. His hand curled around her wrist, the other cupped the back of her neck. His thumb rubbed idly over the silky skin of her jawline.

  Her lips were slightly swollen from the force of his kiss, wet and enticing. He was tempted to kiss her again.

  “Penance, Miss St. Clair,” he said softly instead. “Retribution is now paid in full. Care to sin again? I rather like this form of atonement.”

  “No,” she said coolly, more coolly than he’d thought she felt, standing and staring at him with the light from the ballroom full on her face, no sign of passion in her eyes as she regarded him. “I find I’m not as interested as I thought I would be. Now that I have been absolved of my earlier transgression, be so good as to allow me to pass, my lord. I feel a bit chilled out here. No,” she added when he started to take her arm. “Your escort will only cause more comment. My cousin is looking for me, and I do not intend to invite gossip. I’ll go back alone, please.”

  “For now, Miss St. Clair.”

  Stepping aside, he let her pass. There was more to this “milk and water Colonial” than even Katherine had guessed. His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her return to the ballroom. This was not the end of it. She was no missish virgin playing a game, but a woman who knew what she wanted.

  Just as he knew what he wanted from her.

  7

  Jacqueline paced the floor of Celia’s chamber with small, energetic steps. Her hair was awry, straggling from the usually neat coil atop her head; the curls she liked to wear in ringlets on her forehead dangled in her eyes rather than the usual tidy coils. She was distraught as she passed beneath the soft glow of a wall sconce, still wearing a ballgown that dragged across the Aubusson carpet in a satin trail.

  “Whatever were you thinking, Celia?” she moaned. “To so insult Lord Northington—what mischief made you do it?”

  Celia sighed. “After what Lady Jersey said…”

  “My God, do you think any of that matters? Lord Northington is a member of the peerage! And it is only gossip. Oh, if he is offended enough he can ruin your chances—”

  “He is not offended.” Celia dragged a brush through her loose hair; it crackled slightly, fine filaments arcing to meet the silver-backed hairbrush like a pale cloud of lightning. “He is intrigued.”

  Jacqueline paused in midstep and turned to stare at her. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that, instead of fawning over him as were all the other young ladies and their mamas, I presented him with a challenge. It has not escaped my notice that there are men who prefer challenges to easy conquests. Did you not notice that his eyes did not leave me the rest of the evening?” A slight lie; she’d been well aware of him, but he had seemed content enough to ignore her for the short time he had remained. What would Jacqueline say if she knew what he’d done on the terrace?

  She turned on the dressing stool to face her cousin. “I find him—aggressive.”

  Jacqueline was staring at her with an arrested expression.

  “What is it, petite? Did—did Northington insult you when you felt faint? He didn’t say anything—”

  “No, no, nothing like that, I swear it, but he did approach me again before he left the ball, and I agreed to ride with him in the park Tuesday. So you see, I have piqued his interest with indifference.”

  Gaping at her, Jacqueline finally nodded. “Yes, but it is true! Oh, how foolish I have been. You are right, my little one,” she babbled in French, half-laughing. “You have managed what most have not! To snare the attentions of the elusive Lord Northington.”

  “If only half the rumors are true, there are many who have managed to snare his attention for a while.”

  “But you, my clever little pigeon, will manage to hold his attention. How stupid I have been! An imbecile!”

  Celia’s smile felt stiff on her lips. What had she done? Oh, she must be utterly mad to have agreed to ride with him in the park, for he’d made it plain enough that he had more on his mind than a mere sedate tour. And the invitation had seemed more of an afterthought, for he was leaving while she was being escorted onto the dance floor by Sir John.

  “Northington,” Harvey had said, halting him, “you’ve met Miss St. Clair, have you not?”

  “I have.” Blue eyes had skimmed her briefly with an air of polite boredom, as if he had not been so bold as to kiss her on the terrace.

  “Miss St. Clair has informed me that she’s not yet been for a turn in Hyde Park,” Harvey had continued with a smile that could only be described as wicked. “And, as my carriage is unfortunately in disrepair at the moment, I assured her you would be so kind as to escort her one day.”

  “I hardly think Miss St. Clair will lack for offers,” Northington drawled, but his eyes rested on her face with a glint of amusement, as if he suspected she had engineered the invitation.

  Trapped, Celia could only return his stare with a cool gaze of her own. “Indeed, my lord, your confidence is uplifting.”

  “My tours of Hyde Park are always very extensive,” he had said then, “but should Miss St. Clair wish, I would be more than happy to escort her.”

  If not for Harvey’s interference, she suspected Lord Northington would not have suggested it at all. Indeed, a faintly sardonic smile had accompanied that overly polite invitation, so that she’d almost refused.

  He expects me to refuse, she’d realized, and to be perverse, had said sweetly that she would be honored.

  What have I done? she thought now, despairingly. Oh, why did I have to be so perverse?

  “But you must be cautious,” Jacqueline was saying, her mood buoyed now, “and not be too much of a challenge. You do not wish to truly offend him. There is a fine line you must walk if you wish to succeed. Remember, my sweet, Northington is quite accustomed to having his own way. Ah, but he is so handsome, yes, and despite his reputation he is quite a catch. One day he will be earl of Moreland. How lovely it would be if you were to marry him. Lady Moreland is one of my dearest friends. I have known her for years.”

  “You never told me that,” Celia said quietly, and placed her hairbrush on the dresser. “I had no idea.”

  “Yes, it was Margaret who introduced me to my husband so long ago. I was only a penniless emigré then, so young and afraid. Your dear mama and I barely escaped with our lives, you know, and we had so little money. We came to London to stay with friends who had fled France before that terrible time.”

  She never referred to it as the Revolution, but as that “terrible time” or “the Terror.” Now she looked up at Celia, eyes wide with memories.

  “Some were fortunate and clever enough to escape with some of their wealth. So many did not, so many died…but Léonie and I, we were young, and pretty if penniless, so were offered refuge. Lady Moreland—she was Lady Northington then—was my patroness. I shall never be able to repay her for all her kindnesses to me.”

  Celia was silent. God, perhaps…should she tell Jacqueline how Léonie had really died? Should she tell her that the husband of her dearest friend was responsible for her death? Oh God.

  Jacqueline came to her, put a hand on her shoulder. “Do not look so sad, my dear. It is behind us now. And I am quite content with my Jules, and your mama was so very happy with her handsome American. Shall I tell you again how they met? And how he was so enchanted with her, he took her from the arms of a baron and swept her away out onto the terrace where they danced alone? It was so romantic despite the scandal, and even though I thought L�
�onie could have married any man in London, she fell in love with her sea captain.”

  “Yes. They were very much in love.”

  Leaning close, her cousin whispered, “There are so many in this world who never know that kind of love, my child. Do not grieve so very much for them. They were more fortunate than most.”

  “Yes.” Celia swallowed the surge of emotion in her throat, the impulse to confess all. “Yes, they were very fortunate.”

  “And if the good God wills it, so will you be. Ah, you are so very like your mother, you know. There are times I look at you and it is like seeing Léonie again, when she was very young and we had first come to England.” Reaching out, Jacqueline lifted a skein of Celia’s hair, let it slide through her fingers, a silky tumble. “Do not cut your hair. It may be the style now, but this suits you. So soft, and such a lovely shade of dark gold—”

  “No. No, I won’t.” Celia rose from the small stool set before the dresser, suddenly restless, unable to bear another moment of guilt. How could she even contemplate an act that may very well disgrace Jacqueline? The stain of her sin would spread, like ink on a clean blotter, ruining all it touched. She felt sick.

  “Oh, when Northington waltzed you out onto the terrace I thought I would faint, too,” Jacqueline was saying with a smile. “But now—now perhaps it is as it was with your dear mama and papa, eh? Could it be that he has formed an attachment for you already? And, perhaps, you for him?”

  “No.” The denial was jerked from her, an instant reaction, and she put a hand over her mouth to halt more betraying words.

  “Are you unwell?” Jacqueline frowned at her, then gave a nod of her head. “Ah, it is the excitement of the evening. It’s too much for you. I should have thought of that. Well, my dear, you are a success. Lady Jersey and Lady Cowper thought you enchanting, and Lord Northington singled you out for a dance. Sleep well, knowing that the world is before you. You can do anything with it you wish.”