“Certainly not,” she said, attempting to sound as affronted as possible, which in turn made him laugh. Surrendering, she allowed the smile that threatened to take control of her lips. “If I were, I would have ignored you completely and rudely walked away.”
“Is that so?”
“Quite.”
“Well, then I suppose I should inquire if you have any brothers that I ought to live in fear of.”
She grinned this time and shook her head with amusement. “You are incorrigible.”
“I’ve been called much worse, I assure you.”
“I do not doubt it for a second.” And it was the truth, though she had no intention of sharing any of the adjectives that were presently coursing through her own mind, like magnificent and delicious. Her cheeks grew instantly hot and she cringed inwardly, praying he wouldn’t notice her blush. Heaven forbid if either word ever crossed her lips—the embarrassment of it would likely be impossible to survive, particularly since her mind had now decided to turn those two words into one singular descriptive, namely magnificently delicious. Her cheeks grew hotter still, though she hadn’t thought such a thing possible.
“Would you care for some air? You’re looking a bit flushed.”
Oh dear.
She’d rather hoped he wouldn’t have been able to tell. Looking over her shoulder, she considered the escape the French doors offered. She wouldn’t mind the cooler outdoors right now, not only to cure her overheated reaction to Mr. Neville but also to avoid for just a little while longer the task she’d set herself. Looking the way she did, how on earth was she to make a good impression on any of the young gentlemen present? She wasn’t sure, though she knew she’d have to figure it out before the evening ended and she lost her chance altogether.
Her eyes met Mr. Neville’s, and the promise of trouble in them only compounded her instinct to dismiss him as a possible candidate. But instinct could be wrong, couldn’t it? So far, he was the only person she’d spoken to, the only man who’d asked her to dance. Granted, hiding behind a pillar probably hadn’t helped her much in that regard. Still, despite her better judgment, she couldn’t help but acknowledge that when Mr. Neville looked at her in that particular way, she lost all interest in the other gentlemen present. Perhaps she ought to consider him after all.
“It’s very kind of you to offer,” she said as she looked him squarely in the eye, “but I must consider my reputation. Why, you look precisely like the sort of man who’d happily kiss me in some secluded corner without a second thought for the consequences.”
Mr. Neville’s mouth quite literally dropped open. She knew her words were bold and inappropriate and that she probably ought to have been mortified by what she’d just said. But she wasn’t. Mr. Neville’s reaction was entirely too satisfying to allow for any measure of regret. Folding her hands neatly in front of her, she stared back at him instead, challenging him to respond while doing her best to maintain a serious demeanor.
“I . . . er . . . assure you that I would do no such thing,” he blustered, glancing sideways as if to assure himself that nobody else had heard what she’d just said.
It was all too much, and Rebecca quickly covered her mouth with one hand in a hopeless attempt to contain the laughter that bubbled forth. “My apologies, but I was merely having a bit of sport at your expense. I hope you’ll forgive me—and my rather peculiar sense of humor.”
He leaned closer to her then—so close in fact that she could smell him, the rich scent of sandalwood enveloping her senses until she found herself leaning toward him. She stopped herself and pulled back.
“Of course . . . Nuit.” His eyes twinkled. “I must call you something, and considering the color of your hair, I cannot help but be reminded of the night sky. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” she said, attempting a nonchalant sound to her voice, though her heart had picked up its pace as he’d said it, the endearment feeling like a gentle caress of her soul.
Who was this man? Could she really have been so fortunate to have stumbled upon the man of her dreams? A man who might potentially agree to marry her once she confessed to him the true nature of her situation? She dismissed the hope, for it was far too naïve and unrealistic. Besides, Mr. Neville’s suave demeanor screamed rake and scoundrel rather than incurable romantic, which was what she would need. In fact, he was probably precisely the sort of man she should try to avoid, although . . . she made an attempt to look beyond the debonair smile and the lure of his eyes. Could he be genuine? Surely, if he really was a rake, he wouldn’t have been so shocked by her suggestion that he might try to compromise her. Would he? She wasn’t sure and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt instead.
The edge of her lips curled upward into a smile. “How about a refreshment,” she suggested. “A glass of champagne, perhaps? And then I believe I’d like to take you up on that offer to dance.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Neville said as he glanced sideways, undoubtedly trying to locate the nearest footman. There was none close by at present. “If you will please wait here, I’ll be right back.”
Rebecca followed him with her eyes as he walked away, his confident stride reflecting his purpose. She was not unaware of the looks of reproach he received from those he passed, and she couldn’t help but wonder if her instincts about him had been correct after all. Was she wasting her time on a scoundrel? She hoped not, for she’d quite enjoyed their conversation. It had been comfortable and unpretentious, spiced with a sense of humor.
As he vanished from sight, she gave her attention to the rest of the guests. One gentleman, she noticed, was making his way toward a cluster of young ladies with quick determination. She watched him, wondering which of the women had caught his interest. But right before he reached them, another gentleman cut in front of him and offered his hand to one of them—a lovely brunette dressed in a dusty pink gown. Placing her hand upon his arm, the pair walked off without as much as acknowledging the presence of the first gentleman. Rebecca wondered if they’d even seen him. Perhaps not, she decided, except that the second gentleman suddenly looked back, grinning with victory at the first gentleman.
What cheek!
She was just about to turn her attention elsewhere when a man’s voice said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
Turning her head, she was forced to look up until her eyes settled upon a handsome face, but where there was something playful about Mr. Neville’s features, this man looked almost menacing—as though he was not the sort who was used to having his wishes denied. “I really wouldn’t know,” Rebecca told him, feigning boredom as she did her best to still her quaking nerves. Whoever he was, he was huge—the sort of man who could easily fling her over his shoulder and carry her off without anyone being able to stop him. “Perhaps if you told me your name . . .”
He smirked. “Lord Starkly at your service. And you are?”
She offered him a tight smile in return. She was not about to play the same coy game with this man as she’d done with Mr. Neville. That would only lead to trouble. But she could hardly give her real name either, so she said, “Lady Nuit.”
Lord Starkly frowned. “I don’t believe I—”
“This is a masquerade, my lord, is it not?” She heard the impatience in her voice but didn’t bother to change it. “Let’s just say that I’d rather not give away my real name for personal reasons.”
“Yes, of course,” Lord Starkly said, his features relaxing a little. The predatory glimmer returned to his eyes. “I understand completely why a woman such as yourself would prefer to remain incognito, though I—”
“A woman such as myself?” Rebecca asked, unable to keep the blunt tone of indignation from seeping into her voice. She shouldn’t have been shocked, considering her gown, but she didn’t seem to be able to stop herself.
“Come now, Lady N
uit. There’s no need for you to keep up your charade for my benefit. I mean, what other reason would a woman possibly have for engaging in conversation with Mr. Neville unless she was already a fallen angel? Not to mention that your attire is rather indicative of your . . . ah . . . experience in certain areas.” He paused, leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I trust that you are his mistress or perhaps hoping to become so, which is why I decided to hurry over here and proposition you myself.”
Rebecca could only stare at him, agog. Who was he to so blatantly insult a woman as if she was nothing more than bothersome dirt tainting his boots? She so desperately wanted to hit him that she could barely contain her enthusiasm to do so, her fingers already curling into a tight fist at her side. And what was it he’d said about Mr. Neville? That keeping his company was what had led him to believe that she was a doxy in the first place? Disappointment washed over her. She should have known. Mr. Neville had only his own interests in mind as far as she went, and they would not include marriage. He might have more charm than Lord Starkly, but when it came to it, they were cut from the same cloth—libertines through and through. Neither man would do. Rebecca needed the permanence and security of marriage, not to a relic but to a man of her own choosing, if she was to escape the future her aunt and uncle had in mind for her, and for that, she would have to look elsewhere. Deciding she’d had enough of Lord Starkly’s presence and hoping to be gone before Mr. Neville returned, she resolved to walk away and find someone else entirely.
With a swift “If you’ll please excuse me,” she spun on her heel, only to barrel straight into Mr. Neville, who’d just come up behind her with two champagne flutes in hand, the bubbly liquid spilling onto both of them in the process.
Chapter 2
There were few people in the world Daniel disliked, but Nigel Coulter, the fourth Earl of Starkly, was definitely one of them. Seeing the raven-haired beauty Daniel had playfully named Nuit talking to the fellow he detested, ignited something dangerous within Daniel—something possessive that he had no right or reason to feel. He approached the two of them, coming up behind Lady Nuit just as she turned into him, causing him to spill the champagne he’d been carrying.
“Forgive me,” she gasped.
“No need, my lady,” he said, trying not to follow the direction in which the liquid was going as it ran down her chest. He offered her his handkerchief and returned his attention to the other man. “Lord Starkly,” he ground out, his eyes on the smug face of the earl, who was shamelessly perusing Lady Nuit’s figure. It took little imagination to know what was going through his sordid mind, and the thought of it made Daniel want to slam his fist right into the blighter’s arrogant smile.
He stopped himself, wary of drawing unwanted attention. It wouldn’t benefit Lady Nuit if everyone present became aware of the fact that she was keeping company with two of England’s foremost scoundrels. There was little comfort to be had in knowing that he was a much better man than the earl, for Daniel was well aware that Society made no distinction between the two of them regarding their reputations. On the contrary, the earl had always been more discreet, whereas Daniel, in his youthful stupidity, had flaunted his conquests and bragged about his escapades to anyone willing to listen.
“Ah, Neville,” Starkly said, his gaze meeting Daniel’s. “So good of you to join us.”
“I hadn’t thought you’d be here . . . imagined Kingsborough would have better taste regarding his guests.”
“The same could be said of you,” Starkly drawled. “After all, it’s a well-known fact that you’re not accepted into polite Society. In fact, I expect this invitation is the only one you’ll receive this year.”
Daniel felt his whole body tense as he fought for a calm composure. His situation was not a secret, but he still doubted that it was one Lady Nuit was aware of, for there had been no recognition in her eyes when he’d introduced himself to her. He feared now that if Starkly said anything further, she’d want nothing to do with him—a thought he did not relish in the least, because as far as marriage prospects went, Lady Nuit was his only option so far. He’d rather hoped to make a good impression on her.
Frustrated, he glared back at Starkly with distaste. “And what of you? From what I hear, your membership was revoked from Brooks’s last week when you were found cheating at cards.” The barb struck, judging from Starkly’s rigid expression.
“Take care, Neville.” Starkly’s eyes narrowed with menace. “Considering your uncle’s good health, it will be decades before you outrank me. Until then, I suggest you address me in the manner that is my due.”
“Go rot,” was all Daniel could say to that as he turned away with every intention of removing himself and Lady Nuit from Starkly’s presence, only to find that she was no longer standing next to him.
In fact, the lady had completely vanished.
Hell and damnation.
“Where did she go?” he asked as he looked around the room. What he really wanted to know was how much of the conversation she’d heard before taking her leave.
Starkly laughed. “It would appear that she’s slipped through your fingers.” Leaning closer to Daniel, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “And since it’s just become clear to me that you and the lady are not attached, I do believe I’ll double my efforts to get her into my bed. Care to wager on my success?”
Forcing back a scathing remark, Daniel waited for Starkly to leave before downing the contents of both champagne flutes. He then abandoned the glasses on a footman’s tray and went in search of his quarry, ignoring the disapproving glances that followed in his wake. One would think he’d committed murder the way everyone was treating him. God, how he hated the hypocrisy of the ton—as if most of the men present didn’t engage in illicit affairs while their wives turned a blind eye. He’d done far less. For one thing, he wasn’t married, and for another, he’d never seduced someone who was. Nor had he ever taken a woman’s innocence. He smiled at that thought. No, there was nothing innocent at all about the women he’d taken to his bed. He’d just been too . . . blatant about it, he supposed. It didn’t help that he had a penchant for scandalous wagers as well. He ought to be proud of himself for not accepting Starkly’s, but instead he just felt irritable. Where the bloody hell was she?
Skirting the perimeter of the room, Rebecca’s gaze eventually settled upon a young gentleman who was offering three wallflowers a great deal of attention. He said something to which they laughed, and then he bowed, said something else and waited while they all hesitated until one by one the three women shook their heads and took a retreating step backward. Had they just turned him down? It seemed unbelievable. And yet the gentleman bowed again, placing a kiss upon each of their hands before making a graceful retreat. This was the sort of man Rebecca was looking for—someone thoughtful and selfless.
“I knew that gown would suit you.”
Turning, Rebecca was not at all surprised to find Lady Trapleigh at her side. She was dressed in a gown of purple lace, her shoulders provocatively bare. Ordinarily, the widow would not be considered an appropriate friend for an innocent, but aside from Rebecca’s maid, Laura, Lady Trapleigh had been Rebecca’s only confidante during her two-year confinement at Roselyn Castle—the only person who had bothered to visit a woman who’d been declared mad by the attending physician.
It was also she who had given Rebecca a gown to wear for this evening’s event. When Laura had first shown it to her, Rebecca had laughed. She should have known that turning to Lady Trapleigh for help would have had such a shocking result. The lady was notorious for her conquests—it was no secret that she kept many lovers, for she spoke of them openly and in much the same way that other women might speak of their bonnets.
From what little she’d shared with Rebecca, it was clear that Lady Trapleigh’s marriage had been an unhappy one. Her husband had been fifty years her senior, so when she’d heard of Rebecca’s situ
ation, she’d immediately offered her sympathy, and the two had formed an acquaintance. She’d been the only person, aside from her maid, in whom Rebecca had confided her plan to escape marrying a man old enough to be her grandfather. Rebecca had confided in Lady Trapleigh not because they’d been particularly close, but rather because the challenge ahead had seemed so overwhelming that Rebecca had needed the encouragement she’d known Lady Trapleigh would give her.
Rebecca had not been disappointed in that regard, for the widow had not only voiced her admiration but had also promised to help in whatever way she could.
“I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for your assistance in loaning me this gown,” Rebecca said. “Thank you.”
Lady Trapleigh’s features remained quite serious. “I am more than happy to help you escape the fate that was forced on me. There’s no need for you to thank me, Lady Rebecca.” Fanning her face with a fluffy black ostrich plume fan, Lady Trapleigh nodded toward the spot where Mr. Neville and Lord Starkly were still standing. “I couldn’t help but notice that you were keeping company with two of England’s foremost rakes,” she said. “I was about to come save you but couldn’t decide if you’d even want me to. You looked quite taken with Mr. Neville in particular.”
Good grief!
Surely her appreciation for the man’s good looks had not been so clear. Rebecca shrugged, feigning indifference. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”
At this, Lady Trapleigh laughed. “Don’t play innocent with me, my dear.” She paused. “I don’t blame you—the man can be hard to resist. As a potential husband, however, I should caution you.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mr. Neville is renowned for having a penchant for the outrageous and has hosted several scandalous soirees at his bachelor lodgings—the most recent of which, I’ve been told, resulted in vast amounts of nudity.”
The Scandal in Kissing an Heir Page 2
